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Hetalia International RolePlay

In a universe where the world's countries come alive, action and chaotic world meetings are the least of your problems. Welcome to Hetalia International!


    [MASS - INTERACTIVE RP] P.L.A.G.U.E.

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    Magnus Densen
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    [MASS - INTERACTIVE RP] P.L.A.G.U.E.

    Post  Magnus Densen on February 25th 2013, 12:50 pm




    Relax, sit back and watch the world slowly die.



    About the RP: Basically, there is a virus, bacteria, or parasite that is quickly beginning to spread across the world. The population a.k.a. countries that are in contact with other countries and/or infected insects, rodents, get sick and in the end die, unless a miraculous vaccine is invented before the entire population gets wiped out.

    Why is it interactive?
    Well, my dear Watson, YOU will take the role of the virus/bacteria/parasite.
    Let me clarify that:
    As the roleplay goes on, you'll decide if:
    - it is a virus/bacteria/parasite
    - will add and/or remove symptoms, resistances, transitions, traits that will affect EVERYONE [yes, every country that partakes in the RP] (Click here to see them)
    - the country you're roleplaying as closes its airports, schools, borders, etc.
    - decide whether you find the vaccine and if it is effective or not
    - your country dies or survive
    - the number of ill, healthy, deceased population


    P.S: Audiomachine is perfect for the roleplay. Just sayin'.
    http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=YBXV2ekE2To



     
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    Fish

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    Re: [MASS - INTERACTIVE RP] P.L.A.G.U.E.

    Post  Fish on February 26th 2013, 11:09 pm

    Interesting concept. Seems very similar to that virus game on Newgrounds, but intriguing nonetheless.



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    Magnus Densen
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    Re: [MASS - INTERACTIVE RP] P.L.A.G.U.E.

    Post  Magnus Densen on February 28th 2013, 10:41 am

    It is inspired by the game Pandemic 2.
    I thought it would be quite interesting to to do such a roleplay.



     
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    Alfred F. Jones

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    P.L.A.G.U.E. [post-war/Apocalyptic themed]

    Post  Alfred F. Jones on April 30th 2013, 12:58 am

    Excuse my shit starter. Anyone is free to join, but Dia might like to be the first to reply to this. Don't know. Take it up with her, mmkay? Mmkay.



    Staring up into the heavens,
    In this hell that binds your hands,
    Will you sacrifice your comfort?
    Make your way in a foreign land.

    Wrestle with your darkness,
    Angels call your name,
    Can you hear what they are saying?
    Will you ever be the same?

    - - "Isaac", Madonna

    He should have known it would come to this. Perhaps, he knew all along but chose to ignore it. They all chose to ignore it, so hell-bent on making an impression. Now, there was nothing left but the remains of what used to exist.

    The American dragged his feet across what he liked to think was gravel, but deep down, he knew it was the rubble of whichever great building once stood there. When he actually took the time to look around, aquatic orbs squinting behind dusty goggles, he noticed the stockpiles of the very same rubble he walked upon. He found irony in the idea that a building could collapse and ruin in the same way it was built; uniquely and strangely beautiful. Each pile was different, but left the same message: war. Cruel and hellacious, but not surprising with the way he and so many others handled the world. Rather, juggled the world, as it all just happened to be a battle of ownership. Some light came of the situation, however. There was no longer anything to fight over; as if dirt and debris was even worth fighting for. The American quickly imagined a certain Prussian might build a heap of it, stick a flag inside, and claim it as his own. Although the thought would have normally made the American laugh, he wasn't laughing. He couldn't.

    He moved onward, wondering what had become of his friends and family. He had yet to see anyone since the destruction of the world, not even his Arthur. Unless you were to count the endless amount of corpses that sorely stuck out from the mounds of rubble. It made his heart tighten and behind his leather-bound mask, he might have even began to cry, but he dared not remove it in fear of the toxins that spread like wildfire throughout the air. There was no telling who had released what in order to come out on top. So, he fought the sadness that weighed him down and moved soundlessly toward a sheltered area. It was a wonder how the warehouse he had managed to find survived without any trouble. He hated the silence, even though he could hear his own breathing (however faint) and heart-beats. Too familiar was he with the boisterous streets, towns, and cities before the war happened. The silence was terrifying and probably would haunt him for the rest of his years, but as he began to suspect he was the only one around this area, scrap metal fell from a caved-in rooftop and spooked the American.

