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The Plague: Pre & Post-Apocalypse Roleplay

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The Plague: Character Profiles

It's December 27th, 2013.

Yeah, that's right.

2013.

The world hasn't ended.

Well, yet, anyway.

A plague is breaking out.

A disease that cannot be cured by normal means.

But it's small right now.

So small...

But the outbreaks, while small, are numerous.

Most aren't even noticed, but they're there.

In the coming weeks, the disease will turn into a plague, an epidemic.

And fear shall spread.

Panic, turmoil, chaos.

But it hasn't happened yet.

But it will.

In a week's time, the outbreak of this new plague, known only as "The Plague" as they haven't found a proper name for it, will become widespread.

No one knows how.

No one knows why.

But for the citizens of New York City, the Plague will hit them the hardest.

Dense population, compacted streets, a central location of crime and violence, it's almost perfect.

But it is Winter in New York.

And the Plague
thrives in the cold.

And it is the first to be contaminated by the Plague that shall bring down nations across the globe.

Don't be mistaken, this isn't an apocalypse where the dead roam the streets.

They merely pile up for the pyres.

The United States military will quarantine the city, and mass panic will break out from both the infected and the non-infected. Soldiers will be told to fire upon them in the streets, burning the bodies to kill the Plague, adding another enemy, another variable to throw into the chaos.

It's truly a survival situation now. Kill, or be killed. No one can be trusted.

There is no immunity from this Plague, and the uninfected have to do anything in their power to prevent their immune system to be compromised.

But this hasn't happened.

But it will.

In one week's time, the Plague will hit New York City, and it
shall be quarantined. And panic shall raze the streets.

This is the story of of a few survivors banding together to survive both the Military and the Plague, trying to make it out alive through a mysterious philanthropist's attempts to airlift the uninfected out of the city v.i.a. helicopter.

After Day One, they have one week to traverse New York in an attempt for clues and leads to the ex-filtration zone.

But not today.

Today, they are normal.

They are unaware of the Plague.

And they are in a city without panic, without fear, without slaughter.

Normal.


December 27th, 2013
One Week Before Day One of the Quarantine

Michael sighed, scratching his beard as he sat at his computer. An old colleague of his - from his days in college, mostly - was a research monkey in some lab somewhere in England, and had sent him this data of a new kind of disease. The guys at his lab couldn't figure it out, so he sent it to Michael. Great. He stared at the screen. It was rather obvious, really. The disease was somewhat viral in nature, but also parasitic. It also showed elements of a stem cell, and- wait wait wait. Stem Cell?

Michael picked up his glasses and began to look at the cell diagram more closely.

He wasn’t rich, by any meaning of the word, but he had enough money saved up from his doctoring days to renovate this office. He lived in a two bedroom house, with a spacious kitchen and a decent living room. Yet he had the most tech in the office he built out of his second bedroom. It acted more as a doctor’s office, as he still took appointments for the people in his neighborhood; he had to keep his skills sharp somehow.

He threw the diagram over to a large touchscreen on his wall, and started to rotate it in several directions. It was fascinating. This parasitic virus had the adaptability of stem cells to give it the ability to fight off the immune system and infect blood cells at the same time. It would adapt to the infected individual and begin to break down the structure of someone at the cellular level.

Several theories could be used to how the patient could be breaking down. It could start with the muscles then move on to the skin and then the inner organs and bones, it could be the opposite, or it could just be eating away at everything at the same time. He looked at the diagram at several different angles, and his eyes narrowed as he began to realize what this was. He brought up the simulation video his colleague sent over along with the reports.

Michael chuckled as he looked at the simulation. It was chimeric - it had both parts synthetically lab made and naturally occurring components. Such a thing was, to his knowledge, impossible. This was some prank, or a simulation about how to combat it if the virus ever reached reality. Michael laughed as he closed the program, and heard a knock on his door. Hanging his glasses on the nook of his shirt, and walked to the front door.

"Real funny, John," Michael muttered to himself as he opened the door. It was one of his neighbors and her kid. He wiped his nose with his jacket sleeve and held a paper towel tight in his hand. It was red. The woman was saying that he cut himself while making a sandwich, but Michael sighed.

The doctor waved the two on in, getting them out of the snow-ridden streets. "Alright, come into my office. I'll take a look and stitch up your hand and prescribe you some antibiotics." Michael looked back and looked at the kid's red nose. "Maybe give you some cold medicine while I'm at it." Just another day for the neighborhood doctor.
 
