Mort Prix (Vapor only)

[Cyprum Xecuii]

Dascurae! Dascurae! [Help! Help!] Citizens going about their daily business alongside the main pedestrian street went to a halt after hearing this scream. Where is it coming from? one asked. What's wrong?! asked another. Those on the streets continued to question the whereabouts of where the call for help came from until finally, Over there! Everyone looked at where their comrade had pointed to, an alley roadway. From it, a woman was limping into view of the onlookers and screamed Please! Help! This man is trying to assault me! They noticed that there was a man hanging onto her leg with one hand was savagely trying to grab onto it with his other hand. People didn't understand why this was happening, any attempt to rape someone in broad daylight would already have been stopped by a Frontline-man patrolling the streets. However regardless of how odd the circumstance was, there was no time to waste. One good Samaritan ran to the phone booth on the other side of the street to call for emergency services to arrive. A teenager just coming from the local secondary school was the first to intervene directly with the assailant. She ran to the 'rapist' and proceeded to kick his chest, hoping to deprive him of oxygen. Soon, others began to enter the fray, trying to tug away the woman from the aggressor. Another do-gooder, a construction worker, took no chance in waiting for the military and emergency personnel to arrive so he took out his pickaxe and bashed the top of the assailant's head. Not only was the assailant still going but he now turned towards the construction worker. Without any notice the assailant began flailing around and gnawed the construction worker's arm while still clinging onto the woman. The teeth sunk deep into his flesh and he started screaming, Dascurae watashino nakama! Mina! Otoko ne gennaio sai! [Help me comrades! Get this insane man off of me!] The construction worker tried to shake the man off with all his might, striking blows at the forehead and eyes to disorient him. *CRACK splat* Immediately after the shot there was silence. The woman managed to yank off the assailant's arms and ran towards the bystanders huddling together with improvised weaponry that they would have used had the man gone towards them. The construction worker was now lying nearly prone, breathing heavily with tenseness and staring at his attacker. With his remaining 'good' arm, he slowly pulled off the man's crippled jaw (from the gunshot), oozing with saliva and blood combined with fragments of jaw bone, from his arm. As he held the forehead and pulled upright, the teeth lodged inside his arm scraped the walls of the shattered muscle tissue and bone causing the poor construction worker to wail at the horrid pain. Others came to assist and in less than two minutes the worker was free, literally, out of the jaws of death.

The frontline-man that had been sent to check the situation by distress calls and had shot the attacker from afar was coming into view, accompanied by a field medic. The bystanders called out for their attention, Over here! Comrades, this man is injured! The frontline-man stopped ten meters from the point of the confrontation and held his gun at the ready while the field medic rushed to the construction worker's side. Nan demo nai desho ka mm? Daichou bu ne, [Don't worry now you'll be alright, just hang on friend,]spoke the medic as he tried to comfort the injured worker. Yet, the response that was given in return to the hopeful and kind words weren't expected at all. The worker started trembling and made gagging noises as the medic bandaged his arm. Nai nai daichou bu, [Now, now you'll be fine,] uttered the medic, still trying to calm the man. The frontline-man gripped his rifle tighter and shouldered it as he closed the distance between him and the two. The worker was becoming more harsh in his trembling and irate but the medic continued to hold him down and bandage the rest of his arm. The frontline-man was only six feet from the two and he was now sweating immensely as he held his position, rifle shouldered and ready to fire. Don't worry, said the medic towards his comrade, he'll be alright, I believe it's just shock from the bloodloss. Abruptly, the medic's calm demeanor was cut short when he saw the man foaming at the mouth and rising towards him. W...what...listen now, can you understand me? Are you al-ahh AHH GAAAAH HEL-GUUURRhhh- The medic was taken down by the worker and had his neck gnawed apart, the blood coming out of the wound and the man's mouth. The worker ripped out the flesh and growled at the bystanders and frontline-man, the blood and foam dribbling out created such a disgusting sight. Some of the civilians began to panic and ran into the buildings or away from the scene, leaving only the infantryman to deal with 'it'. The soldier aimed his rifle towards the head of the monstrosity and took a stance to stabilize himself from the recoil. He made no hesitation, *CRACK fizz* The round clearly went through 'it's' head but 'it' did not let up. The rifle was re-cocked and the soldier held his gun up once again, but it was too late. 'It' was already grabbing hold of the soldier by the shoulders and took him down. The frightened soldier desperately went for his gun, but he could not retrieve it in time, his chest was slashed with 'it's' bare hands. The soldier could only look helplessly and in agony before he loss consciousness and his own body came under the possession of something else.

And thus, it had begun.

Enter your character info here, copy the info, and post it on our OOC thread.

Name:
NS Nation:
Nationality (if different from NS Nation):
Age and Gender:
Occupation:
Physical Description and/or pic:
Why are you at the FGP (Fanaglian Grand Prix)?
Additional Info (useful skills, possible weapons):
RP Sample (for non-Vapor members):

OOC Thread

[Pavlostani]

Drondil Fields
Galilin Province
Pavlostani

"Hello." Doctor Shimenov walked around the counter to the man and woman standing in front of here.

"I'm Anton Chernov. This is my wife, Anna Chernova. She hasn't been feeling well lately, and feels nauseous." The man said.

"Really. Let's see what's wrong." Shimenov spent the next hour poking and prodding the lady, asking her questions and checking vitals. "Mr. Chernov, it's just Cyprumese flu. Nothing to worry about. Tell her to drink plenty of fluids, get some rests and take a hot bath. She'll be fine in a few days." Shimenov smiled warmly.

