Link to the OoC thread here: Out of Character Thread


The Prolouge-

In a back alley that is located somewhere near once valuable Miami beachfront property...

Of course. Naturally it had been bound to happen, didn't these things always happen in Miami these days? But never had I expected it to happen to me. ME, the scourge of D.C. and king of the east coast, who'd been to L.A. and back without getting one scratch, scraped knee or measly bruise! I was the Florida boogieman for Chr!st's sake, kids had nightmares about me! And I, the terrible and feared drifter that I was, had been robbed. Not only had the little brat that did it take my money and a bag of chocolate wafers, the little SPORE had stolen my last three cubans.

I sighed to myself, even to myself sounding unbelievably miserable and defeated. I knew that I wouldn't have time to take my cigars back if the little pickpocket had thrown himself at me, I had a schedule to keep and the little urchins like the kind who had stolen from me disappeared for weeks on end in Miami and if I wanted to make it to Boston before Winter blew in I'd have to leave today, being already late to start my trek and such. So, accepting my misfortune I began to gather up my meager supplies from around my makeshift camp. It certainly was an unsightly mess, even by my standards.

Paper wrappers and cans lay scattered, the charred and extinguished firewood had been blown about in a slight breeze the night before and a light coating of ash covered a decent number of my belongings. I had even been to lazy to empty my unwanted... ugh... into the nearby manhole. With very little conviction and for the first time in 5 years, no cigar in my mouth, I cleaned up my back alley resort and packed my goods haphazardly into my monsterous backpack. Finally I finished up the last of my 'packing', if it could be referred to as such, and put on my travel gear. A beige zipper sweater lay underneath an oak kevlar vest. Light blue, rather faded jeans covered my legs and the high tops of a pair of classic Chuck Taylor All-Stars. I also carried a few clips of ammunition in my military utility belt for quick access, all of them standard NATO 7.62x51 rounds and an M4 carbine in my right hand. I was ready to go, all my other guns and ammunition were in my pack, along with my food for the next two months, my cloths, my merchandise for any buyers I might find an all the miscellaneous objects I'd picked up along the way here.

With my last preparations complete I began trotting out of the alley and into the ruined and cracked street on my arduous and somewhat merrier-than-before way. It was a long way from Miami to Boston, so I might as well enjoy the walk right? Oh how wrong I was going to be, you could never imagine.

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The Story-

The world has ended. Or atleast, the world as you know it has. Shall I tell you how it happened, or would you like to remain ignorant? Exactly, of course it doesn't matter, naturally I'm going to tell you anyone and obviously there won't be a noticable decrease in your level of ignorance. You catch on quick buddy.Ok, so boohoo. The world ended and there is a great chance everything you know and love has probably been violently ripped apart at the seams. Too bad, because I'm happy. I love the new world, it turns out that I'm good at apocalypse. How does that relate to the story? It doesn't! I just wanted to remind you so that those tears don't dry up too soon.

My playful banter aside, I'll tell you how we descended into sweet, bloody anarchy now, shall I? It all started, one might argue, on July 16th, 1945, from the moment the Trinity test took place. Get where this is headed? Since then we've gone from The Gadget to Mike and onward and where has it led us? Here. This godforsaken wateland of a planet.

Our problems really began in September of 2011, when American Congress was overthrown in a brutal uprising. I remember the three weeks of the September Revolution. It was short, yes, but also the most brutal and bloody uprising in history. In those three weeks over 78 million people lost their lives. I naturally had no part in it. Unless of course you had some kind of contributory part, in which case I was a fanatical proponent and fought in the Battle of Capitol Hill. Unless you were there, in which case I was wounded in a previous battle... Anyway, let's get back to the story. Well, the New American Revolutionaries were just out of a revolt and still riled and cruisin' for a fight, so when another major terrorist attack hit the U.S. they got the chance they'd been looking for. In a vengenance attack for destroying the Willis Tower (more commonly known as the Sears Tower) our new government decided, in all their vast wisdom, to drop a thermonuclear warhead in the region known to many as 'Talibanistan', a region dominated by mountains which sits between Afghanistan and Pakistan. Of course there aren't as many mountains as before but I believe that if you have a 5th grade education you know where I'm talking about. Of course, not very many people liked that very much and a series of increasingly dire attacks, both economically and militarily were launched against the U.S. The U.N. booted us from the Security Council and most of our allies cut their ties and most U.N. nations imposed trade embargos on us. By the end of June of 2012, the new America was at war with the United Kingdom, Russia, and North Korea. Everything went to the dogs on October 13, 2012. North Korea initiated a nuclear war by destroying Pearl Harbor, forever. After several volleys of nuclear ICBM's were launched at North Korea and the U.K. the governments collapsed. The nuclear fallout and winter caused famine, starvation plauge and the subsequent rioting, soon causing the rest of the world's social structure to break down on a federal level. The first few months were fantastic. I thrived in the violence and the chaos, falling right in with the warlords and looters and other low lifes.

