jumpscares | ( OPEN ) GAME START.

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( OPEN ) GAME START.

▶ WHO: Everyone.
▶ DATE: July 9th, 2015 (Day 1)
▶ WARNINGS: Blood, violence, general zombie horror.
▶ SUMMARY: You've met with a bad... however that line goes. Welcome to Earth.

GOOD MORNING!

Please try and ignore whatever it is that you just heard. It should only last for up to a minute... maybe.

It... it is morning, right?

There are no windows.

There's a light, but it's barely considered one. The compound runs on a solar generator, but that doesn't mean it has a lot of power. The light seems to be hanging from the ceiling, swinging precariously. That's when you might actually start to wake up, sit up, find the things that are familiar to you... and then some of the things that aren't. It'd be wise to explore the small room you're in before leaving through the steel door, but there's nobody around to tell you that.

Outside is a tightly knit compound, just as dark and metallic as the room. The hallway you're in houses dozens more doors identical to yours, and if you're unlucky there may be more people poking their heads out through them, just like you. There's a dull glowing sign that reads MEDICAL BAY but not all of you remember being hurt. Some of you may be just fine, apart from the memory of the sound you heard when waking up.

The Medical Bay is stocked with enough medicine to last a couple of months. There's almost everything that can be found in a hospital. Somebody was thinking ahead.

Outside of the Medical Bay are more doors, some are even locked—many aren't. There are living quarters, a food storage, a kitchen, some laboratories; even a room full of computers and nothing else, all with a screen asking for a password. There's only two doors out of the compound, a vehicle bay with what appear to be a few military jeeps and trucks, and the front doors. It's on the inside of the front doors that something is painted in bright red, flecked with what smell like blood:

DO NOT GO OUTSIDE WITHOUT A GUN AND WATER.
GUNSHOTS ATTRACT THEM.
HOLLOWS IS 1.3 MILES NORTH OF HERE.
GOOD LUCK.

And on the outside of the doors, if you choose to open them:

THE WORLD ENDED JULY 3RD, 2015.

Now... how long ago was that? And where is this place? Luckily for you, Hollows is a small town that can be raided. It hasn't been too long since the apocalypse—surely you'll be able to find something there. Batteries, food, weapons, maybe some people—and what you're guaranteed to find. Them, whatever that means.

Outside of the compound there's a fence with a single gate. Nothing can get past this unless you let them in for tea, so be careful. There's a shooting range and a large shed full of weapons and ammo, enough to last two months if you're careful. Guns, knives, anything that would be used by the military and police is hidden away in the shed. There are even a few hunting bows with arrows.

If you climb up the ladder to the top of the wall, there's enough room to walk along the top. There's definitely something moving in the distance, something you should definitely be worrying about. Maybe it's time to get a good look with a sniper rifle...?

Oh.

It's gone.

Maybe it was just a trick of the light. Regardless, it's impossible for everyone to stay in the compound forever. There are nefarious things at work! The choices are to go to Hollows, stick around, or go somewhere else. Really, the world is almost a blank slate. Maybe more of a used slate, but still yours to explore.

When the night comes, you should be hiding. The screamers, the ragers, whatever the hell they are, are running full tilt through the streets and across the landscape, running through anything in their way, ripping apart anything alive. If you don't make any noise, they won't notice you. Especially since they're stuck listening to each other. But if you get noticed by one, it won't be long until a horde forms... you might be able to outrun one for awhile, but they don't seem to let up on their breakneck pace. Maybe someone should have told you how to kill them.

OOC NOTES.

There will be zombies in Hollows. Whether you meet them on the way there is up to you. Apart from the undead and the animals (maybe somebody should let those poor creatures out of their houses) the town is completely deserted. In fact, the closest thing you can find to a human are the bodies of those who died without being bitten, and there's even few of those. You can find anything you'd find in a normal town here, and are free to loot and raid the houses and stores—the cops won't be coming, after all. The power is OFF apart from what you can find that is solar powered or still has a charge. If you're lucky and find another town while exploring the first few weeks, you might find an area that still has power—thank hydroelectricity.

Just keep in mind travel time... and travel expenses.

You have creative freedom over everything else. The world is open. The only stationary places are landmarks and cities—if you want to go to Texas and talk to the poor astronauts stranded up in space, it's there. (Might be a long trip, though...)

If your character can figure it out by geography before getting to Hollows, the compound is located a few hours from the west coast, in California.

The way to kill a zombie is blunt force to the head. The head doesn't need to be removed, but significant damage needs to be done to it. This does not include the throat—it needs to be a headshot.

There's also a glaring hint. The computers in the compound, asking for a password. It is impossible to hack at this time. There will be more on this later!