"Thanks." Chernov's face brightened. Chernova tried to smile, but ended up coughing roughly.

"Oh god." Shimenov saw blood accompany her cough. Chernov went to clean the mess when Shimenov commanded, "Don't touch it!" Chernov stopped, and stared.

"Ahem, sorry." Chernov put his arm around his wife, and lead her out of the hospital. Shimenov donned gloves, and carefully collected Chernova's blood.

"Yuri!" He called across the room.

"What?" The doctor poked his head out from behind the corner.

"I need that microscope. I want to check something in this blood." Shimenov did not know that there was a tiny tear in his gloves, and a minute amount of the blood had traveled through. The doctor was about sixty years old and expected another ten years before he died. He had no idea that he had just limited it to a few weeks.

[Fanaglia]

Though the race wasn't to start for another hour, this was the Fanaglian Grand Prix, the final race of the World Board Track Series; the crowds had already begun to thicken in the grandstands at the Kraftenberg Board Track, and were even thicker in the field just behind the track, where competitors from around the world were proudly showing off their machines. The air was thick with the smell of petrol, motor oil, sweat, beer, mud, warm rubber, and the fresh varnish on the warm wooden planks of the track, but even more tangible was the sense of excitement that expressed itself in conversations, arguments, boasting, and child-like admiration from children and adults of all ages.

It was the perfect day; the fantastical reports many of them had been reading in the news about some sort of madness plaguing people all across Zhao were as far from people's minds as they were from Zhao itself. The only Zhaoans anyone was concerned with were the Zhaoan teams that were present for the race, especially the Cycuiian and Pavlovstani teams. Those teams had drawn their own fair share of fans from the nations they represented, though, and some of the Fanaglian and other Amplectorian fans in attendance tended to keep an uneasy distance from them, just in case, you know, they were carrying something. In general, despite the usually-good-natured trash talking exchanged between opposing fans, there were no problems so far and it was looking to be a good crowd for a great night.

A gaggle of women stood surrounding Claude Durand, the handsome fellow posing on his motorbike and who had the honor of riding for Evans Racing, one of the two teams representing Fanaglia at the Grand Prix. Among them was Giselle Munro, who, unlike her peers around her, was fawning rather for the machine below the strapping young man, rather than the man himself, despite the prying looks he always gave her -- the sort of look that only a man can give to a lady. He never learned.

She had, of course, been the one who was responsible for tuning it before every race, making sure that Durand had all the power and responsiveness that the sleek, low-slung speed machine could give. People rarely recognized or even were aware of the important role she played in Durand's many victories, but she didn't mind -- so long as she could work with her baby, Durand's V-twin, eight-valve Evans P6. Board track races were always exciting, with speeds in excess of 160 km/h, around the polished, steep-banked track with nothing to protect you from the fast-whizzing world and other bikes around you besides a leather cap (not even brakes!), and with nothing but the rider's skill and God's good graces to keep both hands on the handlebars and both wheels on the ground.

When the air horn sounded, the bikes started with a thunderous roar of which Thor himself would have been proud. It was time for the race to start; with a quick detour past the hot dog man, Giselle hurried to find a good seat before the race started.

---

Meanwhile, on the other side of the oval...

The race had begun. The crowd was going wild, but was still barely audible over the rumble of the motorbikes as fifty madmen on their two-wheeled speed machines barreled past them. People hardly noticed the tussle that took place towards the front rows, near the aisle. Most figured it was some belligerent drunk who had gotten out of hand. Those who saw that the man was Pavlovstani assumed it must have been an international rivalry taken too far.

The man thrashed about a bit, gnashing his teeth. He was quickly restrained by event security and taken to the most secure place on-site, the broom closet of the main concessions stand, to "cool down" until the police could arrive to take him to the station; one of the security crew was sent to fetch them to the track. The man's friend, who was with him, had said that the restrained man had been feeling ill and that the warm Fanaglian weather may have exacerbated his condition. Security told the man that it certainly was a pity, but that the man had rather badly bitten several of the race's other patrons, who were being treated by the on-site paramedics for the minor cuts that resulted, and that the man simply could not remain with the crowd.

---

Giselle watched Durand and his P6 fly around the track through her binoculars, smiling all the way at the rather comfortable lead he had over the other racers behind him. When he passed around the far side of the oval, a motion in the crowd above caught her eye. She watched for a moment to see that several of the patrons had fainted, it seemed; there were men standing about fanning their faces and passing bottles of water to them. With a glance back at the track, just to make sure her baby was still doing well (of course it was), she remained focused on them for a time while she sipped her cool, refreshing orange soda.

She about spit her drink all over the back of the gentleman's head in front of her when she saw one of the worse-off-looking fainters suddenly jolt up and bite the nearest man to her on the neck. The man's arms flailed wildly until the woman shook her head and tore loose a frighteningly sizable chunk of flesh from the poor man's neck -- blood was everywhere, spurting out with each beat of his heart.

The panic spread slowly at first, with only those closest to "It" fully reacting, having seen it with their own eyes, though hardly believing it. Soon, the word, or at least the idea that there was something fearsome afoot, spread more and more quickly across the tightly-packed crowd, the crazed woman thrashing and gnashing her teeth more and more all the time. Giselle watched as a man tackled her from behind, the two of them tumbling down several rows of seats. She watched the woman's leg bend sickeningly where there should not be a joint; she felt like she could almost hear the crunch as the bone broke. To her surprise, or, perhaps to her horror, the woman seemed unfazed and began to gnaw at the face of the poor bloke who had tackled her.