Things began to settle down around the middle of 2014. Local communities really began to take root and people began their lives anew. But things weren't the same, they couldn't be the same for a long time. 'Quick' communication was regional at best, messages taking a few days to cross a state if there was a set destination, though gossip and stories could spread from coast to coast, on any continent. Lies about civilization having survived here or there, when it hadn't survived anywhere. Now the world is a playground for people like me. The cities are ruins in which to have fun and rule, the countryside to easy a pickings to bother with, even with well fortified towns. Bandits and warlords and druglords, or some combination thereof rule the coasts and the farmers and smaller communities the heart of the continental U.S. Things are diiferent elsewhere, but I don't care to get into that honestly. So I conclude my tale for the moment. You'll have to find out more of it from the beggars and thieves and the rats and urchins that roam this once great nation. The gangsters and soldiers for hire and the merchants like myself. The people hold the story, scattered and incomplete as it is, for I assure you. there is no book which could hold the brief history of this wasteland. I say farewell for now in the Forsaken States of America, the land of ashes.

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The Summary-

You live in a post-apocalyptic America, in the continental U.S. and Central America. The scum of the Earth run the coastlines and most of the southwest with an iron grip while the midwest is mostly inhabited by small, local communities. They might barricade themselves in and be a very close, tight community, or they might be Hobbiton incarnate, each and everyone of them. The deep South, where Louisianna and Alabama once were have reverted to an almost bureaucracy and in it, the local jurisdictions are run by the wealthiest landowners. Slavery is also common there, though not like earlier American slave communities. In this community there is no discrimination fo color and you may just as often come across African American slaveholders as you might white slave holders and just as likely to find a black or even latino slave as a white slave.

You follow my character, Machiavelli as he is known, as he travels from Miami to Boston, and perhaps if it survives that long, to L.A. and then finally back to Boston. You are his tag alongs, which he has never had before and you should consider yourself lucky he doesn't kill you. Then again, if he doesn't like your character, he just might. You can him at any time and start a parallel, or perhaps you never meet him and your entire time in this RP is a parallel. The world is your sandbox, have at it.

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The Rules-

1. All the obvious rules, no godmodding, no metagaming, no autoing of any kind, etc. etc.

2. This is a STORY, and hopefully a high-profile one at that. Not a lulzy happy-go-lucky RP. For that reason it will remain semi-private. Anyone with an invitation can simply join, anyone without that would like to join, ask in the OoC Topic.. From there I will either just accept you, not accept you or ask you to write up your intro post IN THE OoC TOPIC. I'll decide based on that, if I don't accept you, don't complain.

3. Please keep as many OoC posts in the OoC topic. I wanna keep this clean. That includes the pre-start "awesome idea's" and "cool's", got it? If you must post an OoC post in the IC thread, at least use ((double parenthesis)).

4. Keep grammar, capitalization, punctuation and spelling as close to nice as possible, once again this is a story. There is also a minimum post length of four sentences. No one line posts, and don't make two year old sentences so it fits under this rule.

5. Don't complain to me. Believe it or not, this is MY RP. So that means when you are here, I am God. Got it? Argue with me more times than I appreciate, and you're out.

6. Don't argue with other RPers.

7. Afford any mods I may appoint the same respect you would afford me.

8. My character is unkillable. Get over that fact. He's just that awesome.

9. I reserve the right to kill you all if I want. I can do that, once again, I am God. You can have more than one character though, alright? Yes, even at one time, aren't I the greatest OPer ever? That was a rhetorical question, I am.

10. You are NOT allowed to NPC without my express permission, understand?

11. Please leave things mostly appropriate for the website.

12. Don't screw around in my roleplay. Or you're out.

13. I reserve the right to kick you out and do whatever I please with your character at any time and for any reason.

14. No, there is not magic. Yeah, boohoo. No magic, get over yourself. Yes, I am aware that there was nuclear war. No, there is not super radiation powers. There isn't even radiation poisoning unless you cross the souther border and get all the way to Guatemala. Unlikely.

15. You start where I tell you to depending on your character.

16. Any other things that I might say as the RP progresses. My word is law.

17. Use your discretion. If someone controls your character in a very small way, then is it really that big of a deal? For example, somethings as small as this:

PosterX:
Character X punches character Y. Character Y falls to the ground and scrambles away before getting back up.

PosterY, in OoC:
You controled my characcter!

Did PosterX do what he was accused of? Yes, he made CharacterY scramble away. But that's just common sense. Please people, use your heads.

18. You can write from either first person or limited third person. No unlimited third person, for obvious reasons. And no second person because that would just be confusing as hell.

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The Mods-

*None as of yet.*

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The Character Sheet-

Name:

Age:

Appearance:

Current Profession/Mode of living:

Any Weapons:

Breif Bio (No, you are not infamous or famous unless it's as your towns best tomato grow. You are insignificant and unimportant. Infamy is my job):

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The Freakish Cast of the Apocalypse-

Voter-

Name: Machiavelli

Age: 27

Appearance: He is very young looking and stands at 5' 11". He has a healthy, light tan and dark olive eyes. his hair is short, black and spiked and he wears a scruffy, wild and yet short goatee. He has moderate toning, his major muscle group are easily distinguishable, but he is not overly muscled. He wears a variety of clothes but some things that usually accompany his outfit are a bullet-proof vest, weighted combat gloves, heavy-duty plastic elbow and knee pads, a hemp necklace with wooden beads woven in and wide templed glasses. He also usually wears his sleeves pushed up about midway up his forearm, not rolled bu pushed.

