Since there's suddenly so much interest, would you all like for me to post the CS skeleton now? That way you all have something to work on while I create the OOC?
What with the compelling manner in which the original post was worded, I'm sure they'll come flocking in droves once they spot it. (I'm being sincere; that was a thoroughly entertaining read.)
Well thanks, Cleric! I'm glad it came off as entertaining.
Also, I go to sleep and wake up to find more interest than I expected... how did you know? Are you magic?
I'll have to say I'm also pretty interested, and my friend Ink might also be as well. He ain't sure yet. How much of the population has survived the apocalypse? 2%? 1%? How much progress has been made on The Towers to turn it into a liveable place? Do we have power and shit? Decent living quarters?
Oh, and nice to meet you two. I'm thinking of making a gentle guy in his mid twenties who used to be a preschool teacher. AVERAGE.
A mild-mannered middle-aged preschool teacher? My, that's so average! I feel understood!
Glad to see you're interested, and recruiting friends! To answer your questions: 1) Roughly 1% of the population survived - definitely for the region we'll be playing in, leaving it at about 120 000 surviving humans from the city alone; 2) The Towers have been running for three months, so I'd say enough progress to make them worth living in. Because mostly everyone died spontaneously, the majority of the condo's units weren't too unlivable. Just had to toss the bodies outside. Add the rooftop garden(s), rainwater-collecting systems and campfire sing-along nights, and I think they're doing okay. I didn't want to have them too established before the RP; I kind of wanted all of us to build the rest; 3) No power yet. Generators are something we'll aim for, but as of now, people have to actually take the stairs. It's good for them calves, though.
<Snipped quote by clericbeast>
You forgot "katana-wielding teenage badasses".
But yeah, could be nice. Haven't seen a survival horror worth my spit in ages.
"This is my character, her name is Michonne - I mean, Michelle. She has a katana and is really strong and kills really good and is a lone wolf. Oh, and she's thirteen." Yes. Weren't we all when we were thirteen.
Good to see you're interested! Although, please, save your saliva. That's a lot of pressure you're putting on me here to create something worth sharing it.
A post-apocalyptic survival role play that doesn't focus exclusively on gunfights between rugged, grizzled, hardass veterans and their swooning model girlfriends? How controversial.
You play a dangerous game. I'm interested.
What can I say? I'm a rule-breaking rebel like that.
That's one person interested. Now to just (extremely impatiently) await other responses.
“I watched her go… saw the way her plump, ruby lips just stopped forming words – her eyes, how they went white, I saw – saw… oh my God, I just sat there and watched her die… and I couldn’t do a thing about it. Couldn’t do anything… Mama… I’m sorry I couldn’t save you, I…
I walked out into the street after she went. Put a blanket over her, left her next to Dad and John. The street was so quiet. The streetlights didn’t come on no more. It was so dark. There were so many stars. I was so cold, and I just… I just sat there, in the middle of the road beside the red car that finally stopped smoking and the pale corpse of an older man I never saw before. And, to be honest? I cried. Just fucking wept. I didn’t know what else there was to do, I mean, everyone was gone. Just like that, everyone I loved, gone, and I… I didn’t even get what it meant, it didn’t fully sink in for a long time. I couldn’t even wrap my head around the fact that everyone was gone. Everyone.
And suddenly I was alone in the world.”
- unidentified audio recording
~*~
It was late October, 2013. There were traces of the first snowfall coating the brown crispiness of dying grass preparing to wilt away for the wintry long-run. Minor news reports of a resilient superbug originating in Sri Lanka battled for media attention against the Duchess of Edinburgh’s public homosexual announcement and the singer-songwriter conjoined twins that became an instant viral sensation. Conflicts between China and Kazakhstan persisted. The discovery of a mysterious satellite suddenly orbiting Pluto sent the science world into a frenzy, and fast food superpowers McDonalds and KFC officially declared they would be merging.
No one even knew what was coming.