The Week Before

Chicken broth and scrambled eggs. Every morning without fail, the same thing. Della sighed, listening to the muffled sounds of the newscast emanating from the television in the living room; the room that had become her mother's bedroom over the last few weeks.

The pan sizzled as she moved it onto a cool burner, and turned to grab the plate she had set aside. Once her mother's breakfast was on the tray, she brought it into the room, setting it onto the bedside table gently.

"Mother?"

Glazed eyes turned to look at her, and Della felt a small pang of sadness in the pit of her stomach. "Quiet, dear. I'm watching my stories."

"You need to eat, mother." Della's voice was soft, but then it usually was. Jessica Harrison had always been a domineering personality, and Della had always seemed to wilt under her gaze. She opened a straw for the glass of water on the tray, and then brought the glass to her mother's mouth. "Drink. We don't want you getting dehydrated again."

Reluctantly, her mother sipped at the water. She pushed away the food when offered, and Della felt that sadness turning sour. Just then, the door to their small apartment opened. Della looked up.

"The nurse is here, Mother. I'll be back by two." The latter was directed more toward the nurse than Jessica. Della slipped on her coat and scarf, grabbing her wallet, keys, and name badge before heading out the door and down the stairs into the cold winter air. It was a sad time in her life when working as the stock girl in a convenience store could be considered an escape.
 
Alex was at the graveyard, she was wearing her usual clothes her black tank top, black jeans her black high heals and a long grey jacket that kept the cold from reaching her body. Outside was winter the wind was blowing very fast and snow was starting to rain.

Alex was in front of her baby daughter grave, she was on knees standing there and looking at her grave holding a white rose in her right arm, a tear dropped from one of her eyes as she stood in front of the grave and putted the rose in front of it.

Their family had their own place in the graveyard that was separated from the other graves, their were three graves in that section her mother, her father, and her daughter's grave, as she turned away starting to walk to her motorcycle she dropped another tear without looking back.

Alex stood in front of her motorcycle as she moved her medium long brown hair that was in front of her green eyes, she grabbed the black helmet that was on the back of the motorcycle and putted it on. Alex sat on the motorcycle and she started driving to her home.
 
December 31st, 2013
Three Days Before Quarantine

For most people, New Years Eve was a time of celebration.

Not Michael McBride, apparently.

No, he's been watching the news for the past few days. Riots were breaking out downtown, with the military coming in to set up roadblocks. More and more people were getting sick, getting quarantined in their own homes. Exhibiting the same symptoms as that simulation John sent him.

Maybe it wasn't a simulation.

Still, Michael sat in his office, looking at the simulation over and over again before sighing. He'd have to contact John, see if this was an actual viral parasite or not.

Bringing up Windows Live Messenger, he brought up the video chat for John.

A couple of seconds later, John was on screen, dozing off.

"BOO!" Michael yelled, causing John to fall back in his chair. Michael laughed as John got back up, glaring at him through the camera.

"I still can't believe you fall for that," Michael said, and John sighed.

"Yes yes, very funny. What're-" "Hold on, are you talking in a British accent?! Oh my god, if Linda could see this now!" Linda was their old partner in crime, since the three back there were quite the pranksters on campus. It's amazing they were never caught.

Michael wiped a fake tear of mirth from his eye as he brought up the simulation for both doctors to see. "Hey, John, I've been having some questions about this simulation you sent me-"

"Simulation? Michael, that wasn't a simulation. That's actual data from a disease we have here in the lab, we can't even get out because we were immediately locked in quarantine procedures." Michael stared at John. He stared at him for a long, long time. In fact, John was looking downright uncomfortable.

"Bullshit," Michael said after the long silence, with John taken aback. "If you're in quarantine, then why are the symptoms you've listed happening all over New York?"

John's face turned pale. "Good Lord, Michael! You have to get out of there! There isn't a cure for the Plague, and you don't have much time before the military quarantines the city and exterminate who they suspect is infected!" Michael sighed, shaking his head.

"It's not going to be easy, John, there's military everywhere even now." John sighed, rubbing his eyes behind his glasses.

"Michael," The wanted doctor grunted, his head resting upon his arms. "You might have to fight your way out," Michael looked up.

"Seriously? That's your plan? Face the entirety of the United States Military to get out of New York?" John shrugged. "It might be the only choice you have."

Michael sighed, rubbing his face. He was too old for this shit. "There might be another way out. Not right now, but later on in the quarantine." John took the sip of his tea sitting next to him.