Current Profession/Mode of living: Hermit/Traveling Merchant and a Jack-of-all-trades.

Any Weapons: A host of guns. He has a variety of hidden caches and can carry up to three types of lighter guns and ammunition in his pack, including the weapon he carries on him.

Breif Bio To be revealed as I see fit. You know only what you hear about him and the little he chooses to tell you. He is meant to be a rather mysterious character.

shadeofmoose318

Age:9

Name: Tabitha and Mr. Bear.

Appearance:
Tabitha: She is a cute blonde haired little girl with brown eyes and some freckles. She is wearing a pair of blue jean shorts, a pink t-shirt and a backpack. In one hand she has...

Mr. Bear: A teddy bear who has several outfits varying from a WWII uniform to most frequently, a pair of overalls and boots

Current Profession/Mode of living: Slightly disturbing. Tabitha is seen as a defenseless little girl and when people try to kill her or...anyways when people try to kill her she usually murders them, takes everything they own and she then proceeds to do what Mr. Bear says.

Any Weapons: A .357 Magnum (only 12 bullets, and it is quite hard for her to use it with the significant recoil.) and a jagged butcher knife.

Breif Bio (No, you are not infamous or famous unless it's as your towns best tomato grow. You are insignificant and unimportant. Infamy is my job):

prospo

Name: James Guy (Its a real last name)

Age: 21

Appearance: A tall, 6'1, mildly thin black haired man. His eyes are a chocolate brown and his skin is a deep tan. He wears old aviators from before the wars. He dresses in whatever he can get his hands on. He always wear old sandals that he bought from a traveling merchant. They have blunt additions to them, exelent for kicking pickockets in the crotch.

Current Profession/Mode of living: He is a simple farmer. He sowes the seeds of doubt and fear, and then reaps the taxation reward later. He rules over a small town on the east coast, in massachusets.

Any Weapons: A small pistol and a club.

Breif Bio (No, you are not infamous or famous unless it's as your towns best tomato grow. You are insignificant and unimportant. Infamy is my job): Born to a middle class family in massachusets. They moved to Boston right before the riots. His parents sent him away to this safer town south of boston before all hell brokeloose. When communicatiosn broke, he had no idea what happened to them. So now he is the overlord of a tiny town on the way to boston, a vital stop if one does not wish to trek through the wilderness. As such he taxes both his "citizens" and travelers. He has a group of, security ensurers(as he calls them), who help him make sure no resistance develops.

ChaosHarbinger

Name: Robert Murdoch
Age: 71
Appearance: Standing tall at an impressive 6'3, despite his age and advancing arthritis, Robert Murdoch is the kind of man who
Way of living: Having worked his way up from policeman to criminal barrister to high court judge before everything went to hell, Robert is ideally suited to resolving disputes in what remains of society, always doing his utmost to save as many people as possible from the horrors of the aftermath whenever he moves on again to escape the anger of the petty warlords and enforcers that carve out feudal territories for themselves. He knows full well that he cannot keep doing this for long, that soon his old bones will finally cave in under the stress and that he will at last be reduced to jackal-food.
Weapons: None - he feels he is no longer strong enough or accurate enough to use anything effective
Brief bio: Robert Murdoch was born in a small village north of England's London, becoming a dual-national citizen of the United States in his late teens following the messy divorce of his parents and a well-timed invitation to visit from his expatriate uncle. Having never lost his accent, Robert found it difficult to adjust to his dream job in law enforcement, not least because very few were able to take him seriously - and not just because it was Manhattan! However, he proved himself to be exceptionally capable and unflappable in his duties, which many jokingly attributed to his British brevity and self-collectedness, eventually moving on into legal practice after turning down a sergeancy, then working his way up the ranks as a military lawyer during Vietnam. He was slated for a seat on the Supreme Court right before everything collapsed about him, which he finds hilarious for some inexplicable reason. At present, he is located in a barn somewhere in Pennsylvania, along with seven other 'usefuls', waiting to see who will emerge alive from the current struggle as the leader of the community.

CrimsonHunter89

Name: Kyle Marlona

Age: 24

Appearance: His body is an average build compared to most people. He has short length, dark brown hair that he keeps combed at all times along with always having a close shave. His skin isn't exactly pale, but he isn't tan either. He is just somewhat in between. Kyle's eyes are a rich hazel color that has many varying shades that are commonly found in forest growth. Some consider him handsom, but this is usually from family members or girlfriends. Together with a pair of cargo pants, he wears a thin thin jacket over an insolating night shirt. (I know it's not a very good appearance paragraph, but then again, I suck at bios and this one didn't exactly suck, now did it?)

Current Profession/Mode of living: Survivalist. Provides food for "good" travelers. Pretty much anybody who doesn't piss him off, or try to kill him.

Any Weapons: Model 770 hunting rifle and a common survival knife.

