War Zone

[musicstruck]

THE WAR ZONE MEME



WARNING: Meme will contain TRIGGERS, including war, violence, capture, and general uncomfortable content. Please do not click if you don't want to see, and please respect your fellow role-players.

◊ Post with your character with name and canon.
◊ List any preferences(roles, scenarios, time periods, etc.) you have



ROLES
1) The General/Admiral: You're the head honcho, the guy in charge. You have hundreds, maybe thousands of lives resting on you. What decision will you make?

2) The Officer: Not the leader, but you've got responsibility for your crew. What's your specialty -- independent initiative? Insubordination? Or do you let the noncoms walk all over you?

3) The Soldier: Just an ordinary soldier with your pike, or rifle, or energy gun. Your job is to follow orders. But when it comes down to it, when you look the enemy in the eye -- what will you do?

4) Spy: Dressed in civilian clothes, disguised as an enemy officer. Your job is to get as much information as you can, and then get out. Or are you going to sow a little chaos and destruction along the way?

5) Civilian: This is your land that's being fought over. Do you support a side? Do you hide, or do you hold steady in the face of such violence?

6) Other.

SCENARIOS
1) Battle: In the middle of the fighting.

2) Downtime/R&R: A few peaceful moments, to spend as you will.

3) Sabotage: Something's gone terribly wrong. A factory blown up, a bridge destroyed, an assassination. What do you do about it?

4) Planning: How do you go about storming that beach?

5) Capture/Rescue: The enemy soldiers have you surrounded. Or maybe you're on a daring mission to break your buddies out of jail.

6) Other.

TIME PERIOD
1) Ancient times: Grab that centurion's helmet, form up into a phalanx, and let's go crush those Gauls and/or Persians!

2) Medieval times: Suit up in your armor, grab a lance and make sure to bring along your squire.

3) Revolutionary times: Basic guns and muskets, very little medical care, and very little tactics. Give the other army a few days to dig in, and they'll hold you off forever.

4) World War I/II: Technology is advancing, and warfare is more sophisticated than ever. Remember the trenches, the skirmishes in cities, the spies and the drama.

5) Modern times: Guerilla warfare, modern tactics, modern technology.

6) The future: Ray guns? Space battles? Let your imagination go wild.

7) Other.

Comments

crawls out of the ether and places this here

[fuckin_intelligence]

[ He's tired. They're all tired. Half of the unit has the shits and the other half has malaria or foot rot or whatever the hell else this shithole manages to spew out, but high command said go so they're going and have been going for five miles now, dragging their feet through the indentations of the boots in front of them like reanimated corpses.

Every new step scrapes Mac's heel raw when his boot slides against the coarse, sweat-soaked sock ironically meant to protect the skin beneath it; the stinging and burning of the inflamed flesh on his right foot does nothing to extend his patience. The knowledge that they have another three miles of mud to slog through before they can stop makes his mood decidedly worse.

By the time they've picked their way through what he estimates to be something like another quarter mile of wet, uneven terrain, the majority of King company looks ready to drop dead; after a moment of blankly watching the hollow faces, Mac glances down at his watch and wipes a large smear of dried mud off of the face to check the time. There's about three hours or so until the sun goes down, which isn't ideal, but they're just going to move even more slowly if they don't stop to rest. He swings his arm upward and keeps it there, then cups his other hand to his mouth and calling out a verbal reiteration of the signal to halt.

The infinite line lurches to a stop, a few of them stumbling over their own feet and bumping into the guys in front of them before the command registers. ]

Fifteen minutes! Y'all got fifteen minutes! Regroup in fifteen!

[ The lieutenant watches a few platoon leaders raise their arms and repeat the command as he shifts his weight to his left leg to such an extent that the sole of the affected foot just barely brushes the ground. It's all he can do to stay in place until he's sure the order has been sufficiently echoed; as soon as the line starts to break, he makes his way to the nearest dry patch of ground and sits heavily, taking a moment to simply savor the relief that comes when all weight is finally taken off of his feet. He'll check the damage in a few minutes.

Mac's halfway to unscrewing the cap of his canteen when Sledge passes by, walking abreast with Shelton (as-is-usual) - he suspects they're homosexuals but frankly doesn't give a shit, considering that it hardly has any bearing on him, they seem to have the goddamn common sense to be discreet, and at least one of the three of them is probably going to die before this is all over. What he does give a shit about, however, is the three-inch-long gash above Sledge's pasty wrist--or, more specifically, the distinct red flush to its edges. He hardly looks forward to having any kind of conversation with the guy, let alone telling him to forsake the small sliver of time he has to rest, but making sure that he doesn't drop dead of sepsis or something is his obligation as XO, he supposes. ]

Sledge. That looks infected. Go see a corpsman.