"I hope you're right, Michael. I just hope we over here in London can come up with a vaccine for this Plague soon." Michael snorted.

"Though there is something good coming out of this." John looked at Michael strangely.

"And what is that?"

Michael grinned deviously. John knew his intentions instantaneously, and his face went from one of bored despair to one of shock.

"You didn't."

Michael nodded, that grin still on his face. "I did."

"You suck, Michael, you know that?"

"It was totally worth sending Linda your British Accented ass." Michael laughed as John terminated the connection.

Michael took a deep breath after his laughter, thinking about what John said.

Maybe he would have to fight his way out.

After another few moments, Michael ran up the stairs to the attic, to get his father's old rifle.

It was time to prepare.

000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000​

(Sorry for both the late and the long post, I've been working on this for quite some time, past few days really. Now, it's time for me to go to bed. I hope to see more soon, eh? Don't we all.)
 
Della had spent a great deal of her New Years Eve 'celebrations' alone, with the rare exception of her father's presence, so sitting alone in her apartment with a mug of lukewarm coffee wasn't an entirely new experience. Except, of course, for the fact that instead of watching the ball drop on the news, Della was staring at something horrifying.

Grainy video of rioters beating each other bloody intermingled with patients dying in hospital beds. Della took a mechanical sip of her coffee. It was cold.

Her mother was in the hospital. If the sickness spreading throughout the city didn't kill her, the flu she'd contracted might. And if not that, then the cancer would kill her anyway. It was all just a matter of time, Della knew, for all of them.

And still, there was an animalistic clawing inside of her, survival instinct beginning to kick in. She didn't even have anything to live for, really, but she wanted to live.

Her coffee fell to the floor, forgotten, as she rose from the couch and hurried to her bedroom to pack essentials. If the military was starting barricades, something worse was sure to follow. Della hadn't a clue where she might go, only the drive to get out of New York.


((Sorry for late posting, myself; I just started a new job, and training/scheduling is kind of sporadic right now.))
 
guys sorry for not posting, and i wont be online for the next 3-4 days i have some work and i cant be here, sorry sorry sorry :p just continue without me and ill post when i can.
 
((Alright, I'm gonna just post some stuff. I realize I've kind of just jumped to the quarantine, but it didn't seem to me like there was far to go after the 3 day mark (but maybe that's just me?). Anyway. Here's hoping you guys like it.))




Quarantine: Day One

Della tried not to breathe.

The sound of solitary footsteps were astonishingly loud in the grocery store she'd taken refuge in, while outside the sounds of death could be heard; gunfire, screaming, mayhem. Clutching her father's old pocket knife, she let out a slow, quivering breath through her nostrils. She could feel a bead of sweat tracing a path down the center of her back, and she longed to scratch it. But she didn't dare move.

The footsteps stopped for a moment, the sound of rumpled plastic, and then nothing. Della waited. And waited. Finally, she couldn't stand the waiting any longer. Slowly, she turned to look around the corner of the shelf into the next aisle.
 
January 3rd, 2014
Day One of the New York Quarantine
11:48 AM

Michael sighed, his grip on his rifle tight as he wandered the alleyway next to what seemed to be a grocery store.

Once the quarantine hit mere hours ago, shit hit the fan.

And it flew everywhere.

He himself had witnessed the killing of his neighbors, those who had been deemed infected. That was when he knew it was time to bug out.

He had killed several soldiers already, Army and PMC mixed together with NBC issue gas masks. He took their stuff, and even considered taking a PMC's ballistic vest until he came under fire.

But now here he was, about to enter a grocery store that probably had a platoon and a row of bodies.

He turned the corner, and saw that it wasn't a whole platoon.

Nope, just one PMC looting the dead.

Disgusting.

Michael slung his rifle onto his back and pulled out his pistol and his pocket knife, ready to kill this guy.

Until a girl came around a corner.

The PMC swore, and raised his rifle to her. Michael aimed and pulled the trigger once, putting a round through the guy's head.

The guy dropped, and the doctor walked over, holstering his pistol and searching the body for anything useful.

He looked up, seeing the girl there with a pocket knife.

"Hey, you alright?"
 
Della looked up at the man. Using the shelf, she hauled herself up from her position on the floor, careful to step over the PMC's dead body and avoid the blood pooling around his head.