Breif Bio (No, you are not infamous or famous unless it's as your towns best tomato grow. You are insignificant and unimportant. Infamy is my job): Kyle has was a pretty average guy before everything happened. He hung out with his friends at bars and always tried impressing women. When he wasn't doing that, he was either sitting in his apartment, hunting, or at work. He was driving out into the forest to hunt for deer, when he saw the riots begin. Kyle saw several people getting killed by protestors and he quickly drove out into the woods, that he knew so well, and began to live out there and provide for himself by hunting animals and slowly building shelter for himself. He hadn't talked to anybody except for the few people that he ran into as he began to wander the deserted roads. Lucky for him, most of them didn't want to kill him. Most of them that is.

WindRoller13-

Name: Marcus Seelar

Age: 29

Appearance: He is a rough looking man. His skin is lightly tanned. His eyes are dark blueish green. His hair is short and he has a small beard growing. He wears a brown doo-rag on his head and a pair of aviator sunglasses. He has a green T-shirt that he wears under a torn black trench coat. He has a pair of fingerless brown gloves on each hand. He wears a pair of military issue pants that are pretty dulled in color. He also wears a pair of tan desert storm combat boots that are rough as well.

Current Profession/Mode of living: Traveller.

Any Weapons: A machete and a hunting rifle. He carriers as much ammo as he can.

Breif Bio (No, you are not infamous or famous unless it's as your towns best tomato grow. You are insignificant and unimportant. Infamy is my job): He was born in an urban city and lived there for the majority of his life. When the end of days came about he started travelling from coast to coast, this was to keep himself fit and sane. He met with many bandits along the way which is how he gained his combat experience. He was part of the military for a short amount of time but went AWOL during the riots. He brought some of his gear with him to help him survive.

Thomas1134-

Name: Only known as Camoran, more commonly called by most 'The Master'.

Age: Unknonw, about 45.

Appearance: Tall, about 6 foot 1. In good shape, but nothing special. Seems like an almost ordinary person...except for the silvery-grey eyes that seem to see right through you. Wears ornate red silk rodes with gold embroided designs on them, the main design being a set of odd-looking runes.

Current Profession/Mode of living: The leader of the Mythic Dawn cult, consisting of about 400 people.

Any Weapons: Unknown.

Brief Bio: The Mythic Dawn was founded some years prior to the Apocalyspe. However, they only really got anywhere once the Congress had collapsed, and there were no longer any snooty government officials prying into their affairs. The Cult runs a farming village which provides all of their food, but the Cult facilities are all located in the nearby cave system. Unwary travellers are quickly kidnapped and sacrificed to the Cult's dark gods. Damoran is reverred by the cultists a messenger of the the gods, and a demi-god in his own right. Dangerous.


DoctorWalrus-

Name: Daniel Stephen Dove
Age: 22
Appearance: A smallish, weedy manboy with a hopeful face that could be called handsome if it weren't so plainly ugly. His eyes sparkle with good character, but pop out slightly to give him the appearance of a rather stupid puppy. His nose is slightly too small for his face, his ears slightly too large. He has pale skin and dirty blond hair, wears double-layered jeans and home-made shirts, coats of varying size made mostly of the remains of other coats, and a baseball cap that says "Oh Goody" which he rarely removes. Generally, he carries around him a look of hopeful optimism, intermingled with fear born of experience, quite like a dog that is kicked with frequency but refuses to accept it.
Current Profession/Mode of living: Errand runner; he goes around doing favors for contacts, carrying messages through dangerous areas, and occasionally beating up someone. He's not mercenary, though; he rarely works for pay, mostly for favor so that he can travel unimpeded throughout the country.
Any Weapons: He carries an aluminum baseball bat at all times, and in a beat up box he usually has by his side is a flare gun, which isn't deadly although he doesn't know that because he's never shot it. He doesn't like to rely on guns, more of a stone-in-a-sock kinda guy.
Brief Bio: An Irish-American (although his family has been in America for a long time), he lived in San Jose California from when he was born until 2010, when his parents and he moved to New England. When the Apocalypse came his parents were almost too happy; they instantly assumed the wandering life, selling candy, booze, and whatever they could get their hands on. They were born for the road, gathering a caravan of similarly-minded optimistic travelers, who attacked a military camp during the night and started their own militia with the weapons they stole. For a long time they were riding high, storming or defending the occasional community in Ohio for money or power.
For Daniels father it all started going down hill once he tried to build an empire, basing it around a currency he'd invented. There wasn't enough to back up his father's currency and once people found this out he was shot three times. His wife led the caravan away, and took it on to many other successful raids, but was herself killed while defending a small town in Michigan.
After Daniel's parents died he drifted away from the militia, like most of the others in it. He had enough connections to go about working for a few months. His eventual goal is to make it back to California and find out what became of his family there, maybe set up over there if he can find a friend on the East Coast.

Vilageidiotx

Name: Chris Dawson

Age: 24

Appearance: 5'9”, He is broad shouldered but otherwise has an average build. He has brown eyes and a young looking face that is neither particularly handsome or ugly. His hair is brown, short and unkempt, and his face is unshaven and stubbly. He wears black combat boots, faded brown cargo pants to hold whatever ammo or supplies he needs to carry with him, a plain faded brown t-shirt covered by a worn black trench coat to conceal weapons as needed, and a replica blue civil war era kepi with a skull pin in the front that he “borrowed” from the house of someone whom was the victim of one of his “house calls”.

Current Profession/Mode of living: Enforcer for Small Town Warlord. Most of his work is collecting “Tribute” and “Taxes” from people in the Warlords territory when they resist doing so voluntarily.