The chaos on the other side of the oval was in full swing and people on her side were beginning to murmur; even those without binoculars could see that something was wrong. Then, Giselle noticed that some of the others who had fainted had gotten back up and began attacking people as well!

So much blood.

The news had spread to her side. People were rising from their seats, first from curiosity, then from worry. They did not move; it was the perfect time to shuffle for an orderly exit, but nearly everyone was frozen, silent, paralyzed with fear, wondering what would happen next. The crowd on the other side compressed to the exits through the grandstands and towards the ends, but people could not shove through them quickly enough. Eventually, two or three of the crazed attendees (there were by then so many of them attacking and biting and tearing at the others that it was hard to tell how many there were, especially amongst the fleeing others) pushed into one of the larger throngs of those attempting to escape. It was hard to tell if they had fallen or if, in their panic, they did not see any other escape, but several patrons made their way over the safety rail and onto the track. Even as they ran across the track, the motorbikes were still approaching at full speed, Durand in the lead.

The crowd on Giselle's side of the oval waited with bated breath as the bikes first met with the increasing stream of panicked fans that were crossing their paths. The front-most bikes were able to swerve to miss the people at first, but, eventually, the inevitable happened -- the woman riding for the Pat-Goulashian team struck an elderly gentleman staggering down the steep bank of the track. She was flung from her machine at over 100 km/h and became a fast-moving heap of human tissue sliding down the boards while her bike ricocheted and spun into the paths of the other bikes, causing a horrible chain reaction.

The far-side of the oval had become the most horrible portrait of chaos, destruction, twisted metal, and mangled and dismembered bodies that Beelzebub himself would have been proud -- that was when the full-on panic spread to the starting-line side of the oval. That her beloved P6 was in crumpled and scorched bits, or that the man riding it was missing and most probably dead, was not the first thing on her mind. What was the first thing on her mind was holding up her own body weight as the huge mass of the crowd's collective weight surged forward against her slight frame. Kicking and screaming and throwing her elbows out, she rode the whitewater crowd out of the grandstands, only to see that the scene behind them was not much better -- the crowd was running every which-way, while several of them were quite horrifyingly gnashing their teeth, blood dripping from their mouths. The people she had been following shoved back up the stairs, towards the track, like a herd of frightened cattle.

A sharp pain struck her just below the ribcage after a man shoved her. "Damnation!" she cried, clutching her side, turning to see what it was that had hit her -- it was the doorknob to the open side door of the main concessions stand, the one that the hot dog and soda boys used when they made their rounds in the stands. It was a heavy, wooden door and the main window had a steel shutter over it. The only other entrance was the other, larger service door on the opposite side of the stand that opened towards the field, which was equally sturdy. She ducked inside, shut the door, and locked it. Then she turned to see that she was not alone in the stand. She prayed that they still had their wits about them. "I, uh, I locked it," she muttered lamely.

---

OOC: OK, guys, there you go. Now just tell your introduction -- who are you, where are you from, why are you at the Grand Prix, where were you when the Grand Prix Outbreak began, and how did you make it to the concessions stand's large service door that faces the field?
(you are one of the ones who are already in the stand when Giselle comes in the back door)

[Pavlostani]

Fanaglian Grand Prix

Dmitri Nikolaevich Vorshenko dished out a bag of donuts to the next person in line singing,

"Slyshite lyudi poyut?
Peniye pesni razgnevannykh muzhchin.
Eto muzyka lyudey, kotoryye ne budut rabami snova...

"Hey Pyotr. What's that over there?" He asked. It appeared a scuffle was occurring nearby.

"Damn!" Pyotr Efremov gasped as they saw blood pouring from wounds. He paused, then stepped outside to see what was happening. Vorshenko heard a sickening crunch and blood poured in from under the door.

"Efremov!" He yelled in horror. He watched as the door handle turned. Vorshenko grabbed his Thunderhorse pistol and aimed it. The door opened and Efremov walked in. But it was not Efremov. Vorshenko's friend's eyes were dull and horrible wounds covered his face, almost like teeth marks.

Efremov grunted and shuffled forward.

"Efremov? Pyotr? Petya, hey buddy..." Vorshenko backed up until he hit a wall. Efremov stopped, then swiped his arm at Vorshenko. The Pavlostani man screamed and fired his pistol. The bullet passed through the zombie's brains and sprayed the ceiling with blood, brain matter and parts of Efremov's skull. Vorshenko screamed again, seeing Efremov drop, his face almost liquefied.

"Ef? Efremov?" He whispered, looking at the corpse. Efremov did not stir. Vorshenko fell back, leaning against a wall and wept.

[Inoroth]

Fanaglian Grand Prix, Final Race of the World Board Track Series
Kraftenburg Board Track, Kraftenburg, Fanaglia
9th of July
10:04 am


"Sir, the odds are seven to one in favor of the Evans/Durand team... are you sure you want another 40 Roths on Mongiati/Gaspacio? I wanna be sure I can collect when you lose."