"I, uh... I-I'm fine." She looked at him warily, still gripping her knife tightly in her hand. "Thanks." He had saved her life, but Della had found it difficult enough to trust people before all this mess.

She moved into the next aisle, trying to hide a slight limp on her left side, and made her way to the store's small first-aid section. She found that quite a bit had been looted, so she took what was left; some compression bandages, gauze, and a bottle of isopropyl alcohol, putting them in her bag and adjusting the strap over her shoulder.
 
"I, uh... I-I'm fine. Thanks." Michael nodded, and watched her limp over to the first aid section. The second of the isles to be looted, after food. He returned to looting the corpse of the PMC and took the man's pistol holster and his pistol, a Glock 17. He didn't have much use for it, but the girl probably did. Michael turned the PMC over, looking at his uniform. This vest was too small for him. Damn. One size fits all his ass!

Michael sighed, taking the vest off the PMC. It'd protect the girl, though. He took the magazine pouches off the vest and used the MOLLE weave on the pistol holster to attach it to the vest. There, easy access.

"Hey, girl!" He yelled, sighing. He really should learn her name. He threw the vest with the gun in the holster on top of the isle divider. "Take these, they'll help you out." Strength in numbers was important right now. He walked around, after taking the guy's pouches, and the magazine pouches on the PMC's belt, looking at the girl shove things into her bag. He noticed her leg.

"Hey, lemme take a look at your leg," He said, walking towards her. He pulled out a pair of blue surgical gloves to replace the pair he had. "I'm a doctor, so don't worry. I haven't abandoned the Hypocratic Oath yet," He chuckled as he pulled up a pair of chairs, one for him to sit on as he dug through his bag for a flashlight.
 
Della cautiously took the vest, slipping it on quietly. Even if he was just offering in order to get something out of her later, she'd take it. Though she didn't really know how to use the gun, just having it on her made her feel safer.

She backed away a bit as he stepped toward her, her hand tense around her father's old army knife. He was a doctor? She looked him up and down, watching as he pulled on some gloves. Moving slowly, she sat in the chair opposite him. Her eyes catalogued his features.

If he tried anything, she had her knife. She only knew the basics of first aid; having a doctor with her could prove useful. "I'm- uhm... D-Della." She cleared her throat. "My name's Della."
 
Michael smiled as the girl sat down, taking hold of her leg and bringing it up for him to see.

"I'm- uhm... D-Della."

"Hmm?" Michael asked, rolling up her pant leg.

"My name's Della." Michael nodded towards her. "Michael, Doctor Michael McBride. I'd shake your hand, but I do believe I need to fix your leg," He shone the light on her leg, looking for anything suspicious.

"Has anything happened to your leg? You bash it against something, fall from a great height, kick a PMC in the face?" He looked up and raised an eyebrow. "And you don't know how to use the gun I gave you, do you?"
 
"I, uh... I tripped." She held back a wince as he examined her leg, remembering the man who had tried to drag her by her hair into a back alley among the chaos. Her knife still held a bit of dried blood on the handle, though it was difficult to differentiate from the dark hilt.

And she had tripped... as she was running away from the man making gurgling sounds as he bled out in the alley. If you get a chance, go for the throat, her dad had told her.

"And you don't know how to use the gun I gave you, do you?"

Her eyes refocused on Michael, a slight smile tugging at the corner of her mouth. "Nope."
 
"I, uh... I tripped." Michael laughed at that. "Yeah, sure ya did," He clamped his mouth around his flashlight, one of his hands holding her ankle, and the other holding her knee. "This shouldn't hurt too much," Michael said, pulling the leg down. He heard a faint pop, and smiled, releasing Della's leg. "There, it should feel better. You jammed both your knee and your ankle when you 'tripped', rotating your fibula a bit. A quick pull, and you're good as new," Putting his flashlight away, he zipped up his bag and looked at Della.

"Nope." Michael nodded. "That's what I thought. What you have there is a Glock 17, a nine by nineteen millimeter, so it shouldn't give off too much kick. The safety is in the trigger, so all you have to do is aim and shoot. But don't close your eyes while firing, and keep your finger off the trigger when you aren't, like this," Michael pulled out his pistol and aimed it at the wall, his finger off and above the trigger guard.

He holstered his Beretta and picked up the Glock clips he took from the Contractor and handed them to Della.

"I can't use these, so you might as well put them to use. Slide them on your belt so you can access them easily." Michael sighed, before looking back outside the store. "We need to move soon, they'll realize that their guy hasn't reported in."
 
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