Any Weapons: Sawed-Off Double Barrel Shotgun, Machete

Breif Bio (No, you are not infamous or famous unless it's as your towns best tomato grow. You are insignificant and unimportant. Infamy is my job): Before the “End” had happened, Chris lived an average life, had a job as an Assistant Manager in his Uncles small town grocery store. As everything began to collapse and nuclear winter set in, the packaged and canned food in that store became like gold, and Chris learned how to fight by helping to fight of mobs looking for loot. As the town fell to pieces and violence became part of everyday life, Chris aligned himself with a local gang and was involved with a lot of the violence taking place. As time went on, most of the people he had grown up with had either died or fled the town looking for a place where civilization still existed, but Chris stayed. When a warlord came to power promising order, Chris sided with him and became one of his enforcers.

They see me rollin...

Kyle slowly walked through the quiet and serene forest. It was his haven of peace and happiness. As he walked through a small open clearing, he noticed several marks on the ground. A deer, no doubt. Kyle could tell by the two-toed track that was imbedded into the soft, moist, dirt. As he traveresd the forest floor, he could see several rabbits and even a fox crawling under tree roots and into holes. He dismissed them, though. Kyle was going for something much bigger and better.

Kyle followed the tracks until he reached an even smaller clearing than the first one. This one had much newer tracks that couldn't be more than 10 minutes old at the most. After a long trek, that lasted about an hour, he could here a sloshing sound. Kyle looked over his shoulder, toward the noise, and saw what he had been looking for. A young doe and its mate. They had stepped into a shallow pond, and had made quite the fuss about the cold water. The mate was a massive buck that anyone would take pride in after killing. If they killed it, that is. Kyle couldn't care less about it, though. He just lined up his sights and slowly took a deep breath.

Bang! Bang!

The large, horned beast hit to the ground, right as the doe fled into the sanctity of the forest. After taking a tractor, that he used for these kinds of kills, to the the site, Kyle strapped the kill to the front and drove back towards his camp. Kyle's gonna eat good tonight... he thought to himself as he drove back to his makeshift campsite. Soon after laying the body on a thick plywood table-top, that was infront of his tent, Kyle proceeded to produce a survival knife and began cutting the pelt away from the precious meat that was his only hope of survival. It took three 2 hour intervals, each with an hour in between, but it was worth it altogether. It was dark now, and he was trying his best to make a fire that one could cook a large chunk of venison on, but it was just not going as planned. Another hour had passed, and Kyle was now extremely hungry. Finally, the fire began to perk up, and he soon had a roaring bonfire. Kyle almost screamed in joy, but that had almost gotten him killed, 7 times before. His venison was soon charred to a crisp on the outside by the two-thousand five-hundred degree flames. "Perfect..." he mumbled to himself as several coyotes began to gather on the outskirts of his camp. They wouldn't attack, and KYle wouldn't dare attack them, either. They were his only company, besides the occasional psychopath. Kyle had purposely left the head untouched, as well, due to the fact that if the coyotes got too bored, they would begin to get restless. He watched in awe as they ripped apart the cranium of the muscular herbivore. With a hot meal and a cold mouthful of boiled, river water in his stomach, Kyle curled up under the hides of all of his kills. He had even managed to forge a nightcap from raccoon fur, which he propped on his head before sleep took over and engulfed his mind. The last thing he heard before morning, was the beautiful howl of a wolf in the hills, as it searched for its brethren.

Tabitha walked down the road, one hand around Mr. Bear, the other grabbing her backpack.

"Twinkle twinkle little star, how I wonder what you are," she sang happily to herself. "What should we sing now, Mr. Bear?"

She stopped for a moment to hold the bear to her ear. "Miley Cyrus? Silly, she's Hannah when she's singing!" she began to sing a different song while walking along.

"Hey, girly." a rugged voice wheezed. She stopped and looked around. "Who said that?" she asked. "That came from outside, not inside."

A man, wearing naught but rags for clothing staggered up. "Gimme all your food and I might let you walk away alive." he snarled.

"Go away, mister!" Tabitha said indignantly, holding her ground.

"He is a threat," whispered Mr. Bear into Tabitha's ear. "Use the knife. Stab him once in the heart, then in the neck , then slice the inside of his left thigh. Maxmimum blood loss."

"Okay Mr. Bear." she murmured back to her bear, holding it one hand while she pulled the knife out of its holster. The man was slightly fazed, but c'mon, she was a little girl.

THUD.

The man hit the ground, blood oozing out of his multiple wounds. He looked terrified as Tabitha followed Mr. Bear's next instructions. She stabbed the knife into the ground and pulled it back up. Cleaned. Somewhat, at least: it was dirty now but that was fine.

She put the knife away and left the corpse on the ground, resuming her song.

"Now now fellas, I know it ain't the most pleasant o' thoughts but we gotta be looking at all options here. Wouldn't be doing usselves a favour if'n we left that out, ay?"

The protests died down, replaced by a low grumble of assent. Robert sighed quietly to himself, head in his hands, listening to the "nor'westerner, born 'n' bred" encourage the rest of them to action. His accent varied wildly each time he opened his mouth, as though he was struggling to speak in a single one and was, in fact, putting the whole thing on for show - whilst this was the truth, nobody there but him would ever know that. The provincial charlatan was what in past times would have been called a sunwhore, straight out of Miami.

