Meltdown

Let us start a new role play. However, I would like it to be a little different. I think it would be interesting to, through our effort as players, create something like a collaborative short story. What do I mean by that? Well. No stupid *stands on his hands* kind of writing, with the asterisks symbolizing what you do. I want the players to type in prose, third person. I want every player to write focusing on their character, or scenery, or something. I want ultimately to create a piece of writing that is readable, and actually entertaining.

Is anyone up for that?

Sure, why not?


Trevor is surrounded by zombies. He is a small, unassuming sixteen year old boy. He is carrying a metal pipe that has been wrapped in leather on the end which he is gripping. It is quite heavy. Trevor isn't very imposing, he's about 5 foot nine, & wears a black Thundercats shirt underneath a green button up shirt. His blue jeans are loose fitting & have collected quite a few holes in them throughout this mess. His Converse Hi-top are slick with blood. He finds this fact oddly satisfying & comforting. He has very shaggy hair, almost reaching his shoulders. Before the zombies broke out he had been contemplating having it cut. Now he figures it doesn't matter. He swings the pipe incredibly hard, crashing it into a zombie's skull. The decayed bone gives way easily, & the force of the blow sends a gash through the beast's brain, rendering it useless. He extracts the pipe, bringing it down horizontally upon his next challenger. It's skull gives way just as easily. He surveys the surrounding area. There are eight more zombies around, he does not know if he will be able to kill them all. He really doesn't care either. "This would be a good death..." He whispers. And with that, our young, unassuming teenage boy charges the eight undead, glorious death on his mind.

A thunderous and savage roar of a human voice rips apart the noises of the boy's struggle, as a rather imposing figure of a man runs out from a nearby street, nearly unrecognizable in the dim moonlight.
The man immediately lifts up his hand.
Trevor involuntarily closes his eyes, as the object held by the man explodes in a quick flash of blinding light, with a sound that could contest for sheer, overwhelming volume with a brass orchestra armed in fifty baritone tubas. When the boy opens his eyelids after that half of a second of pure black powder music, he looks back onto the eight flesh eating, walking corpses in front of him.
A red flower blooms.
One of the zombies stumbles and falls like a bag of rocks, lacking the top half of his decaying skull on his way down. His neighbor gets knocked to the ground by an invisible fist, losing his balance like a severely drunk old man with one leg, and collapses like a tower designed by a very poorly skilled architect.

watching as the boy named Trevor ran towards the horde of zombies, Taylor pulled back the left side of his tattered poncho, revealing a construction workers belt with more then enough pockets. Reaching for a pipe bomb with one hand and a lighter with his other, looking for an opportune place to throw the make shift grenade. Spotting a large number of zombies shambling down a set of stairs from an old deli across the street, Taylor lights the bomb and hurls it with closed eyes. Striking a pillar, it explodes instantly. Bringing down the stores roof on top of the crowd of undead and throwing debris in all directions. Climbing back on to his feet, Taylor scrambles to the remains of the store, climbing up the rubble to get a vantage point on the chaos below.

The figure of a man is lightened by fire raging in the building, revealing a goatee decorated face, and a rather unimpressive outfit consisting of ragged black shorts and a T-shirt.
Black powder smoke envelops him. An 18th century flintlock pistol in his hand gives off a trail of fog from the barrel. Without any words escaping his mouth, he stands there, his hands committing the ritual of loading the ancient firearm.
He finally looks up at the two characters who were involved with him in this vicious fight for human survival, waiting for their reaction.

Trevor squinted carefully at the man. He was rather large, & he had a lovely looking gun. He couldn't tell who had saved his life, be it the man, or the strange boy with the satchel full of high powered explosives, either way Trevor was altogether relieved & disappointed. Odin would have to wait for this son. He nodded his head towards the large man, & said "Thank you...I think. You seem to have a peculiar set of skills. Are you a Necromancer?" The man continued looking on, & appeared to be smirking. It was at this point the other young lad, Taylor, fell down the rubble & sprawled before Trevor & the odd man. He arose to his feet, brushing his tattered clothing off. He looked between the other two quickly & said "What, I meant to do that."