    His firearm was drawn and he spun toward the area the noise had come from, gun pointing at no one in particular...

    But he knew someone was there. Another survivor.

    He wasn't counting on it being an ally.


    Last edited by sǝuoظ ˙ɟ pǝɹɟןɐ on May 2nd 2013, 4:47 am; edited 1 time in total



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    Eireann Ó'Reilly
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    Re: [MASS - INTERACTIVE RP] P.L.A.G.U.E.

    Post  Eireann Ó'Reilly on May 1st 2013, 12:05 am

    .Just gonna jump in here since no one seems to be doing otherwise, and Dia hasn't said anything against it. I can feel the angst already. Ya'll better be ready for this.



    When the sky turns gray,
    And everything is screaming,
    I will reach inside,
    Just to find my heart is beating.

    You tell me to hold on.
    Oh, you tell me to hold on.
    But innocence is gone,
    And what was right is wrong.

    - - "Bleeding Out", Imagine Dragons


    She had never wanted to partake in the degradation of international peace. How many times had she warned them, urged them to seek more civil methods of handling their arguments? How great the injustice when they ignored her opinions to drag her afterward, helpless, into the den of thorns that was modern warfare. An ally, they called her. An ally pledging allegiance to what? There was no use for allies in a world damned for oblivion. There was only empty blame- vile, execrable whining between narcissistic contributors -and silence. Vacuous, solemn, bleeding silence, with which not even the plague could compete.

    The Canadian landscape was carpeted with ash. Delicate white flakes drifted from the leaden sky to the scorched black ground that stretched unto the farthest glimpse of the horizon. The trees were barren and no sound nor song or wildlife broke the quiet that held fast over the land. When fire had erupted in the cities, it swelled. Most of the able bodied men had left, drafted to the front lines of the fight on the major battlefields of their home country and foreign allies. Her Majesty and the Parliament had both stressed that the imminent danger deserved more domestic than military attention. Thus, as the doctors, nurses, industrial staff, cooks, tailors, and social staff had worked with the government to prepare the economy for the inevitable, the military was left practically on its own, doing all it could to defend the national borders to the last man. It wasn't a long fight.

    Bombs hit cities, began blazes, killed the innocent. Most of the bodies were burned then, making those corpses that went untouched horrid representations of the carnage that hid beneath the deceptively powdered wonderland. Any stranger lost to the great destruction of the world would have thought it was just a warm winter. But the survivor knew better. Snow didn't burn your throat when you wanted a breath of fresh air. Clouds came and went in all shapes, depths, and tones; they didn't station themselves motionlessly in the atmosphere and ceaselessly rain ash. Yet, though there was nothing to be reaped of the land or the tainted sea, a flicker of hope still burned in the frosted wasteland. There was a chance, an experiment, to relieve some of the suffering that ravaged the nations. In a small lab, in a single, miraculously tall standing, white building, one woman was working to develop a cure. She had told this to no one, for sanity's sake, carrying on day by day with little sleep or provisions. Then again, there wasn't even a soul to speak to. Just the one girl, alone, not so differently than before.

    Weeks passed. Soon, her supplies were nearly depleted and she had begun to grow paranoid of the silence. Unable to proceed any further in her condition, the Canadian wandered south to the only probable survivor she could reach - her dear brother, Alfred. They hadn't spoken since the start of the war. Too much tension had come between the peace that respected and the pride that he empowered. However, there was no longer a sense of judgement in her heart. It was too deeply shifted by the pure devastation wrought upon his cities. Mounds of bodies, streets drowned in rubble, and the demolished skeletons of buildings greeted her wherever she went. Dead or alive, her brother must have hardened his heart at some time to cope with the everyday sight of his formerly bright and bustling nation.

    It must have been pity that distracted poor Marguerite. The lenses of her gas mask had become foggy pools for her tears. She didn't notice the twisted beam of steel jutting out into her path until it was too late. Her arm bumped and against it and began a domino effect. One beam, shifting another, and another, until finally, a loose fragment of scrap metal clattered to the street, disrupting the usual monotony of the town. Instantly, her frame stiffened, not daring to move an inch in fear that her tiny presence in the gargantuan ruins would set off some unintended catastrophe. Luckily for them both, the actual result was quite the contrast.