"The way's ah'm seeing it nows is like thees," the man continued, a hint of the latino inflection creeping into his voice. "We gots us two options, right? Siddown and do nowt, or try to get us'ns out and safe from thees loons. Me, we-ell, ah'm just suggesting we go and at least gives it a good ole try! We ain'ts be having nutting to lose barri-."

A single shot, like a cannon firing, rang out and the man's head disintegrated as the Magnum's bullet struck. His hands kept on gesturing for a full three seconds afterwards, before his legs finally realised they were dead and collapsed from under him. There were a few screams of fright, a couple of yells and several dry retchings, but the assembled knew better than to scatter. Robert, clutching at his heart as it hammered painfully in his chest, began to hyperventilate, drawing in the precious oxygen his lungs needed to calm him down quicker.

Jacob Milestrom, main enforcer of the group that had got them all held here, holstered the antique and smirked humourlessly at them, dusty fedora tipped at what he believed was a jaunty angle, but which just made him look dumb. But Jacob Milestrom was anything BUT dumb and if you wanted to live long enough to get snow on your southern peak, you'd better remember that, bucko! When he was sure that everyone's attention was on him - and in about five seconds, it was - he turned on his heel and strode out.

"Oh ayuh, nothing but your lives," he drawled in a thick Maine accent, comprehensible only due to terrible familiarity with it. "Nothing but that little thing, buckos."

Behind him, the barn door closed as quietly as it had been opened, the soft click of a padlock sealing them within again. Robert was not surprised to find himself crying softly.

Machiavelli trudged slowly, miserably through the murky water, trying to ignore the water soaking his pants and climbing up his legs, the horridly smelling algae which clung to him, and the river muck which was seeping through the soles of his converse. Just fantastic, he simply loved the Florida swampland. Perhaps he should have went around? Oh well, he was already here, and he had already slipped into the muddy water twice before. It's not like he could get much wetter right? As he continued to walk through the swamp, avoiding the water as often as he could, he tried to ingore the chill beginning to creep up his thighs. Dear lord, what was wrong with him, choosing this?

"At least I haven't run into any gators yet." he muttered to himself. As if on cue, a alligator then lunged out of the water, snapping at him. As the powerful jaws pushed the sharp teeth into his leg. He swore loudly, half cursing and half yelling in utter pain and drew his magnum. He quickly began shooting into the massive predator, still swearing. After he unloaded all six rounds into the beast, he fell to the ground. After pulling his pack off his shoulders and bandaging the wound, he looked up to the sky frustratedly and set quite clearly,

"Did you just want a giggle? Is that it?" When no answer came he stood up, swearing again when he put pressure on his leg. Oh boy, this was gonna be a loooong walk.

"The Republic of Maryland". Sounds good. One could say it sounds hopeful. Just like all things in this new world, however, it is a lie. It isn't Maryland, just a handful of small towns in the heart of the former state. It also isn't a republic, just another harsh dictatorship trying to carve out a piece of the new world for itself. It is lead by a man whom before the collapse you would have called "Jerry Miller", a middle aged cop who had let his job get to his head. After the end of the world and a few violent coups, he now calls himself "King Gerald", ruler of the "Republic of Maryland". A egotistical nutcase with delusions of grandeur perhaps, but the type of guy who has managed to get all the right people by his side to strike fear in the populace. People like Chris Dawson.

Today is just like most in Maryland. Chris and one of the younger enforcers, a fifteen year old kid affectionately called "Boy" by the others, were at work on a stretch of highway. In its day, It would have carried people from their jobs in the cities to their homes in the small towns, but now it sits quiet. Cars, abandoned years ago by their owners, covered the highway. All of them had been drained of their precious gasoline, liquid gold in the new world. Most of them were missing parts that had been no doubt stolen for resale by traveling vagrants. The smell of oil mingled with the scent of decay from the occasional dead body that had died from only god knows what. Coupled with the fog that had set in, the old road had an eerie feel to it. These were the ruins of a dead society. That was the work environment Chris was used to, death. Despite not sounding like the type of place you would want to be, these highways were traveled frequently by traders and vagrants alike. These type of people always kept valuables with them of some sort, and a smart traveler knew to hide their valuables when they stopped. Chris and his young associate had cornered such a traveler in the remains of an old station wagon.

"Tell me where the loot is old man, or I'll turn yer skull into a bowl" shouted Boy at the old vagrant, mercilessly beating him as he yelled. "Don't be too hard on the old bastard, we need him alive if we are going to find anything" reminded Chris. Violence wasn't his favorite part of the job, so bringing the bloodthirsty Boy made his job easier. Lighting a cigarette he had lifted from the last vagrant they hassled, Chris scanned nervously through the fog. It was the perfect time to set up an ambush, and enforcers were popular targets due to all the stolen loot they would be carrying. Still, there was no movement, and the only sound in the dense air was that of the beating, a constant 'Smack' 'Smack' 'Smack' 'Crack'

Shit.