"Necromancer? No."
Said the man with a grin on his face and an Eastern European accent. A flash of the nearby fire revealed him to be rather young, in his twenties, maybe.
"I am quite the opposite. An Inquisitor. Well, a squire, really. Just finished basic training, right before all this shit happened."
Added the man, holstering his firearm in a shoulder bag made of average linen, the golden crucifix worn by him reflecting the flames.
"Rather weird way to meet, don't you think? Name's Jakub."
He stated, after a pause. A rather out of place looking cavalry saber was sheathed on his hip, easily noticeable from that close.

"An Inquisitor," Trevor asked, "Here? How odd." Trevor is lost in thought at this point. If the inquisitors have made their way into his sector, then the defenses have failed. The guards would never allow Catholics into this area. Absent-mindedly, Trevor runs his fingers over the Mjolnir around his neck. He finds this all to be quite upsetting. Trevor turned to Jakub and said, "What is an Inquisitor doing in the Midgard Sector? I thought you generally stuck to the Halls of the Messiah."

"You confuse us with the Christians.", replied Jakub "The Inquisitor Grand Hall is in the New Vatican sector. As far as I know, Halls of the Messiah was the first place that got attacked. All the guards, from every sector were sent there to contain it. Your Heimdalls might have been sent too."
He paused, and after a moment said with a smile on his face: "I knew that giving the Satanists their own little ghetto was a bad fucking idea."
"And who are you?" he added, looking at the young explosive specialist standing next to them.

Wiping dust out of his face, Taylor looked at the European man and give a slight smile.
"No one particular really. The names Taylor, if you're really that interested. To be honest, what you're talking about..these, cults and religions. Necromancy and..god forbid, Inquisitors. Frightens me." Taylor said, brushing off his pants. "Not saying that you're bad sort but.." Taylor paused, staring through the European man. Reflecting on times past, he forced himself back in to consciousness.
"Nevermind." He finished. Looking up he spotted the boy with the pipe. "And you, stop fingering that damn hammer. You look like a fool."

"Excuse me?" Trevor raises his pipe & turns to Taylor very slowly, & replies "I believe I will do what I will with my property. And should you attempt to stop me, I believe I shall beat you to death & light you on fire." Presently, Trevor turns back to the European man. "Have any Sectors been able to actually stand their ground?"

"Considering that most of the guard force was involved in containing the initial attack from within the Halls of Messiah, and seeing that right now we're being chased by the dead, I'd say that the containment failed, and whatever the fuck the Satanists summoned has spread everywhere. Think about it. Most of the guard force from the entire city was involved in that. Without them, I wouldn't count on any of the sectors holding their ground. Single buildings, maybe." the man replied, letting out a tired sigh. "One thing I know for a fact... The New Vatican doesn't look any better than this place. Still, I can't believe how could anything go through the defenses of the Grand Hall. The Grandmasters, the Bishops.. Maybe someone is still alive."
He kept standing, resting his left hand on the pommel of his saber. "What about you?" He asked Trevor, "Do you know anything?"

I've been traversing the interminable green of the midwest and the bleak atrocities that are Utah and central Nevada from Minnesota back to California for the past week and just got back. Sorry, I would have joined earlier, sans G36, even!