    From the corner of her eye, the Canadian spotted movement - living, breathing movement. Granted, that movement was accompanied by a raised firearm, but that was hardly a concern for her, because there was no mistake who was holding that gun. Though his face was hidden beneath a mask, same as her own, there was absolutely no doubting whose blonde hair and dusty brown fighter pilot jacket she was facing. For the first time in what seemed like years, a smile pulled at the muscles beneath her mask, her now-shortened head of wavy but matching blonde locks bouncing against the back of her neck as she bolted into his range of sight, waving her hands excitedly from where she stood.


    "Alfred?! Alfred, is it- is it really you?!" she asked in a sudden wave of imaginative disbelief. "M-mon dieu.. Please t-tell me I'm not dreaming.."




    The Absent Overlord.
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    Alfred F. Jones

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    Re: [MASS - INTERACTIVE RP] P.L.A.G.U.E.

    Post  Alfred F. Jones on May 2nd 2013, 6:51 am

    At first, the American thought he had been hallucinating. He had done so for the past weeks being on his lonesome, within the dreadful silence; so, he didn't suspect this time to be any different. Seeing things or even hearing things, however, still frightened him. His resolve slowly began to crumble. So much so, his hand was now trembling, however slight the movement may have been. He took a single step closer to both intimidate the other survivor and to get a better look at them (in case they so happened to be real, but that was doubtful). They were small, certainly female, but the American could not identify who they were. He blinked several times behind his mask, as if trying to make rid of their image. When they would not disappear, he began to grind his teeth together and prepared to fire. He knew he'd come across as crazy to those who may be watching him - firing at something that simply did not exist, but who wasn't crazy after what had happened?

    Yet the American found himself unable to shoot when, what he believed to be a figment of his imagination, spoke. Behind his leathered mask, his eyes widened with realization. The trembling in his broken form worsened and he felt as though he may collapse. Cautiously, he lowered his weapon until the gun pointed toward the ground. He approached the girl who had excitedly called out to him; with no hesitation, surprisingly. He knew now who she was, he realized it would make sense for this to be Marguerite - even more so that she had been the one to find him first out of everyone else. The closer he came to her, the faster he began to walk. Eventually, he had tossed down his gun and found himself running the rest of the way. Whether or not she was prepared for him to do it, he wrapped both arms around her and lifted her entirely from the ground. There were choked sounds coming from his respirator as he held strong to his sister nation and his mask laid against her, pressing for comfort. Although he usually came off as carefree, head-strong, and protective...none of that would be necessary in this moment. He was overwhelmed and far too happy that Marguerite was here. She was real, she had survived!

    This happiness, after everything...it was surreal.


    "Marguerite," Came the struggled reply from the brother nation, one arm around her waist for support as he held her up and against him. His other hand raked into her short, sandy hair. "You are not dreaming." The continuation of his speech was half spoken to her, half spoken to himself.

    He found the strength to let go, but not entirely. He set her down, yes, but his hands went wild across her mask. He had no intention of taking her mask off, as much as he'd like to see her face, but he was feeling it. Memorizing it with a mad laughter. She was so, so real and it was killing him (or just driving him mad - either one). "Marguerite," He breathed her name a second time, the mask he wore making his voice sound rather ghostly. "I am so happy you found me," He no longer touched her mask, but settled both hands against her shoulders. There was a pause and he looked over her, his hands making their way down her arms and leaving clean trails against the dust that stuck to her. "Are there more?"

    Of course not. Of course, it was only her.

    And only him.

    He was stupid to think there were more.



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    Main: Alfred F. Jones (2P!America).
    Others: Julchen Beilschmidt, Viktor Braginski.
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    Magnus Densen
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    Re: [MASS - INTERACTIVE RP] P.L.A.G.U.E.

    Post  Magnus Densen on May 3rd 2013, 3:45 pm

    Oh my Goodness! Your responses were amazing! I can't wait to read more from you two! This could be post-war to the other active topic we have, WW3!
    ____________________________________________________________________________________



    God was definitely not on their side.


    UNDER CONSTRUCTION!
    No worries. No one is summoned in this reply.
    I will continue it as soon as my computer is done.