Chris peered inside the car. Surely enough, the overly enthusiastic Boy had cracked open the old vagrant's skull, instantly killing him. "Dammit Boy, what did you do that for? Now he can't tell us where he hid his crap, and we don't have time to go treasure hunting" said the visibly annoyed Chris. "Just take what you can get off the body and lets go home".

"Hey! asshole! He was our guide! How in the hell are we supposed to get to Hudson Bay now?" a voice erupted from the brush alongside the ruined highway. A scruffy looking man emerged from the grasses, his legs covered in a two pairs of jeans, which were patched together to make one whole pair. He wore no shirt, but a crude tatoo made it's way from his shoulder all the way across his chest, depicting a procession of skulls. His feet were bare as well, though he did have a pair of weighted gloves. In one hand was a 44. magnum, and with his other he was pointing accusingly at Chris and Kid. He was soon followed by three others, who were dressed in similar garb, excepting the fact that they all had shirts. Once wore a black beater, a skull tatooed onto his bicep. Another wore a thick jacket, with a skull on his cheek. The final man wore sweatpants and a grey beater, though the bottom half of it was torn off. A skull was also shown on his abdominals. All three of these men had hunting rifles of varying models, and all of them were staring quite angrily at the two before them.

Kyle's head perked up as the sound of leaves being stepped over outside of his tent. He stuck his head out with the nightcap still on his head and as quietly as he could, exited the lean-to. Over on the other side of it, a small coyote pup had found its way into his camp and was poking around for scraps. Its ribs were showing slightly and Kyle tossed it a piece of the cooked meat he had prepared for himself. It snatched the chunk which was half of the size of its head and it brought it to the shade of a tree and began chewing it to scraps. It left after a few minutes and trotted along the ground happily as it went to find its pack.

Kyle grabbed his gun and took a empty sack with him. He was going to go looking for some supplies. He would head into town and go looting. He admitted it wasn't the most honorable thing to do, but he had lost his honor and dignity a long time ago. He was only a few miles away from the town and he took rode there on a bike. It took him about two hours to get there, but he would be able to get some decent things from the houses. There always was. "Let's find something good today.." He muttered quietly to himself as he stepped inside the rundown town.

CrimsonHunter89 wrote:Kyle's head perked up as the sound of leaves being stepped over outside of his tent. He stuck his head out with the nightcap still on his head and as quietly as he could, exited the lean-to. Over on the other side of it, a small coyote pup had found its way into his camp and was poking around for scraps. Its ribs were showing slightly and Kyle tossed it a piece of the cooked meat he had prepared for himself. It snatched the chunk which was half of the size of its head and it brought it to the shade of a tree and began chewing it to scraps. It left after a few minutes and trotted along the ground happily as it went to find its pack.

Kyle grabbed his gun and took a empty sack with him. He was going to go looking for some supplies. He would head into town and go looting. He admitted it wasn't the most honorable thing to do, but he had lost his honor and dignity a long time ago. He was only a few miles away from the town and he took rode there on a bike. It took him about two hours to get there, but he would be able to get some decent things from the houses. There always was. "Let's find something good today.." He muttered quietly to himself as he stepped inside the rundown town.

"Well now, what do we have here? A scavenger perhaps?" A voice called out from an alley and out stepped two men, both carrying shotguns. they were both Caucasian, of average american height, though rather slim. they had mousy brown hair, no distinguishing features, and were relatively well dressed as far as most people these days went, though it wasn't saying much. Boots, dirt polos and jeans was all they wore. the original speaker then turned to Kyle.

"Now what brings you all the way here, not many people come through here you know. Except RAIDERS!" as he shouted it angrily he shot at Kyle, the shell missing by alot but the point being made. "And SCAVENGERS!" he shot again, this time the slug hit closer. "You trying to take our livelihood BOY?" he yelled again. The slug flew right over Kyle's head this time, actually ruffling his hair as it passed over him. "You're gonna die BOY!"

Dimitri felt like it was twenty years ago all over again.

Back when he was sixteen. Before all the crazy SPORE began. When he ran track. He could still remember it all. Even the words his track coach told him.
"You don't try to run faster as everyone else, or you lose. You have to stay relaxed and just go fast. Your a slim guy. You'll definitely go faster if you concentrate and relax instead of being wound up all the time."
Of course, he was remembering it in English, which was supposed to be his primary language now. Dimitri was a Russian by birth, however, and he could not accept the Western language. He often would find himself prattling along in Russian, when he meant to speak in English. And with so few translators left after all hell broke loose, he had to learn this English stuff.
Why was he remembering track anyhow?
Oh, right. He was running.
The sack on his back rustled as it bounced upon his shoulders. He called it his "mail bag". It was an ugly thing, brown, made of God knows what, the straps taken from a useless camera. Then again, Dimitri's whole appearance was a mess. His face was caked with dirt, as were his pant leggings. His hoodie was tied around his waist, and it revealed a somewhat attractive but paltry chest and stomach. Sweat poured onto his face- the fur hat he was wearing wasn't helping out much.
He thought about it before. "Take the thing off," his girlfriend would have said. "You'll sweat like a pig and lose all the moisture in that lovely beard of yours."
To which he would reply in Russian, "My darling, the hat is for luck. Taking it off would be very bad luck. Unless..."
His girlfriend. He couldn't remember her as well as track. As far as he knew, she may still be alive in this hellish wasteland. He repressed caring, although he wanted to. He had things to do, people to deliver messages to.