It’s all just second-hand speculation at this point. It supposedly started deep in South America, somehow wormed its way up into the North American stretches, engulfing cities with it as it went. In under a week the southernmost reaches of the United States had succumbed to the viral outbreak that seemed relentless – a hyperactive phantom, moving at alarming rates, unwilling to be tracked or predictable. The virus was first supposedly waterborne only to be theorized as carried by mosquito’s days later until it was settled upon being an airborne virus. No one really knew or could confidently say what it was.
Midway through that November, human contact from Mexico downward was a thing of the past. The lower half of the USA had fared only a fraction better, but it was speculated the death toll was in the high millions. Canada was a bastion of hope for survivors who were spared from the chokehold of the rapidly-spreading virus. Some said the oncoming cold weather halted the spread of the virus as reports of the infection dwindled to very rare cases. Others said the ones who never contracted it were immune. And, still, there were the few that doubted it was ever meant to leave anyone alive.
It is now April, 2014. The snow has almost all melted; and with the heavy amounts of rain, it’s leaving puddles on the freeways and roads where traffic remained has immobile for the past six months. Most buildings haven’t been stepped in since. If there still is any government officials left standing, they had abandoned their power long ago. Whatever law enforcement or army once existed has stopped breathing with the many frozen bodies now beginning to thaw and rot in the streets. There’s no one left to tell us what to do. There’s just us. And there’s still me.
This was once my city, and it will be again. Starting with this,
Me. Us. Our redux.
- Annette Danes, former mayor of Rittenside, current leader of The Towers
~*~
We haven’t seen another case of the virus since… since November, really. There are no telltale signs an individual is infected. There’s no warning cough, no fever or vomiting leading up to it. Hell, the person could appear perfectly healthy and happy like they never even knew they were carrying the infection seconds before their face goes slack, their eyes roll up into their head, their last breath seeps out from their gaping mouth, and they stop. That’s it. They just stop – their lungs stop, their heart stops… they just die.
The first few days there were so many bodies. Every hour, more and more. You never knew who was going to be next – you watched your family and friends die in front of you, praying the entire time you weren’t next until that moment came when you realized you were the last and you couldn’t help but have wished you were the very first to go.
From what I’ve seen, trying to treat it is futile. The infected individual will perish in seconds. We didn’t have time to prepare for it, let alone look for symptoms. Believe me, I’ve tried. Preventing it might still be possible, I just don’t know where to look yet, what to try, you know? We don’t even have working technology or access to basic medical supplies to conduct tests. Hell, we don’t have a recent victim either, but I sure as shit don’t want to wait for that.
We keep telling ourselves it’s been two months since anyone has died from it and we should be thankful for that – optimistic, and appreciative. Maybe it’s gone, you know? Maybe I don’t have to worry so much about trying to, I don’t know, trying to cure this, or something. But maybe it’ll also mutate into a new strain and wipe the rest of us out. Maybe it’s nothing we can even explain with modern science and medicine.
I don’t know. I just don’t know anymore. I’m not even a real doctor.
- Amina Ali, resident medic
~*~
Two more people arrived yesterday. They said they heard the radio message we’ve been broadcasting, so we know that’s finally working. In total we’re up to thirty-two residents. There used to be twelve million people in this city.
Thirty-two in six months. Huh.
Yesterday we finished the rooftop garden at East building and we’re starting on West building tomorrow. One of the people who got here yesterday said he used to live on a farm and could help out with it. Annette should be happy about that. She’s got that whole thing where everyone’s important and can lend a hand. Sure. Okay.
We also got a team starting on the balcony gardens. We’re tearing down the dividers on every floor’s balcony and laying out pots and bins to grow stuff in. We also got this older couple who started a cockroach farm. Can’t say I’m in love with that idea, but protein’s protein. Until we catch those rabbits we’ve seen around here anyway, it’ll do.
Our food stocks are getting lower now that we’ve got a lot more people. We’ve raided the supermarket and convenient stores in the area, but that’s it. No one wants to venture out into the rest of the city and see all them dead people. I don’t blame them. It’s depressing. Someone will have to eventually.