Finally, if your character is exploring outside of the compound (or extensively inside of it) there's a comment here for linking me the thread. You can also PM me! I'll be ducking in with what your character may or may not have found, via a response to the actual RP thread.

IF YOU HAVE ANY QUESTIONS please direct them here!

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"Steve, I--"

Her fingers grip at nothing. She holds empty air and feels her own sorrow swell. At least, under the guise of this pain, she can find the means by which she might express her own. Peggy's expression grows dark and stormy. She doesn't have to think hard to remember that blown-out building -- Steve, with his bottle of ineffectual booze. It wasn't your fault.

Everything is unravelling well beyond her control. Gone are any thoughts of this bizarre building, because she's too mired up in worry to think clearly about the situation in which they've found themselves. All she can see through her tunnel-vision is how he hurts.

"I don't know how it's happened. Both of us here, stripped from such different moments. But -- your friend's service was a credit. Beyond commendable. I would not tarnish it by telling lies. Not now. Not like this."

She won't spill the details on how it had happened unless he asked, Peggy decided. She'd been cruel enough already.

"I saw him."

But he believes her. She wouldn't lie to him. Not about something like this. No one with a heart would lie about something like this.

He's having trouble breathing. For a moment he thinks it's the start of an asthma attack, though he hasn't had so much as a wheeze in months. The world feels gray and impossible. It can't exist without Bucky. Maybe it did, once, but it can't any more.

Where they are, when they're from, and how they got here - none of those questions are significant any more. The world has stopped spinning, and he's waiting to fly off.

She witnesses her mistake march its muddy boots across his face. Out of a selfish effort to spare her own heart, she's ripped his in two. And as such, she felt the failing quite miserably. Every emotion he bared is one she knew altogether too well since she'd lost him, and it's mere instinct to rush forward and settle both of her hands firmly on his shoulders. She can feel the rough cloth of the dress greens beneath her palms.

Peggy ducks her head. She must be brave enough to look him in the eye -- because she caused this pain by telling him. She wonders whether she should have lied. Or else told the whole damn truth -- it isn't as though Barnes's death would be any less real had she expressed her true point in time.

"I know you did. I know it seems impossible. But it happened--" Will happen, in his case. "We can't go back and change the choices our friends make, as much as we wish we could. As much as we want to protect them from anything--"

Her breath catches. Her eyes are wet. Perhaps she grieves the sergeant -- but more likely she grieves for both men and their damned dignified choices.

He hears the shield hit the ground with a quiet chime, and looks down to realize he dropped it.

He wanted this. He wanted this. To join up, to go overseas, to help. In spite of a hundred service flags in his neighbors' windows, the gold stars marching down every street. Even knowing the sound of weeping families in his bones. Because it wasn't supposed to be Bucky. An idiot thought: It wasn't supposed to be Bucky.

One arm goes around Peggy's waist. His forehead rests against her shoulder. He needs the reminder that someone else is nearby. He can't fall apart until he finds somewhere private.

Pull it together. Pull...

The first sound isn't a sob. He feels his chest shudder with terrible rhythm before he starts to cry.

The clatter of the shield makes her twitch. She can't break. Won't break. Peggy has had beyond a year to purge the worst of it, and rebounding now wouldn't help either of them. At first, her spine stiffens -- as though she isn't certain about being held and holding him in turn. Considering her own affections towards the Captain, she can't deny it's a chance she'd sorely wanted for some time. But the circumstances are all wrong. No joy can be taken from this moment. So instead, she bends her efforts towards supporting him. Her iron-stiff composure falters, and Peggy places a soft hand against the back of his neck. She curls her fingers over the starched collar of his uniform.

Paradoxical, really. How she'd barely been able to touch him the last time she'd shared this grief with him. Standing amidst the ashes, she'd felt like an interloper in his hurt. But this is different. She is different.

Peggy knows it's not a time for words. So she rests her cheek against the side of his head and doesn't impede his tears. Suppresses her own.

The tears don't last. He swallows them down, Swallows them down. Squeezes his grief until his throat feels like it's a solid knot and his eyes burn. He straightens, but there's no room to back away from her.

He tries to wipe his eyes on his tie - useless - and wriggles his shirt cuff up enough to use that instead.

Steve clears his throat. "When?"

He bends to retrieve the shield, settling it back on his arm. Captain America. Be Captain America. He clears his throat again. "When did it happen, I mean?"

How much time does he have to get ready? How much time to stop it?

-- She watches it all. Freshly isolated, Peggy watches him slip back into Captain America as she slips easily back into being the spy. To be a friend and a woman and a confidant...these are roles she'll find again when he needs them of her. For now, she is once more an intelligence officer. Called upon to report to him with a very distinctive and singular butcher's bill.