So he kept running. And remembering. He didn't want to stop or needed to stop. He just went on his way. What else was he to do? He just had to get to New Orleans. He remembered how the "mayor" of a place called Smallsville told him to ferry these hundreds of rejected love letters to New Orleans, were there may be an incinerator. Some where open, but Dimitri wasn't a SPORE. He knew that being courteous is how to survive out here.
Just then a few dirty-looking Enforcers with police batons came out from the bushes. These guys looked like they came from a faraway place. And ugly.
"Why, look at this, Georgie. We have ourselves a nice visitor," said particularily ugly brute.
"Pardon me, comrade," Dimitri said, not missing a beat, "I just need to get to New Orleans. Eet's important."
"Ah, he thinks hes smart," said the other Enforcer. "He probably isn't fight wise. Sir, I'll just love ripping out your voicebox."
"You must be bluffing, sir."
"I never bluff, fool."
"Yes," Dimitri said. At that point he pulled out his .22 rifle and shot the second Enforcer in the leg. "I believe you do."
"AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAARRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRG! Jesus H. Chr!st! That's my favorite leg!"
Dimitri wasted no time. "Goodbye, I havn't the time to chat any longer," he said. dodging a swing from the first Enforcer's baton, he went on his way to New Orleans again, with the first Enforcer in hot pursuit.

Kyle had seen his share of psychotic maniacs, but these guys were just stupid. Those shotguns were nothing compared to his rifle and he held up his hands in a friendly gesture. "Hey, now. I don't want any trouble, okay? I'm just trying to find some other people." He lied as he quickly pulled his gun off of his shoulder. "Now, fellas. I don't want to kill you. In fact, I would've helped you if you hadn't shot at me. I'm not all that mad at the idea of being shot at, but I just can't stand your faces and the whole shooting at me thing just iced the cake. So please, make it easier on yourselves and put down your guns. I promise I'll make your deaths quick and painless." And with that, he turned around and ran while occasionally turning around and running backwards to fire off a shot or two. None of them hit, though. "D@mn. I can't shoot while running. I need to do this strategically.. Oh, yeah. I got it..." And he ran down an alleyway towards a few houses. As he approached the houses, he looked back and forth until he turned down another block.

"Hah! I'm in a part of the ruins of civilization now. I can outmaneuver these dolts by slipping in and out of the alleyways!" Dimitri muttered to himself. He quickly turned left, into an alleyway.
Meanwhile, the Enforcers were getting tired. "Captain, I can't run anymore! My leg hurts!"
"Get over it, you slob, we can catch this Russian SPORE anytime we need too! He went this way, into the alley! We keep moving this way, and we'll come to a crosswalk. Then, we'll see him. And then we beat the living SPORE out of him. And then he dies."
"The dying's my favorite part to watch!"
"Shut up! Move!"
The Enforcers run and stumble past the alleyway. But Dimitri knew when to stop running. He was hiding in the alley the entire time. Deciding to rid the earth of a few more despicable people, he said a quick prayer, then rolled out of the alleyway. Getting into a crouching position, he fired off two shots from his .22 rifle, both at the back of the Enforcers. They tumbled over, and lay still.

"Well, that was eventful," Dimitri said. He began running again.

CrimsonHunter89 wrote:Kyle had seen his share of psychotic maniacs, but these guys were just stupid. Those shotguns were nothing compared to his rifle and he held up his hands in a friendly gesture. "Hey, now. I don't want any trouble, okay? I'm just trying to find some other people." He lied as he quickly pulled his gun off of his shoulder. "Now, fellas. I don't want to kill you. In fact, I would've helped you if you hadn't shot at me. I'm not all that mad at the idea of being shot at, but I just can't stand your faces and the whole shooting at me thing just iced the cake. So please, make it easier on yourselves and put down your guns. I promise I'll make your deaths quick and painless." And with that, he turned around and ran while occasionally turning around and running backwards to fire off a shot or two. None of them hit, though. "D@mn. I can't shoot while running. I need to do this strategically.. Oh, yeah. I got it..." And he ran down an alleyway towards a few houses.

"Would you listen to this kid? Huh, funny little bugger isn't he?" the shorter of the two said jokingly to the original speaker. The taller simply nodded in response. He pulled out a large revolver, it looked like it might have used the .44 Magnum.

"Shall we go kill the little rat?" he questioned the other calmly, as though speaking of no more than the weather. The shorter one replied ecstatically,

"Yeah! that was an awful nice rifle! I want one of my own!" They trotted carefully towards where they had seen the boy disappear to, only to eager to track him down.

"God those guys are persistent..!" Kyle panted as he began to slow down slightly. He was only a little bit slower now, but it could still be a problem. Gotta keep running.. he thought as he threw the gun back over his back. He could hear it rattling slightly as he ran and he jumped inside of a house that was quite large. He took the moment to breathe in before looking around the house for anything useful. Nothing. "Dang it..." He hissed angrily as he began running into the rooms. He was looking for access to the houses crawl space. If it had one, that is. "Come on.... Where is it...?"