     
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    Ivan Braginski

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    Re: [MASS - INTERACTIVE RP] P.L.A.G.U.E.

    Post  Ivan Braginski on May 7th 2013, 5:44 pm

    Eh, got lazy around the middle and end.
    Is anyone else having major problems with formatting on here? I'm having to put this all in center because the text gets thrown off if I do anything else .___.


    Sweet innocent child, how can I explain
    I can hear Nature’s cry for mercy

    How the greed and power sets rules for you and me,
    Why wedestroy and torture out of greed?
    I wish I could give you something else…
    I wish I could give you something else."

    ~ Innocent Child - Arcana






    “We won’t let you down, sir."




    Ivan should have noted that glint that flashed in the worker’s eye. He should
    have noticed the whispers circulating around the premises, or that the numbers
    of Russian workers in this place were slowly dwindling, being replaced by
    strangers whose faces were unfamiliar to the Russian territory.





    It started off as a single, somewhat harmless warning; an admonishing gesture
    to keep other forces from intervening on others behalf. Wings of war had also fanned
    its vile ambiance over the frigid Russian territory, ravishing the borders and
    heartlands with civil and foreign warfare alike. It had been a well-known fact
    that a select few European and American forces had attempted to infiltrate into
    the central and eastern parts of the Asian continent. Russia was unable to
    divide its forces even more than what they already were, and a missile to each
    of the assailant’s mainlands seemed to be the most efficient method to relieve themselves
    of further invasion.


    And yet, that is where it all went haywire.
    For all anyone else knew, Russia willingly merged its missiles and aided the Middle
    Eastern nations with their catastrophic attacks on the Western Nations. For all
    anyone knew, the Russians willingly allowed foreign workers to leech control over
    their warfare vaults and systems and granted them unlimited access to the
    agents of war. It was a plan well plotted and well executed, and one of the
    worst terrorist incursions Russia had ever known.

    The nuclear bombs, the pandemic, chemical, and biological weaponry and every
    other agent of destruction Russia had possession over had fallen straight into the
    hands of the wrong people, further aiding the violent end of the world as they
    knew it.



    All for not
    noticing that one inconsequential glint.



    Now, the world swam in a viscous mixture of overpowering chemicals
    masked with the scent of some nonexistent flora.
    An earth covered in darkness; No color or sign of life
    anywhere. All lights void of color, all bodies devoid of warmth. Everything was
    darkness and swirling mists of mushroomy grey morass, clogged with grimy blocks
    and ashen remains of creatures once breathing, barely leaving any room for comfortable
    travel.



    The remains of a city reflected so perfectly from the lenses of a gas mask; everything he
    cast his gaze upon reflected through the grimy lens as covered in darkness and
    lost to an endless void or a black, tasseled wound; a wound so great the earth
    itself may die. Not even a bird would twitter into the daytime chorus, just radioactivity
    and disease quivered through the air like the crack of distant lightning.





    Ivan stepped through the still rubble, focusing on the steps to keep him from
    thinking; to keep him from being frightened by the silence as profound as the death
    and disease that had swallowed the lands.
    The rancid wind whispered from building to charred building as if a thousand ghosts
    of his own people were stalking from above. The omnipresent mist that hung
    thickly wreathed through the area, pale as bone against the deeper colors of
    the ashen landscape, and that very smog of chemicals and radioactive essence murmured
    about the lone Russian survivor, swirling in eddies before churning into the
    shaded bramble. Ivan’s skin tingled as if whiskers had suddenly sprouted all
    over his body, or was it just the feeling of radiation finally seeping through
    his heavy attire? Ever since the day when everything fell to ruin, Ivan couldn’t
    tell if every sensation of his body was merely a trick of his mind, or one
    signaling his demise. All he knew was that the lack of rations, clean water and
    breathable air was slowly beginning to take its toll upon him.



    Ivan pressed his back wearily against the
    filthy remains of a brick wall – or was it a car? – and slid down against it,
    knees bending until he was sitting on the ground. He knew his troubles were
    still not over, that further obstacles will soon arise. He needed to get up, to
    keep moving and to see if maybe – just maybe – there was someone else out
    there. It didn’t have to be an ally, didn’t even necessarily have to be a
    friend, for all hopes of finding a loved one had been snuffed out a long time
    ago.