One could not ask for a finer day for the race; a cool north-easterly breeze softened the harshness of the strengthening summer sun as the latter climbed gradually towards it's zenith. Not a cloud was to be seen in the sky, though several black ones were developing behind the various motorbikes as their sputtering engines were started and revved most clamorously. Aside from the roaring racket of the racers, the ears were assailed by the sounds of an eager crowd -- jesting, joking, mild taunting, laughter -- and the insufferable calls of the snack hawkers "Peanuts! Popcorn! Hotdogs!". An unhealthy mixure of unburned petrol and the savory scent of concessions stand fare filled the nostrils, now and again laced with the pungent odor of unwashed body as folk jostled past. The man purchasing the betting slips, one Franco Criscitelli, pushed back the brim of his bowler hat, up until now lying low over his eyes, looked the haggard man behind the booth square in the eye, and sneered in a rude, calculated tone with a hint of a Piedmontese accent;

"Wrong, mister! You are using the odds from last race to lessen your payout if the "favored child" pulls off another victory, as any idiot could plainly see! The odds here, on this track on this day are, at worst, three to one. While I am no degradations of the part of the Evans team are expected, considerable improvements are to be anticipated in the Mongati team's performance, especially after the recent modifications made to the Mongiati Racing Bike, "Il Norton" to eliminate the stalling issues of the last race and the increase in top speed by 2 km/hr... or haven't you been reading anything the teams put out? Added to the fact that there has been no rain for the past few days, which makes the track dustier and looser and thus more favorable to the Norton, and that Gaspacio often races here and thus knows about and will capitalize on the high incline at the beginning of turn three often, the odds are probably closer to two and a half to one... but it is no matter to me; it's your business to run into the ground, not mine... in fact, I'm grateful to ya, for your boneheaded miscalculations have only increased my winnings. The gut always knows, mister, and I'll be seeing you after Gaspacio wins the race for my pocketful of money to prove it... if you're still in the business, that is."

With that, the cantankerous young Inorothian walked off, betting slips in hand, leaving the salesman to wonder what he would.

---

Fanaglian Grand Prix, Final Race of the World Board Track Series
Kraftenburg Board Track, Kraftenburg, Fanaglia
9th of July
10:49 am


Gaspacio, second place; and the race barely halfway over... I wonder what that clodhopper over at the betting booth thinks of his "seven to one" odds now... probably reconsidering, if you asks me. I am going to make a killing off of that guy. I'll rake him over the coals when this is over.


Muttered Franco, vindicated. But something other than racing soon caught his eye -- a disturbance over on the other end of the track, right by the third turn. A woman, it seemed, had been tackled by a man, only he seemed to be getting the raw end of the deal, as his face was... bitten? Yes, bitten. Over and over she chewed on his face, and that's what clued Franco in that this was more than a mugging gone wrong or a domestic disturbance; something was wrong; and he wasn't the only one to see it, the crowd was beginning to notice too; only a handful at first, then about a dozen, then thirty, then a hundred... until soon all eyes were invariably fixed on the horror unfolding before them, carnage unimaginable as more and more people were bitten by the formally normal patrons. Franco turned to a stranger standing next to him and muttered:

"Something ain't right down there, it's not natural."

The man, wealthy, well-dressed, and in his late forties, only nodded, as if in a trance. Franco started thinking, processing information as fast as he knew how. If the strange happenings continued, eventually someone near him would make for an exit, and then everyone would follow suit, and soon a stampede and, likely, mass panic would ensue. If he left now, he might actually the cause the stampede, being crushed before being able to exit the track, for the exits were quite narrow and far away... but if he stayed, he was even less likely to get out, and, if incredibly unlucky, he might even get bitten by the crazy people who were acting up at the other end of the track. What he needed, then, was a place where he could get to quickly and hole up safely in until police arrived to settle things... somewhere where he wouldn't get trampled but where he could also avoid being seen by "the biters" as he determined to call them. Franco began scanning, and soon settled on a suitable spot -- the concessions stand, damnable as it was, was barely twenty meters from where he sat, and seemed quite sturdy. Quietly, Franco slunk off towards the door. Halfway there, he felt heightened tension and heard someone far away screaming;

"They'll be trapped, they'll be trapped! Oh... Oh God! Some are climbing onto the track!"

Turning as he walked, Franco saw, just as he had feared, throngs of people pushed up against the exits, unable to get out, the rearmost being attacked by the "biters". Some were braking like a wave over the protective railings and onto the turn where the oncoming motorbikes would not see them until too late. Three or four racers made it through while the patrons were still a dribble, including Durand and Gaspacio, but all who came after collided horrifically, man and machine inseparably mangled and splattered against the walls. None of that was pressing on Franco's mind, for soon all the people around him were pressing against his body towards the exit...

The crash had sparked the stampede.

The bodies of frantic fans were crushing closer and closer together like a tide. Soon, Franco couldn't move, so tightly was ha packed in. The crowd swept him past the main door to the concessions stand. On and on he was carried, without even putting his foot down. That's when his cool, calculating mind began to panic. If he did not get to the concessions stand soon, he would be crushed to death or become "biter" food... maybe both. Franco was frantically trying to push against the current, almost in a swimming motion, but the current was straong and continued to pull him away. Tighter and tighter he was compressed, until he felt that he would burst. Somehow, Franco popped up over the crowd, sitting on some poor sod's head... as if he had been a mountain pushed up by opposing tectonic plates. Stretched out before him was a sea of people so thick he could walk atop them without missing a step... which he did. He was not able to run to quickly, but he made progress and soon neared the door.

