The Stand Meme

[mellowrushmeme]

T H E
S T A N D

Picture this. One day, your life is going on as normal, everything is perfectly fine. The next day? Everyone starts to get a little sick. A flu bug, they say and boy they are not kidding. A weaponized strain of influenza, nicknamed "Captain Trips" has been accidentally released. This triggers a pandemic of an almost apocalyptic nature, given that 99.4% of the world's population is dead by the end of a very, very short period of time. After that? Well. After that, things start to get a little strange. That's when the dreams come. When people are drawn to either the Boulder Freezone or Randall Flagg. Towards being good or being...pretty evil.

So how do you fit in?

• Survivor - Are you drawn towards the free zone or towards Flagg? Are you good or bad or are you not sure yet?
  
  • Flagg - either you're dreaming of him, or you're already there. Perhaps he's used his many abilities to save you from a more horrifying fate than a plague. Perhaps he's swayed you in some other way. Can you be turned towards good, or are you trying to turn others towards the bad?
  • Boulder Free Zone - either you're dreaming of Mother Abigail, or you've been brought by someone who has. Perhaps you're trying to rebuild your life. Maybe you're trying to help someone else. Or maybe, just maybe, you're a spy.
• The Doomed - Do you have the plague? Are you one of the first or one of the last? At home or in quarantine? Or maybe you don't have the plague at all, perhaps you're someone who tried to get the word out, and now you're due to be silenced.
  

Comments

Kit Walker - American Horror Story: Asylum

[denokandafaran]

[Survivor: Boulder Free Zone]

Allison Young * Terminator

[godelsolution]

[Survivor: Flagg]

[unflagging]

[Hello.]

Cloud Strife | FFVII: Crisis Core | Survivor

[meteorshots]

[ Two weeks ago (give or take), the chaos and cacophony had finally reached its peak, the city surrounding him boiling over in one spectacular and spectacularly violent last hurrah. Where there wasn't looting and rioting by those still well enough to try, there'd been the hardest hit and still somehow hanging on falling dead in the streets, in their homes, in the overcrowded hospitals. The soldiers once attempting earnestly to maintain some semblance of order, quarantine, had long since given up all pretense of that busywork; he'd seen more people gunned down, tear-gassed, and rolled right over en masse in two days than in the full two years of his own brief, unremarkable military career. Only the physical trappings of which he'd clung to, still in uniform and unwilling to part with the short rifle slung across his back, even if he'd long since abandoned the rest.

Technically, that made him a deserter, he supposes. AWOL. The thought still strikes him off-side, sometimes, stark and bright in mind with something he imagines at any other time would've been a brand of very personal horror. With the far grimmer face of reality crowding him in on all outer sides, though, he finds it hard to care. If the rats and the roaches want to call for his court-martial, so be it. There are enough of them still hanging around to populate plenty of courtrooms.

About three days ago, though, everything else had more or less gone silent, at last. In a way, it was a relief. He was still watching his back, but there were fewer real reasons to jump at shadows. He still felt guilty when he went and broke in the window of a shop or house to steal some essential supply (steal from who? everybody's dead, they aren't apt to need it), but that was only his overtaxed conscience twisting in the wind.

Much like the drift of old newsprint he sits watching a more substantial wind tug and drag at down the center of another empty street. "FLU VACC" visible on one page and "IDEMIC" on another, in bold black print, as that invisible hand tosses them all indiscriminately into the gutter. The curb is damp with the morning's rain and uncomfortable beneath him, but he's just tired and lost enough not to care. He looks down at the cell in his hand, again, that faintly glowing screen once familiar but now alien and hostile in the silent, dark new world. All it's good for now is telling the time, but he checks it from time to time, yet, anyway. Hope is another of those things still crawling around with the roaches and the rats, subsisting on death. ]

[ooc: pre-dreams, eventually Free Zone-bound. feel free to assume CR/surviving together/etc. alternate starters are also welcome.]