    Any form of life would suffice.



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    Eireann Ó'Reilly
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    Re: [MASS - INTERACTIVE RP] P.L.A.G.U.E.

    Post  Eireann Ó'Reilly on May 7th 2013, 9:53 pm

    .@Dia: Thanks! And I totally agree- this would be a great aftermath and overall destination for WW3 (which I am in the middle of producing a reply for).
    .@Mizzy: I love your reply ;3; But no, I haven't had any formatting problems.
    .@HeeHee: STAHP. YOU'RE GONNA MAKE ME CRY -FEELS-.




    Normally, Marguerite would have been extremely cautious if a gun was pointed at her, but in this instance, she honestly didn't care. She had a sad, strong belief that death would come for her sooner rather than later, what with her frail physicality and the toxins corrupting every surface, and all. Then again, she preferred living to dying any day, especially if it meant she could still spend time with those she loved. So when Alfred tried to intimidate her, she wasn't fazed. Then, when she spoke, something snapped for him. For a second, his trembling worried her because she was afraid he might pass out, but soon enough, he was coming toward her, picking up speed until he was running and the weapon was no longer necessary, and with absolutely not a thought or hesitation, he hauled her off her feet and held her tightly to his form in such a way that she had never experienced so joyfully before. She could barely hear the choking from his respirator above her own chaotic mix of sobbing and laughter. And for that precious moment, nothing else in the world mattered. There was no apocalypse, no disease, no wasteland- there was just the presence of her brother and his ecstatic response to her survival, which she too shared in his favor.

    Her arms clasped around his neck like she was a toddler hanging on for dear life. How she'd thought she'd never hear his voice again, her own laugh again! The sensation of sound alone was breathtaking, and for her name to be the first word from his lips, she couldn't have been more excited. They were not dreaming. He confirmed it. This was real. It felt real for the first time in months.

    Yet, at the same time, she was quaking with the possibility that it was going to fade into dust at any moment, that she was going to lose everything right when her dreams had finally come true.

    When he set her down at last, a few childish sniffles sounded from beneath her mask. She was just so happy. It felt wrong. It felt so wrong. But she wouldn't dare do anything about it. She didn't object to his feeling around her mask (because who in their right mind would off their mask in this environment), and she didn't really mind his maddened laughter or the ghostly echo of his voice. Though, she might have thought it a tad strange. But who could blame him? If anyone had remained completely sane after the war, they'd have to have been a mortal god of some sort. No one common came out unscathed.

    Her arms dropped limply to her sides as she ogled, quite senselessly, at her brother, or more rather the fact that he was actually standing there and not dead, as most everyone else was. She glanced at her left arm as he brought his hand down over it, shivering a bit at the long-forgotten sensation of human contact (regardless of hand-wear) on her bare skin. She was so used to the dust that she'd almost forgotten how fair her own flesh was. Amazing how the most usual of concepts escape you in that way...

    Marguerite returned her attention to her brother, now highly uninterested in her skin tone. She really didn't speak enough. She'd never spoken enough. Even the silence turned her invisible sometimes.
    "I was scared-" she admitted. "I was afraid that I would never find you- that you'd be lost after... Eh bien, after everything." Her lavender hues focused down upon his hands, which she now took hold of, squeezing them for comfort with what little strength she had left in her, which was frighteningly near diminished. They were so tiny, her hands. Had they always been that tiny? She wondered. "I was going to ask you the same thing. If there is anyone else, I haven't found them yet. But we've got to hope, right? There's a whole ocean between us and the majority of the world. Maybe they just can't make it yet."

    It wasn't a stupid question.

    They needed to hope.

    Everyone needed to hope.




    The Absent Overlord.
    cat. 18. lady.

    Canons: Republic of Ireland & Fem!Canada
    OCs: Transylvania & State of Ohio, USA.
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    Francis Bonnefoy

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    Re: [MASS - INTERACTIVE RP] P.L.A.G.U.E.

    Post  Francis Bonnefoy on May 7th 2013, 11:58 pm

    /drops this here for Mizzy



    So many dreams were broken and so much was sacrificed
    Was it worth the ones we loved and had to leave behind?