As he ran, his blood chilled at the sights. There were now hundreds of "biters", and they were no longer just on the other side; they now ranged all over the stands, some dangerously close, in fact. He saw some men towards the rear of the teaming mass of people bravely fight back with canes and umbrellas, but they were soon overpowered. In fact, he had to jump to avoid one such biter as he pressed on towards the door. Those beneath his feet as he jumped doubtless met a nasty fate... but that was not his concern. His concern was reaching the safety of that stand, and soon. By now, he guessed that this many biter couldn't just happen... most likely, some of the people bitten must have turned into biters themselves.

Only five meters away now!

But, to his horror, he saw one enter the concessions stand door. He ran on, for that building was still his best chance, drawing his pistol; almost at the door when...

BOOM!

The sound temporarily deafened Franco as he reached the solid oak slab, the bullet slicing a hole in it inches from where his head had been -- it was a very close call. Cautiously, Franco peaked inside to see the body of the biter face down on the floor, blood throbbing out of a massive hole in the back of the head and pooling on the floor. Brain and bone were splattered all over, covering the walls, the floor, the ceiling, and, in the corner, a man wept softly, the gun in hand hanging in his limp arm. Franco immediately returned his gun to his pocket and entered, not wanting to startle the man any more than he had to by carrying a gun.

"Hey, easy, it's alright, guy! I'm no biter... I'm as sane as sane can be, so don't be getting frisky with that shooting iron."

Before the shaken man could answer, the door behind Franco swung open a bit wider. Not knowing what or who it was that pushed the door, Franco bolted for the corner unoccupied by the other man and turned, hand on his revolver... but he did not draw, for it was a normal woman, not a biter. She locked the door with a satisfying "click" and turned to see them.

"I, uh, I locked it,"

"Damn good of you, too... please excuse my language, ma'am."

[Fanaglia]

"Damn good of you, too... please excuse my language, ma'am," said one of the men with an Inorothian accent. He was one of two men standing before her; a third, to her horror, was lying dead, face-down on the floor between them with a horrendous wound on the back of his head, still seeping a heavy flow of fresh, dark blood into large and growing pool on the floor.

"I'd say that, given the circumstances, a bit of coarse language can be forgiven," she tried to joke, but her dark and quiet tone (which was barely audible over the screams coming from outside) matched rather the circumstances than her intentions. "Do either of you know what in the bleedin' Hell is goin' on?"

[Inoroth]

Fanaglian Grand Prix, Final Race of the World Board Track Series
Kraftenburg Board Track, Kraftenburg, Fanaglia
9th of July
10:52 am

Franco's eyes were adjusting to the darkness of the small room, and he was unable to suppress a smirk as he noted how sturdy the structure was -- thick walls, steel slats covering the main windows, and a solid oak door (that was now locked) protected the only visible exit...

The Ol' Gut saves my life yet again! He reveled.

In the relative safety of the stand, Franco began to relax a bit. In movements so smooth and sure that they had to have been honed by years of frequent repetition, he rapidly whipped out matchbox and cigarette case, selected the appropriate item from each, expertly struck matchhead against the paper, and delicately touched the little flame to the end of his cigarette. The glow cast eerie, dancing shadows across the room... and combined with the horrible, terrifying noises outside, it created an almost alien atmosphere, make all the stranger by the beam of bright light the shot in through the bullet hole in the door.

A few quick puffs, and his entire body noticeably relaxed. Extinguishing the match with a few violent shakes of the arm and taking a rather deep breath, he leaned his head back against the wall, as if it were a great bother for his neck to support it on it's own... Now Franco was ready to talk.

"Forgivable indeed -- a gal who can dish it out as well as she takes it!"

...

"I'm afraid that I'm as clueless as to what's going on here as you are. I saw the "biters" at the other end of the track, I saw the people pressed up against the exits, unable to get through, and I saw this stand. I ran towards it as fast as I could, and stepped inside just before you did... and just after he <*points to the dead man on the floor*> got it good."

He turned to the concessions man, and asked:

"Was he a biter, then?"

...

Franco kept the cigarette in his mouth, the glowing end strangely bobbing up and down while he spoke of of the corner of he mouth. This altered his pronunciation of certain sounds and words; but not as badly as one would expect, for he was used to speaking and smoking in this manner. He was hardly thinking of all this as he made to return his matchbox and cigarettes back to their respective pockets, but he didn't actually do so, for he thought he saw the girl look longingly at his cigarette. Instead, he opened the cigarette case and held it out in her direction:

"Care for a smoke, tootsie... or is that something 'proper women' don't engage in?"

[Pavlostani]

Fanaglian Grand Prix
Concession Stand

"Y... yes." Vorshenko choked, looking down at his dead friend Efremov. He fumbled in his pocket for one of his own cigarettes -western tobacco was not to his liking. Vorshenko cursed quietly at his shaking fingers.

The Pavlostani man looked around at the other two in the room with him. How the Inorothian remained so calm astounded him.

"Some sort of attack." He mumbled to the Fanaglian lady.

"Back in Delgos, in Pavlostani, we were used to all sorts of violence. I used to wake up every day and say good bye to my family like it would be my last time I ever saw them. When I walked to work, I always had to think, 'Is this my last day?' And more than once I had to defend myself on the streets. I don't know who, or why, but these biters are attacking. Oh god, what if it's not just here? What if similar attacks are occurring all over Gaia Atlia?" Vorshenko sunk against the wall with his head in his hands. He looked forward. Efremov's dead eyes stared at him.