Her eyes flicker to the ceiling as she summons the dates to mind. It's been awhile. Longer, certainly, than she allows him to believe. "1945," is her eventual answer. "January--"

She understands why he asks. She can see it in his every line when she watches him again: he believes he can change it all, and in many a fashion she wants to believe him. Why shouldn't she believe him? If Barnes can be saved, then maybe...

"Steve--"

"There's still a chance, then."

Somehow. Even though she's already lived through it. There has to still be a chance.

He runs his fingers along the edge of his shield, back and forth, trying to sort out his thoughts. Trying to keep shock and grief at bay with the hope of possibility. "If we can figure out how we got here - why we're from different..."

It's hard to even say it, it's so ridiculous. "If we can figure it out, we can change things."

Isn't this precisely why she admires him? Precisely why -- she dares to think -- she loves him? Peggy's whole countenance softened to see the fire burgeoning in him. Captain America: the man who defies surrender. Stubbornness and a refusal to be bested by circumstance. She'd learned from him how to refine those qualities in herself. Even now, she can see the difference between denial and dedication.

And perhaps she sees what she wants to see when she glimpses the opportunity to change other things. Her heart skips a beat to hear what he proposes. Against all best reason and practicality, she nods.

"Things can be done over. Fixed."

Is it him she wants to appease, or herself? A chance to put it all to rights might make her feel a little better about how much she'd mucked it all up. She could recant that tragic farewell over the radio. She could take him dancing. But not now -- not yet. Not with death clinging to walls of this place, and destiny to conquer.

A small anxiety unwinds with her agreement. If she thinks it's possible, then it has to be possible. He's never met anyone with her practicality before.

Which feels like a slight to Bucky, one that hits him with sudden wave of guilt, but he tamps it down before grief can derail is focus.

"We need to find a way to stay in touch if we get separated."

Not that he's in any hurry to leave her, but the point stands.

"--A radio," she says. Spoke the word long before the thought went to seed. How cruel to be connected to him by radio waves once again. Peggy doesn't like the prospect all that much, but the pragmatism is obvious. They cannot solve this problem attached at the hip. She was never that sort of person -- cowering against the arm of a colleague. After the heartache fades from acute to background pain, she knows she'll want to claim her natural independence.

Her shoulders slump. Something about this whole situation has made her feel defeated. Nothing like the grand reunion of her dreams. "A pair of them, ideally. I saw a motor pool on the other side of the property. We might get...lucky."

Luck (the good kind) has so little to do with this day.

"Lucky?" Amusement sneaks in. He ducks his head so she won't think he's laughing at her. It's just so odd to hear her use that word. "That's a good idea, though."

And, because maybe he can get away with it right now, he offers his hand.

Unbeknownst to the Captain, he could 'get away' with such a gesture any time he liked. As distant and frigid a creature she could be, Peggy had been provided with a whole year to re-romanticize the sparing brief touches of a relationship that had never truly started. It had never been given the chance: shot down inchoate.

Although she doesn't tremble in her extremities, there is a minor palsy deep in her chest. An agonizing flutter -- chained down by guilt, and the thinnest threads of doubt. What if (contrary to all she sees) none of this is real? What if she's dreaming? Well! In that case, she'd better take what she can. Her fingers tuck between his. Possession and love and intimacy are miles away from her mind. All she craves now is the small pieces of affection absent until this moment. Holding his hand seals no deal and signs no contract -- but it allows them to express at least a sliver of their due regard for one another.

"--I can show you the way," she offered. Her voice was stiffer than the rest of her demeanour. Peggy still hasn't worked out how to present herself within his sight. She can't be the liaison officer any longer -- but she can't be the abandoned lover, either.

He falls in behind and beside her, drawing on the fact that she's there, her presence, her solidity, the absolute reality of her, to help settle the chaos stirred up by their circumstances and her news.

This place is eerie. Everything about it makes him think of HYDRA, or some new nightmare from Schmidt. The quiet buzz of the medical bay sign, the words on the front doors as they pass. He can't shake the feeling that they're just the latest piece of something that's gone awfully, awfully wrong.

He finds himself walking closer to her, both for the sense of someone else close by and to make it easier to protect them both with the shield if needs be.

"At least it's well-supplied."

[ The vehicles all have some form of radio, but without anyone manning the towers they don't exactly do much. There are even walkietalkies, but the channels being dead means none of them work.

There is a single radio with a piece of paper taped to the side. It reads: ROY, FIX ME BEFORE THEY GET HERE. ]

"Bollocks," she huffs. Puffs. Announces her indignation to the small room wherein she and Captain Rogers crowded a narrow table filled with busted handsets. Once again, Peggy lifts one off the table and cranks her fingers 'round the little dial that should have given them something: static or screeching radio noise. With frustration, she tears the note from the radio's front.