    So many years have past, who are the noble and the wise?
    Will all our sins be justified?
    -Hand of Sorrow by Within Temptation



    When..when would it ever, the cruelty, the destruction, and the unrelenting torment end?

    Francis hadn't been one of the lucky few to catch a flaw in the system, an odd exchange of workers, or roaming sickness. Nowadays, one could grow cocky with a sense of security, and in the end, it'd simply take it's toll to pay the final price. No, he'd be part of the ones who had noticed too late, just in time for war to break out. And for what? For chemicals to be strewn through the atmosphere, contaminating the air with both a foul, toxic odor, to burn at ones eyes and decay their skin? For soldiers to die in the midst of battle from sickness, wounds, and starvation? Cases like this were exactly why Francis disliked wars, or any kind of conflict that could ever truly lead to the world's very downfall. He was the Nation of Love, was he not? Then where was that love, that passion for a human race, for the innocent people, in times of crisis? While he himself didn't retain the peace between certain members of the nations too often, tiny quarrels and scraps never led to violent wars and toxic wastelands, which eventually had let down his guard for too long. It pained him quite horribly, to realize what the world had become in a matter of months. From bustling cities and roads, cheerful people and friendly chats over a cup of tea at home, to the roar of machine guns, the splat of blood, the screams of innocents, and finally...

    Silence.

    Nothing but silence. Birds no longer chirped, dogs no longer yipped in the early morning. Children remained as silent and still as their own crippled, crumbling skeletons. Once noisy cars remained silent, either crushed, destroyed beyond repair, mildly broken, or merely abandoned on the sides of streets, overturned, or tossed in various places by tanks and car crashes. Sounds one would expect to hear in daily life were no more. Instead, barely even the faint crackle of rubble could be heard, unless there was movement or a disturbance. Toxic fumes flowed through the air, prepared to shoot down the throat of an unsuspecting breather, choking their lungs and tearing through their bodies until they remained nothing but a hollow shape of their former selves, limp and motionless among the debris, only to decay in due time with countless others. While there was silence, there was little, if any, life.

    How far had Francis traveled? Days? Hours? For God's sake, minutes? Even the Frenchman didn't know, nor could he keep track. All he knew was that like many nations, his own home, his own country, had been destroyed. Nothing but rubble, dust, and the skeletons or decaying masses of his people. He had no choice but to leave before the situation became even worse than it already was in Europe and the rest of the World..
    Ah, wait. What could be worse than any of this?

    Francis stood; or rather, went along as a horribly slow walk; in Russian territory. All he could identify was the fairly chilly climate, though truly couldn't tell much else through the thickness of toxic fumes in the air. Like the majority of survivors, he wore a gas mask over his face to keep the fumes from getting in. Unfashionable, he once claimed. And now? A lifesaver. His once neat, flowing blonde hair was now ragged, sticking up in various places, and downright filthy, losing it's once notable, bright golden color to a duller shade. The Frenchman wore his old military uniform, that same old, blue capelet, red, now dusty pants, and black boots. A half-loaded pistol was positioned in it's holster at Francis's belt for easy use, yet had been untouched for days on end; still, the only physical weapon he had. The Frenchman walked with a limp, one bloody bandage of sticky gauze wrapped tightly and securely around his leg from an old gunshot wound from about a week or two earlier that had been going through the first few stages of healing; yet, without proper treatment, it still bled through the bandage itself. Hell, it was a miracle it hadn't gotten infected by now, let alone properly touched by the toxic fumes.

    Wincing with each step he took, Francis trekked on through the dust and rubble of the city, his dull, azure gaze flickering across the landscape, barren of life; or so, he thought. In the past week, shortly after he'd gotten injured, he'd barely seen any signs of life after leaving Paris, France. Shaking, Francis forced himself to stay upright as he limped along, though it wasn't long before he was limping his way past one side of the car in which Ivan sat at. Even if he'd been paying attention, Francis wouldn't have noticed. Yet, within moments, Francis collapsed then and there out of pent-up exhaustion, a lone cough sounding from the gas mask, raspy and almost demonic through the mask alone. He struggled to heave himself back up, now just on one knee, yet he couldn't muster the strength, his back unknowingly to Ivan. If he could find anyone, anyone, Francis wouldn't care; any sign of life would bring the Frenchman joy, at least to find another survivor, be it nation or human, yet his hopes had dwindled over the past few days.