Oh, why? Why is this happening? I want to go home, I want to see Lyudmila again. I would rather return to Delgos than stay here. What if the biters are in Pavlostani? What if they're everywhere, and this is just one attack?

Vorshenko could remember the green fields back home, laughing children and sweet rain. He could only imagine a hellstorm ravaging across the land with a host of undead feeding on young children as they clung to there mothers' breasts and fathers' legs. His thoughts of home were rudely interrupted when he heard a loud thump on the door followed by a horrid wet squeezing sound.

"Shit!" He exclaimed.

[Fanaglia]

"Care for a smoke, tootsie... or is that something 'proper women' don't engage in?"

Giselle grimaced at the manner in which the Inorothian spoke to her, but his offer of a smoke seemed a godsend. "Don't mind if I do, mate," she said, accepting the cigarette and light graciously. She took a long drag and watched and listened to the Khamulite* as his eyes unfocused and his thoughts wandered to faraway places and nostalgic times -- far from the horrors which quite literally were pressing just on the other side of the painted cinder block walls of the stand. He looked pathetic, sitting there on the floor, eying his dead friend without really seeing him, not entirely connected with reality. No matter how pathetic he looked, Giselle felt no distaste for him, for how else was someone supposed to respond to what they had just seen? For her, it had not quite sunken in, yet. It was like she was in a dream. No -- a nightmare. A nightmare which she almost felt and secretly hoped she would soon wake from.

"Shit!" Cried the man when a particularly violent thud squashed against the door through which she had just come and snapped them all back to their dismal reality.

"What to do, now..." she muttered quietly, more to herself than to either of the two men, as she took another long drag with her eyes closed from the cigarette the Inorothian man had given her, savoring the taste and exhaling through her nose. She didn't even know the man's name, yet here she was, trapped with him and the Khamulite there in that dark and godforsaken concessions stand. "Giselle Munro," she said shortly, extending her hand to the Inorothian. "Evans Racing Team."



*I refer to Vorshenko as "Khamulite" despite the regime change because Fanaglians in general have not forgotten or forgiven the atrocities that nation has committed the (still fairly recent) past, sort of like the way many Greeks (especially older Greek people) still refer to Istanbul as Constantinople or how many Americans still refer to Ho Chi Minh City as Saigon.

[Inoroth]

Fanaglian Grand Prix, Final Race of the World Board Track Series
Kraftenburg Board Track, Kraftenburg, Fanaglia
9th of July
10:54 am

Franco reacted much as the others did at the loud thud by the door, even though he was already in the safest corner in the room. After the start, he took several long draughts of his cigarette, a worried look crossing his face as he noted how much had already burned away... but he quickly forgot it and returned to his staring at the bod -- the impact of the moment clearly not yet upon him. The woman, after a long pause, offered her name and a handshake. Reaching out and grasping her hand, he shook it rather violently, tipping his hat with the other hand as he did.

"Franco, Franco Criscitelli... a pleasure to meet ya, Giselle. So you're the gal that keeps... well, kept ol' Durand ticking? No offense lady, but I had a lot of money saying that you couldn't pull this race off... and in a way, I was half right!"

Franco chuckled a bit at the joke, inappropriate as it was. Turning to the Khamulite concessions man, he added;

"What about you, bud, you got a name, or what?"

[Pavlostani]

Fanaglian Grand Prix
Kraftenburg
July 9th, 1910

"I am Vorshenko, Dmitri Nikolaevich. I was born in Delgos, Kha- Pavlostani." Vorshenko still didn't quite believe the regime change in his homeland. He spoke with the singsong accent familiar to the central regions of Pavlostani.

"I'm actually second cousins three times removed to former Emperor Brunilov of the Ming Empire." He tried to perk up.

"Anyways, my family moved to Fanaglia when I was a lad to get away from the violence. Not that it helped." Vorshenko allowed a note of bitterness to enter his voice and glared at Giselle.

"My family was forced to constantly move while living here, racist neighbors constantly harassed us. The worst was when a car of men... I think they were actually refugees from Gratia Infinitia, may they never return to power, but they drove past our tenement shouting ethnic slurs and threats. I don't think they ever harmed us, but I was crushed for years afterwards." He realized he was going on a rant.

"Anyways, after my ma and pa died of Cycuiian flu while on a trip, I was determined to make a name for myself outside of the one my parents had made when I was born in the SSK. I started a baking business, imported wheat from Vitograd and actually grew quite rich. My influence reached Pavlostani and one of those PAI bastards ended up trying to kill me, hired by a rival company. Local police managed to ward him off and he's rotting in some prison now. Unfortunately, the attack made headlines in not just a few newspapers here and soon my company went out of business. I ended up a poor man selling his wares at sporting events, as you saw today." Vorshenko finished his gloomy story.

"So, on that happy note, I'm relatively sure I saw the Cycuiian Autarchess during the race. I wonder if she's okay." He shivered in a corner.

[Inoroth]

Fanaglian Grand Prix, Final Race of the World Board Track Series
Kraftenburg Board Track, Kraftenburg, Fanaglia
9th of July
10:54 am

Franco nodded, only half listening, barely stifling a yawn... he never cared much or sympathized with sob stories: everyone, he thought, has hard times, and he thought that what one does with their circumstances was what made them men.

"Sounds rough, bud... and I wouldn't hold out too much hope for this Arch-a-duce or whoever he* is... almost nobody is gonna make it out of this stadium alive... not with all these Biters running about."