- Richard J. McMurray, head of construction projects
~*~
And now a long, drawn-out message from me!
If you read through those really well-written!!! pieces, you may have gathered that this is a post-apocalyptic RP about losing everything and rebuilding society after a major viral outbreak. No, there are no zombies or vampires or mutant spore-monsters. The virus itself is no longer the main threat, either. My intent for this RP was not to be about constant action, death and gunfights. Will there still be demises and violence? Of course! I’ve planned for multiple things to appear throughout the RP so we don’t end up feeling bored without imminent danger. I’ve got a story arc that would leave our characters vulnerable and in peril that should begin shortly into the RP. But I don’t want it to be solely about “us vs. them”.
Can’t exploring abandoned malls, detailing the memories of strangers left behind, foraging for desperately-needed supplies, building alternative tools and methods for survival and interaction between complete strangers brought together be just as fun?
One of the things I also left ambiguous was the setting itself. With the city (and whole world, really) itself, it’s up to everyone’s imagination. If you want there to be a fire that brings down the downtown core, we can do that. Or maybe you’d like The Towers to start its own farm using animals from a petting zoo just a few blocks over. Or say you decide there’s a military bunker on the outskirts that happens to be hiding an entire army unaffected by the virus. So long as it’s not cringe-worthy bovine manure, then I have no problem with it. There’s going to be things I’ll lay out and hope everyone will follow, but you’re not limited to it. Do your own thing, have fun building this world, and take action. That’s what makes it fun!
And what are The Towers, you ask? The Towers are three self-sustaining eighteen-floor condominiums. More details on what exactly they hold will be added in the OOC, but I will say they contain urban farms, a medical center, town hall, a jail, enough room to house a few hundred people, and more. The Towers will be our “home base,” meaning we don’t have to stick to being just there, but can always return to it.
I’d like for us to focus more on the characters’ acceptance of their new lifestyle and growth in this world as well. Whoever your character may be, they’ve lost people – their children, lover, close friends, etc. Whatever they were doing before, be it working or in school or Netflix binging, that is all gone. They lost their previous sense of purpose. Their home may still belong to them, but it is not home anymore. We’re not going to glaze over that. Your character just spent the past winter barely getting by – most likely by themselves - while contending with the natural depression and grievances of having lost everything.
In terms of who specifically your character is, I’d prefer they were everyday people. That means we shouldn’t have a roster of gun-toting, young ex-military super soldiers or insanely beautiful twenty-something heroines with really obscure names. The survivors are entirely random; they’re elderly grandparents, first-year university students, middle-aged retail workers, etc. Don’t create a cool, invincible, intriguing hero to write for. Think of who your most mundane neighbor is, and make them become interesting throughout this RP.
The OOC will have more information about the Towers, the people, the plans and threats. I can’t info-dump everything on you and expect you to have read through everything, now can I? I’m not Satan.
I’m hoping for roughly four-eight people. So long as you can keep up with them, there’s no character limit (more perspectives to write for!). Activity should be enough that the rest of us know you’re alive and still involved. Otherwise, take time to write.
And that’s all for now. If you have any questions, feel free to ask!
I'm interested as well. Just wondering, going off the talk about a cyborg arm, does the setting take place in the future where that kind of technology is more common?
Also dropping in to say I'm still interested in this. I just fleshed out an awesome idea when I realized I essentially recreated Samara, so... back to the drawing board.
Milieu said
Ahhh. What fun would space be without intergalactic drug cartels and space pirates and space monsters and space monkeys and and and...I'm rambling x3
Assuming you're a space monkey who became the helpless victim in the middle of a firefight between two rival fleets of space pirates over the same load of highly illegal/rare drugs, and you're leaving behind your starving daughter whose other parent was eaten alive by a space monster.... not too much fun.
I hereby nominate myself to be our RP's Debbie Downer.
Genkai said
Oh darn, I thought Palindromatic did. Darn. I did go check. >___>Guys hurry up! *wiggles*
Scratch my name from that list. Let me know if the swearing is too much, by the way.