    Canon: Francis Bonnefoy - France
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    Ivan Braginski

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    Re: [MASS - INTERACTIVE RP] P.L.A.G.U.E.

    Post  Ivan Braginski on May 8th 2013, 4:20 pm

    @Cat: Bleh, must be the computer I'm using, then. Excuse horrible formatting until I get mine fixed v__v;

    @Erika: -picks up your reply and runs away with it- <3


    Ivan was never really one for noise, but this silence was appalling; it was one that screeched against one’s ears louder than claws to a chalkboard.

    Cough.

    Ivan’s eyes snapped open as every muscle in his body became as rigid as the AK-47 that lay next to him. He had often found himself imagining voices calling out to him; phantom’s tongues talking tangled words laced with laughter in the winds. They were the forlorn voices quietly whispering false, wordless tales of the dying, the killing, and the ones long dead.



    And yet, it wasn’t just the sound that accompanied the sudden presence of another; Upon casting a lackluster glance sideways toward the source of the sound, Ivan almost did a double take. At the sight of the other figure kneeling painfully in the ash, Ivan swiftly raised himself from the dusty ground while hoisting his artillery weapon into view.

    “Who’s there?”

    The voice that spoke up was not the casual tone that the Russian normally held: this one was warped, rough, and hideously distorted by the thick mask and by the lack of use. Ivan’s own voice sounded alien to him, and had even startled himself for but a fraction of a second.
    Upon analyzing the wounded figure, breath of realization came down upon him like a distant memory crawling up through his mind - a resonance that whispered, worming up from the depths of an oasis pillaged with war. He knew that outfit... Could it really be…? No, surely not Francis, how could he have gotten all the way out here? Why would he have come all the way out here, so far away from his homelands? Numerous questions raced through Ivan’s mind, questions Ivan had not the answer to. Realizing he had been quiet for a heartbeat too long, the Russian’s voice materialized once more from the mask.
    “F-Francis…?”
    He hoped with all his being that this was real, that he was not being tricked by the pollution once more. And yet, despite the sudden rush of hope, he knew what was more than likely going to happen next: The figure was going to look up, utter a wordless response, then simply vanish like ash in the wind.
    God. He was really loosing it.



    avatar
    Francis Bonnefoy

    Posts : 169
    Join date : 2012-03-31

    Re: [MASS - INTERACTIVE RP] P.L.A.G.U.E.

    Post  Francis Bonnefoy on May 8th 2013, 5:21 pm


    @Mizzy: <3




    That single voice was the only sound that snapped Francis back into cruel reality; a recognized voice, one he'd heard countless times over the centuries. Ah, but wait..surely it was simply his mind beginning to play tricks on him, taunting him into first voices, then hallucinations, and finally borderline inanity? It had to be his mind; he'd seen no survivors for days, not even an ally nation. Could it really be who he thought it was? Francis hesitated, shifting slightly for a moment; however, the mention of his name was all it took for the Frenchman to begin attempting to heave himself back up off his knees. The voice. The accent. The Frenchman's fuzzy brain managed to bring a name to match the voice he'd heard; Ivan-and with that name surely had to be a face. With a pained wince, Francis struggled to stand-the first few attempts ended with the Frenchman back on his knees, though after a moment or two of silent urging, Francis finally, yet slowly, rose back up to his feet, his posture rather lopsided and his injured leg turned slightly.

    For the first time in days, true hope flickered in the Frenchman's dull gaze was he forced himself, urging himself on to turn around and look up at the Russian standing several feet away. The coat, the silvery hair, the tall stature..it had to be him. If it wasn't, only God knew how well Francis would take such devastation, to find out that the Russian was merely a hallucination of his mind made to toy with him any way possible. "I-I..Ivan..?" The Frenchman's words were raspy from behind the large mask, his throat dry and sore after avoiding speech for so long. But, despite the weakness in the man's voice, there was one thing evident leaking from his tone; relief. "I-Ivan." Francis repeated the name, as clear as he could muster, before he half-limped, half-stumbled his way toward the Russian; slowly at first, soon picking up the pace a bit. It wasn't long until he finally reached the Russian, and had reached out, placing a hand to Ivan's shoulder; he half-expected the Russian to vanish, or to simply turn to dust then and there. But he didn't. This wasn't a hallucination, it couldn't be. God forbid it was.