Franco flinched as the large metal door rattled yet again as another poor sod was smashed into it and bitten.

*I know Nozumu is a she (or, was she ambi-gender? I keep forgetting ), but Franco doesn't know nor care about Eastern Politics... or Politics in general.

[Fanaglia]

"Bet you didn't bet on it turnin' out this way, did ya, Franco?" Giselle muttered darkly. At the mention of the Cycuiian...whoever, the thought that crossed her mind was Oh great. A Cycuiian would be exactly what we need here, for she found her present company unpleasant enough -- a self-absorbed cock and a Khamulite with an inferiority complex. "With a sitch'ation like this, you can forget about the odds," she continued. "Our own odds of survivin' this are better than everyone stuck outside, sure, but how great are they? Can't figger they'd be too high. But I ain't gonna just lie down an' let 'em tear me to bits, or whatever it is that they do. I say bollocks to the odds; I'm too stubborn to die. An' anyone out there who's gonna make it's gonna say the same, I say." She wasn't sure if she really believed her own words, but they sure did make her feel better. She made to take another drag on her cigarette, but noticed it was almost to burning her fingers. She put the stub close to her lips and inhaled the last bit of smoke from the cherry before flicking the butt to the floor. With a fatigued look to her two unlikely new companions, she turned her back to them to absent-mindedly stare with her hands on her hips at the menu panels and posters that hung along the back wall of the stand.

[Inoroth]

Concessions Stand
Kraftenburg Board Track, Kraftenburg, Fanaglia
9th of July
10:56 am

Franco couldn't suppress a sadistic smile at Giselle's dark comment.

"Nope, cant say that I did... but ya know, our odds aren't too bad -- we've got the basic essentials: food, shelter, drinks, and such like, and the Police'll get all this biter nonsense sorted soon enough, so long as it don't spread too far too quick... I'm more afraid of getting cut down by a copper than bit by them things."

Franco wasn't so sure the Police would actually be able to stop the biters, and his gut wasn't giving him and indicators, but at least it might help calm the Khamulite, and what with his having a gun and all, it was VERY important that man stay calm. Franco also neglected to mention the odds of survival of the folks outside, which he put at less than a thousand to one, and then only if that person managed to find some sort of place to hide.

[Fanaglia]

"Couldn'ta picked a better place for somethin' like this to happen than in good ol' Kraftenberg," Giselle said, still with her back to the men. "I doubt the pigs'll be able to contain this 'emselves, but the army ain't far off. They'll be 'ere afore we know it. Just gotta wait it out 'till they get 'ere. We'll be all right, I'm sure -- so long as these doors hold, we've got ourselves plenty of food and water to last us until then like you said."

[Inoroth]

Concessions Stand
Kraftenburg Board Track, Kraftenburg, Fanaglia
9th of July
10:57 am

Franco nodded, eyeing the Khamulite to see if what they were saying was making any impact. Scared men with guns were dangerous, even if they were normally decent folk... not that Khamul was known for producing many of those. An armed man frightened out of his wits was more dangerous than a squad of armed men working for a crime boss, because at least a kingpin can be reasoned with. Franco walked over to one of the counters that held doughnuts, reaching in and drawing one out.

"These look interesting."

[Cyprum Xecuii]

Fanaglian Grand Prix



Oi, mazui e-do ne! Kanben stekure-zo no teme! Kuso da-ne! [Oh, what a bad maneuver! Give me a break man! Dammit!]

Nozomu was shaking her fist wildly, infuriated at the Cycuiian driver who apparently failed to continue his sharp turn along a track bend, causing him to plow through several wooden barricades protecting the spectator stands directly opposite of Nozomu's location. The vehicle finally stopped after it had slammed into the last line of defense, a 300 millimeter thick concrete wall. While no one could see how bad the impact was with all the steam and smoke gushing out into the atmosphere, the sheer amount of recoil caused by abruptly stopping within such a short amount of time was likely to severely paralyze the driver (at best). Other Cycuiians sitting close by were in shock at the outcome of the driver's actions. It wasn't soon that the people began to speculate the cause of the accident; a few blamed it on sabotage by other nations, but that idea was put aside when many began to recall that the motorbike was in fully working condition before it fatally stalled onto the straight line to oblivion.

One man jumped out of his seat and hastily uttered out, K-k-kora ne! Kora watatte mitsumete ita! Mi-te! Nanika ga sorera no stankuri! [H-h-he! He stared out over there! Look! Something is happening at those stands!], while madly pointing and sweeping his finger side to side toward the stands opposite, as if something had happened along the entirety of the other side. Right as the spectators stood up to get a better view at what the man was so upset about, the stands began to rumble violently, and everyone clung onto the seats and railings so as to not be shaken around. Nozomu grabbed the railing in front of her seat and closed her eyes, expecting the worse to happen. When the stands stopped rumbling not too many seconds after, Nozomu opened her eyes and saw that the view to the other side was partially obscured by a thick cloud of smoke spewing out from what appeared to be the front row stands ten rows from her location and to the right.

Though it was difficult to see, Nozomu could just hint out what was happening on the stands across from her. The other side was filled with chaos, hundreds of people were piling themselves at the exits and there were people randomly assaulting each other, some with their own teeth! A few of these instigators of violence were beat off the railings and tumbled down the seats to lower levels, seemingly breaking bones and body parts along the way; only to get right back up and literally crawl or limp their way back to their targets. Gun shots were also heard, presumably by security forces trying to use lethal force to quell the problem.