I like the idea of something mild as an introduction. Or maybe go the complete opposite and just "BAM! Sixty-foot turtle-things carrying robot villages on their backs going to war with a planet-sized sky jellyfish".
When the multicolored woman suggested they leave, Nick stumbled forward in a drunken stupor, nearly body-checking one of the men in front of her. She was thankful that he hadn’t noticed. Not unlike Nick, everyone else had seemed to have eyes only for the vibrant woman and the ship ahead of them. Nick herself had still been double-crossing either side of the war on reality and dreaming; she couldn’t decide if she accepted what was happening as real or not. There were a few times in the past she lapsed into a lucid dream, and this entire episode of discovering a supposed alien had felt no different than the one time she had a lucid dream involving the entire movie cast of Les Miserables.
There was a different sort of emphasis on the “les” part that time.
Before the world below them had vanished entirely, Nick had looked back at the people still watching. Up until her last few moments of consciousness, she remembered wondering if this would end up on the news. Ma would be one of the first to know; she would probably call Nick, telling her all about it and not letting Nick hang-up or getting a single syllable in. Would this be the moment in history when humans became fully aware of an alien presence, or would it be yet another viral Youtube video?
‘Maybe no one will ever know.’
That was Nick’s last thought as she collapsed into what she assumed was a seat.
~*~
Whether it was turbulence, poor posture or something else, Nick awoke when the abrupt jolt of falling gave her a heart attack. Bleary-eyed and panicked, she sat up straight. Nothing made sense in that moment; nothing could be comprehended – it was all just useless data being uploaded to her mind that found no importance to her. For that microsecond of fleeting fear, there were no thoughts in her head or general curiosities. It was just uncertain terror.
And then she saw Qyx.
Ma once told Nick about her father. He was a good man who died young. Ma liked to remind Nick that she shared many qualities with him – the untimely and insensitive humor being one of them. The other trait Nick inherited from her dad was the ability to sleep off drunkenness in a power nap and not feel any pang or tinge of a hangover. So when Nick came to, the clouds that blanketed her brain filtered out through her ears and the cogs in each lobe began to run normally once more.
And when she saw Qyx, it hit Nick like a bullet.
“Oh, Jesus…” Nick whispered to herself. Her heart skipped a few beats and her eyes went wide. That dawning realization as to what she had gotten herself into nearly made her pass out. Both of her knees felt unglued from all of the rattling, and her hand couldn’t help but cup her mouth that insisted on hanging open in shock. Icy roots had snaked along her body, slipped into her nervous system and froze every bit of her, fastening her to the chair. “Oh, sweet fuckity Jesus,” was the only other thing she could manage to force out in a flimsy gasp.
A man had just finished bowing his head towards Qyx, spouting out some formal words of gratitude. He was holding a plant – nope, he was holding a marijuana plant, and Nick was wild enough to know it but dumb enough to not know what to do with it.
Yep, the man was holding drugs.
He was speaking too properly for anyone normal.
They were all looking at the pretty, orange lady.
She was “the hero”.
They were told they were going to outer space.
‘Ho, shit… is this some cult?! Oh, damn… Oh Christ, Nick… you goofed hard this time,’ Nick thought as she glanced wildly around the room. She continuously shook her head slightly, the disbelief amounting to something unbearable. Was it normal to feel so hot?
The many times she watched those detective shows dealing with psychotic criminals taught her one thing: don’t draw suspicion. So when there was a slight lull in the conversation and she felt the pressure riding heavy on her shoulders, she spoke and hoped the waver in her voice went undetected.
“Indeed – uh, thanks, hero. Shit’s – um, this, ‘scuse, is a grand opportunity I am… pleased to partake in. My condolences,” she announced. Within the confines of her overactive mind, she wondered if “condolences” was the right word to use, and immediately she knew her cover was blown. “I’m Ni –” ’Don’t give them your real name! “– chelle… Pratt.”
At least her obituary would be an interesting one.
Festive