Eyes glare out from behind nearby rubble. Ears overhear the conversation of three men the eyes don't recognize. The remnants of the labors of one remain motionless on the ground, in pools of their own rotting blood. The owner of the eyes and ears waits still, as he had in the minutes since the arrival of the three others. Alas, the figure emerges from behind the rubble, possessing the profile of a young man. Swiftly and with little noise, he produces a cylinder from his waist, and with a click a blinding beam of white light spikes from the cylinder's hear. The three others are blinded, and recover to find the figure has made his way to them, drawing a pistol before his arrival. The largest, and oldest, of the three attempts to swipe the pistol from the young man's hand with his own to no avail, only to quickly sweep his leg into the young man's, collapsing it under him. The other two rushed to restrain the young man, but found themselves staring into the cold metal front of the young man's gun. The beam of light, no longer as blinding as it had been before, was switched off and the rustling of movement could be heard. The beam of light emerged again alongside the pistol in the hand of the young man beside the three others, again impairing their vision. The mouth spoke, a deep, resonant voice that seemed to belong not to young man from which it came, "Hold it, all three of you. I mean you no harm, I was just worried you did to me, and now I'm pretty sur ethat's not the case. I'm a survivor, just like you. I've got a gun, a knife, plenty of ammo and some food. Please, let me join you, I'm tired of scouring this hell alone." The effects of the light on the three others wore off and the warm light of the destructive fires in the background revealed the young man's appearance: He occupied a relatively small 5'7" frame, was thin and fit, with lanky arms and legs that had definite muscle tone. He wore grey cargo shorts carrying a few magazines of ammunition, with a weathered leather black belt with a few more magazines tucked between it and the waist of his shorts, alongside a small knife in a holster. A tan and brown Fox jacket covered most of what had formerly been a bright green Ireland shirt, but now had faded to a mix of its original coloring and olive drab, although the Irish flag stood out as though it had been cleaned whenever possible. The face above the shirt, to which the eyes, ears and mouth belonged, was sunken and somewhat narrow. The eyes glared at the three others fiercely, but longingly, wishing for their acceptance of him in their imptomptu party.

Trevor rubs his eyes. The boy's Lightspiker hurt immensely. He is incredibly irritated, & wishes to beat the boy to death quickly & begone, but he knows he can't. Now is not the time for battle. He speaks calmly, & quietly, & is surprised that it hurts to speak, as if he had drank mead long into the previous night. He says simply, "Lower your gun or I will beat you to death, if you come seeking kinship, you'll need better methods than that."

Still laying down on the ground from the agile leg sweep, Jakub reached into his bag, quickly grabbing his ancient flintlock pistol.
"I must agree with the viking. Lower your gun, unless you are desperate for a head transplant." He said, surprisingly calm, the barrel of his hand cannon lined up with the head of the stranger.

Deep thought possessed the young man's face, but eventually gave way to consent. He lowered his gun and his flashlight out of the eyes of the three others, holstering the gun in the waistband of his shorts. He turned slightly, and a small backpack that matched his jacket in color appeared. He removed it, and opened one of the larger pockets within. The three others tensed up, waiting to see what he would remove from the pack. The largest one kept the aim of his pistol, what appeared to an old flintlock pistol. The young man had seen such weapons before, but only in museums, before the outbreak. The middle one tensed up his right arm, showing his weapon to the young man. The smallest of the three, though by no means a small person in general, stayed quiet and put his hand into a pocket of his own brown leather construction belt. The young man's hand withdrew from the pack, and flicked what it had grabbed in the direction of the three. "Here's some food," he said, "consider it my apology. I know I shouldn't have snuck up you like that. I'm sorry." He replaced the pack in its original position and stood up, scanning the area with his flashlight. "My name's Timothy Scott Plummer, not that the Scott Plummer has much meaning anymore, but it helps me remember who I am, kind off like this shirt." He pointed to the Irish flag on his shirt. "You can just call me Tim."

Here is a little info about the setting, BTW. Trevor came up with a city that is divided into different sectors, each holding citizens of a different religion, so there's the New Vatican for Catholics, Midgard for the Norse, Halls of the Messiah for the Christians (which isn't really a part of the city, but more of a really huge building, therefore a sector in itself). And yeah, we are mixing the old with the new, magic with technology, etc, etc.

"Irish, huh? Where in the New Vatican do you live? I don't remember ever seeing you in the Inquisitor Grand Hall. Are you a priest? One of the Crusaders?" - said the European man upon noticing the Irish T-shirt of the newcomer. He stood up, keeping his flintlock at the ready, but noticeably easing down. The food given to him by the Irishman disappeared in his bright, linen bag.

Trevor couldn't help but chuckle bit as he said, "I don't think he's from the Vatican, Jakub. I can't help but notice your lower cheekbones. Your features seem to be rougher than the Vatican members. You are from the druidic peoples, are you not? I would venture as to say the house of Lugh, but possibly Angeu." He was perplexed by a Celt in Midgard, but couldn't help but feel a bit safer. You needed someone to balance out those insane Catholics, after all. Especially an Inquisitor.

