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

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'.
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=YBXV2ekE2To

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

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

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.

/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.

@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.

@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.