    "I-It's you..M-Merci..Merci, Dieu!" The Frenchman's voice breathed out through the mask, his tone dripping with poorly concealed joy, before he leaned up and finally wrapped his arms tightly around the Russian's shoulders in a hug. Ah, yes, the Frenchman was hugging the intimidating Russian, who even he had once completely feared in battle and gotten chills from on a daily basis. Yet, Francis wasn't seeing him as a threat. No, he was seeing Ivan as an ally, a sign of hope, a friend. If Ivan was here, surely, there were more out there; somewhere.




    Canon: Francis Bonnefoy - France
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    Alfred F. Jones

    Posts : 182
    Join date : 2012-03-29

    Re: [MASS - INTERACTIVE RP] P.L.A.G.U.E.

    Post  Alfred F. Jones on May 9th 2013, 3:13 pm

    @Everyone: You're all fabulous. I'm loving your replies.


    Despite knowing Marguerite would not see, Alfred managed a weak smile from behind his mask. His sister had been so afraid that she wouldn't see him again. He too had been afraid. It made this moment bittersweet and suddenly, he felt like embracing her again. He did not, however; distracted by the way she took his hands and squeezed. Her hands were much smaller than his and lacked their usual strength. He looked up, finding her gaze with relative ease. He didn't respond immediately and instead, stared at her with tired eyes. He of all people should have known better than to discard the feeling, but to have hope, she asked? It nearly made him laugh.

    He no longer believed in that.


    "I wasn't only talking about them." He said quietly. There was a certain bitterness to the way he had said it, as if he didn't care for the survival of the other nations. That was true, to some extent. He worried about few, considering what the rest had done to him, his family, or those he considered allies. In this case, he wasn't referring to the rest of the world, but to himself. He was trembling again, but it was hard to determine whether or not it was out of fear or anger. Pulling away from his sister, he placed both his hands against either side of his head and crouched.

    "I lost everyone..."

    He was crouching, he had to look up in order to see Marguerite. His hands left his head and he grasped both hips of his sister nation, gripping with some desperation. "My states, Marguerite..." He finally explained, leaning forward and pressing his forehead to her stomach. "Everyone is gone, save for you and I..." He wondered if she was feeling uncomfortable, but he prayed that wasn't the case. He truly needed her, now more than ever. He might crumble into nothing if she pushed him away. As he stayed like that, clinging (childishly) to what he believed was his only remaining family, he began to sort out what he and Marguerite would have to do. Survive, obviously, but should they try and contact someone...? Could they even accomplish that?



    Spock . 20 . Guardian
    Main: Alfred F. Jones (2P!America).
    Others: Julchen Beilschmidt, Viktor Braginski.
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    Eireann Ó'Reilly
    Admin

    Posts : 303
    Join date : 2012-02-14

    Re: [MASS - INTERACTIVE RP] P.L.A.G.U.E.

    Post  Eireann Ó'Reilly on July 13th 2013, 5:24 pm

     .Sorry for the long delay guys! This whole rp is just so awesome, I couldn't resist jumping back in. But replies will be a bit shorter from now on. 



    "Oh, Alfred.." Marguerite shook her head, looking down at him with said eyes. It was true, he had all the reason in the world to have abandoned hope, but that didn't mean the Canadian was going to allow him do so. She believed in Alfred, and because of that, she wanted him to believe in himself too. They would need to have confidence beyond the present if they were going to survive. Carefully, she crouched down with him, placing her hands on either side of his face where her fingers could brush against a few strands of his dusty blonde hair.

    "I know how hard it is- how everything seems lost. But consider yourself, Alfred. You're alive, and that means that some part of you besides yourself may still be out there. If you abandon hope, you might as well abandon them.." She slipped one hand to his chest, where it rested in place over his heart, and gently tilted her forehead against his own, allowing them to make stable eye contact despite the slight blur of their masks. "And if you can't have faith in yourself," her voice softened to the most sincere of whispers. "-have faith in me."




    The Absent Overlord.
    cat. 18. lady.

    Canons: Republic of Ireland & Fem!Canada
    OCs: Transylvania & State of Ohio, USA.

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