That does sound like a cool setting, but I'd like to remain agnostic.
Bafflement registered on Tims face and quicly turned into resigned puzzlement. "I'm not really an Irishman, it's just part of my heritage. I'm English, Irish, Scottish and Welsh. I'm actually from a ways away, West Haven. It used to be a technological marvel before the power grids went down, made damn near all of the computers in the world. I'm an agnostic myself, don't care much for god but I'm not against him. After everything went to hell, my sister and I tried to get a boat out of the country, since West Haven's close to the sea. We got turned down because our parents were dead and couldn't sign us over to them, the archaic beurocracy prevented our escape. We knew it was hopeless to get out, se we decided to drive and drive as far as we could inland, trying to find the source of the outbreak and figure out what went wrong. We found it, twenty miles to the west of here. Small settlement called Daleford. We tried to find out what made this happen, but my sister died and I fled. So what is this place? Who are you?"

The young Inquisitor sighed from a visible relief. "So you're not a treefucker. Good. Anyone who fucks anything but not their fellow humans cannot be trusted, I tell you."
He looked around for a piece of rubble to sit on. Finding a large block of concrete, he settled, taking the bag off his shoulder and putting it right next to him.
"Well, since you seem to not have any idea where you are, I'll be honored to welcome you. Welcome to Utopia." He said, sarcasm flowing with his words. "The most misnamed city in the entire world. Some goddamn moron thought it would be a good idea to have a place where all the religions live together. At peace." After a short pause he continued, his face absent of any emotion. "At peace. Now that's a funny fucking joke, isn't it? Well, it seemed to work at first, because most of the religions are not as.. invasive as some. We got along. The city was ruled by a committee consisting of two leaders from each religion sector. But then, someone decided to let the Satanists in. Fucking heretics have their own little ghetto here. I don't know the exact details, all I know that this fucking Ragnarok started in the Hall of Messiah, right where all the Christians live, in the very center of the city. It seems like it spread throughout the entire world. This city was an instant apocalypse from the day it was opened. Instant fucking end of the world. Just add some Satanists."

Trevor was puzzled. "Satanists?" He asked. "You mean those Necromancers in the black robes? They started all of this?" He grunted, lost in thought. They seemed friendly enough. Servants of Evil were not to be trusted, surely, but he couldn't imagine them starting this. "If I may interject, I don not believe this to be the work of Lucifer. Satanists boast, surely. But they have little real power, & are cowards. It is my belief that much darker forces are at work." Trevor prayed to Odin he was wrong. For if the followers of Angra Mainyu were truly behind this, Ragnarok may well be ahead of schedule.

"That's some rich history. Sounds like you guys have been having lots of fun out here. Thanks for letting me join your little group. Looks like I'm the only one here with an automatic, seeing as what you've got there is something of an antique," Tim gestured to Jakub's flintlock pistol, then removed his own from its place in his waitband, "this here's my dad's P99. It takes one shot to the head to cease all function in a zombie's body, so even upon reanimaion, the brain is the central nervous center in their bodies and they're no more durable than they were before death. I don't really believe anyone started this, but that's in the eye of the beholder, I'm pretty sure it's just a parasitic infestation transferred from person to person via salivary influx into the bloodstream. Perhaps it's virulent, but how could that bring the dead back to life?" Tim began to feel both a little more and a little less at ease...they seemed nice enough, but why all the religious conspiracy?

Jakub tapped his flintlock couple of times, causing the large round projectile to fall out on the open palm of his hand. "See this?" he asked, lifting the ball to Tim's face, who could see a cross engraved into it, with some small writing under it. "A mix of silver and lead. Fifty/fifty. Blessed by the archbishop. Anything that does not belong to this world is not going to like it. I don't think I'm going to need another shot."
"Not that I have any left, anyway." He added. "So I better save this up for something large."
The young Inquisitor stretched his back, breathed in and continued.
"Viral pandemic, Satanists, Buddhists, Muslims or Jews. For all I care, it could be the damn hot dog vendors that caused it. One thing I know for sure, it all started in the Hall of Messiah. Now if you guys are really curious to find out who was the cause of all, fuck it, let's go. We might as well figure that out. Anything is better than sitting on our asses and doing nothing. Or talking."
He put the bullet back in his flintlock as he finished the last sentence.