"What a bloody lot of help you've been, Roy. Whoever you are. Were." Tantrum over, she nevertheless grabbed a second radio from the table. And then, to explain herself: "We might yet find someone capable of fixing them."

It probably shouldn't be fun to see her like this. But he's so used to the absolutely calm, completely-put-together Agent Peggy Carter that it is.

As a result, he's watching her far more than he's inspecting the room, at least until she finds the note.

"Maybe we should hang on to that, too. You never know what could turn out useful."

"If I'm not careful I'll wind up carrying the whole damned building on my shoulders--" Suggesting, perhaps, that she feels a tremendous urge to 'pick up' whatever might turn out useful. Without an SSR closet-of-gadgets to help her or a trunk of Howling Commandos goodies, she senses herself a little bereft.

"Steve," she huffs, "who else have you met?"

"I'll help."

Steve is at his most innocent, blue eyes wide and sincere. He folds up the note and tucks it in his pocket before looking outside at the vehicles again.

"A woman named Barbara, a guy named Clint who seemed to know me and maybe Howard, a kid named Thomas and a... person named Lambda. No one we know. Or that I know, anyway. You?"

Edited (icon no i'm sorry i'm a mess lmfdfdk) 2015-07-14 18:46 (UTC)

-- She tries cross-referencing his list with her own. And comes up short, aside from perhaps Clint. Her lower lip juts a moment. Peggy almost pouts. But then the status-quo reasserts herself and she progresses through her list while yet allowing her eyes to wander.

"A man in a metal suit -- he didn't give me his name." Puffed cheeks. A sigh. "A woman named Claire Dearing. Another named Mary who I'm certain comes from a landed and titled family. Soldiers, too. There seem to be a great many soldiers."

For the first hour, it had been impossible to look at anything besides him. Now, her gaze grows cagier by the moment. There are the tactical advantages and disadvantages of the compound to consider. Work to be done.

"I wonder if they're bringing soldiers for a reason."

An unsettling thought. But it makes sense. His focus shifts with hers, taking in the layout, the rooms they pass, the supplies he sees.

"There's going to need to be some kind of supply regulation. We need to find resources if we're going to be here a while."

They always bring in soldiers for a reason.

But she keeps the thought to herself. It's a painful one -- one which she's reminded of whenever she looks at him and measures the breadth of his shoulders with her gaze. Captain America possesses a virtue inherent to his very spirit, but the raw physical strength had been something created. Manufactured. Because there's always a reason for soldiers. Double the reason for super-soldiers.

"Some won't like it," she warns -- even as she agrees with Steve's diagnosis. "Throw a great many strangers into a bucket of a building, and there will always be some who cry foul at the first whiff of regulation."

"No one's starving, and as long as things are kept stocked and everyone contributes, we can make sure no one does." The corners of his lips twitch in a frown, and he takes a deep breath before he adds, "If they don't like it, I'm sure they can find their own supplies and keep them."

He knows there will be people who cry foul, and he understands why. But he's not sympathetic. Even if he doesn't like the idea of a fight over something as basic as food. He puts on a smile for Peggy, though his eyes clearly read as tired. "Hopefully we'll have more agreement than dissent."

"Hopefully."

She echoes. Agrees. In this regard, she is fully entrenched in his camp: prepared to well-weigh his plans, if not prepared to assuredly follow every order. It isn't that Peggy begrudges Captain America his authority, but that orders had never been an issue between the pair of them. His nation's cause did not perfectly become her own until after his death. During his life, she'd been a liaison. Neither subordinate nor superseding. And in his last moments, he'd implored her (of a fashion) to respect his choice.

No. Peggy dares to see herself as a peer to Steve Rogers -- and would never diminish the trust between them by forcing hierarchy where there is none.

"A bit of conversational elbow grease and a lot of patience might do the trick. Wouldn't want anyone to get the wrong idea--"

To think it was a power grab of some ilk, and not a genuine humanitarian effort.

His frown isn't for her. The idea that anyone could get the wrong idea about the control and regulation of necessities is borderline ludicrous. He knows there are complaints - everyone complains - but...

But there are people here from 2015. There are people here from well after the war. Long, long after the presumed end of rationing.

He shakes his head. "Hopefully we've got people who understand the value of thriftiness. I would think the soldiers will, at least--" A pause. "--thought that might not help people feel better about who's in charge."

One way or another, this will be a trick. He flashes her a far more genuine smile. "Ready for elbow grease and patience?"

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( OPEN ) GAME START.

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picks at random like a boss??

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