Yare yare, kore wa mokushiroku ni natte im- Oi! [Goodness, this is turning into the apocal- Hey!] Nozomu was cut off by a woman scrambling past her through the narrow pathway on her row, moving into the black fumes that were now being blown by the wind onto the upper levels. God damn lady, keep it togethe- She was interrupted yet again, this time by an older gentleman who was also making his way right. Nozomu asked him why everyone seemed to be in a hurry, but he simply replied, You must leave little miss, quickly now! Before they arrive, the exits are this way! The fellow moved passed Nozomu on his way into the fumes just as the woman did. As she turned to face the man leaving, Nozomu could just barely make out through the dark cloud a cluster of people moving towards the exits that led down and out.

With nothing left to watch and everyone in a collective hysteria, Nozomu decided (pretty damn late) that it was time to leave. Now, she would have gone for the exit immediately, but something caught her attention (distracted her) before she could do so. A lone man, who appeared to be injured, limped across the seats about three rows above her own. Like all the other spectators, he headed straight for the exits; however he took no mind to Nozomu, who was watched him walk past with suspicion. What made the man unusual was that he clearly was not frightened at all about the situation; nothing (including people lying injured, dead motorbike drivers, burning vehicles, and the mere feeling of terror and panic) could faze him.

Even if one were to disregard his odd behavior during at such a time, it's not like his appearance would have hid anything. The poor bastard was drooling saliva and small amounts of blood from his wide open mouth, exposed parts of his body (e.g. hands, neck) were a sickly mold-like green, and his leg movement was so abnormal and grotesque that it would be an insult to say he was just 'limping'; it was a hell lot worse than that. Yet, despite these signs that would surely tell any sane person that the man was not to be confronted, Nozomu decided to check him out anyway. To make sure that the man wasn't going to think she was trying to make a hit and run on him from his rear, Nozomu moved a few seats down her right (just before the thick cloud of smoke) and climbed up the seats to the man's row.

Upon entering the man's line of sight and approaching him, she asked, Are you alrigh-hhhhooooooooohgodnonononononono!

As soon as Nozomu asked her question, the man howled and ran towards her; ran being a mix of an equestrian's trot and leg stutter all at once. Nozomu backed off and took many steps backward, while the man stumbled all around due to his odd method of moving at a fast pace, and fell headfirst onto the narrow pathway. Still, while lying with his stomach towards the ground and flailing wildly in the cramped space between the seats and the guard rail, he continued to pursue his prey by crawling awkwardly along the pathway.

Nozomu had to think fast, she didn't want to attack the man directly, but she also didn't want him to escape any persecution that he most definitely deserved. Looking around for a quick means of ensnaring the man, Nozomu grabbed the a popcorn bin left on one of the seats and, using as much caution as one would take to eliminate a roach, went up to her pursuer and covered his head with the bin before quickly jumping down back to her row and checking the results of her 'work'. Turning back at the man slamming his head against the railings and lower part of the seats on his row, she puffed up her chest and admired her 'success'.

It wasn't long til reality hit Nozomu in the face again; she remembered that there was supposed to be a tour trolley (one that took the Cycuiians from their rally place to the Grand Prix) waiting for the Cycuiian tourists to take them back to their hotel. Unfortunately, she also remembered that the trolley wouldn't pick them up until the race was over. Since everything had gone completely out of whack, there was no place for Nozomu to go, she couldn't walk back, it would take too long. Adding to the complications, there was no forgetting the thousands of people running for their lives and probably informing everyone else on the streets about the happenings at the Grand Prix, increasing the mass hysteria and clogging the streets with bodies filled with fear.

Ah... where do I go now?! Ehh...... Should I go with everyone else going into the exits? No... too many people, and what if there are more like him mixed into the mob of body tramplers? Is there... is there any place I can go... mmmmm... Oh! Is... is that a little dip in the ground over there... in the distance? Is it a staircase? Oh I think it is! Why isn't anyone else going down it though? Does it lead to service station or something? Bah, who cares! Maybe If I can just hold out in there long enough, then the whole thing will pass by just like that... Yeah, yeah! This will definitely work!

And just like that, Nozomu raced to her left, away from all the madness of the helpless people still plowing themselves into the very few exits available. She continued on past the rows of seats and stair "columns" separating each section until she reached the concrete dugout and completely empty staircase that (she hoped) would lead to some sort of "safe" room below. After moving along the pathways, she finally reached the distant 'dip in the ground' that indeed had a staircase. The stairs went down into a small enclosure that had a door at the end of it. There was no holding back, Nozomu delightfully walked down the stairs to the small space. She grabbed the doorknob, turned it, and pulled... to no avail...

WHAT?! Nozomu blurted out, Dammit! What do I do now?! Though she began to feel slightly nervous at the thought that another 'thing' might find her and attack her in a dead end with no chance escape, she still peeked in through the barred window on the off chance that someone would be inside to let her in. What luck! Squinting through the glass, Nozomu could see figures moving about and apparently talking to each other, but they didn't seem to see her. Trying to gain the attention of those inside, she pounded on the door with her fists and rubbed her face against the small window. This time there was a response, but it certainly wasn't the one Nozomu was hoping for. She took a peek again but now the figures were moving away from the door...

DAMMIT! Now that the people inside wouldn't answer her, what could she do now? Well, if no one was going to help her, then so be it. She moved herself away from the door and sat on the staircase just like that. She continued sitting, pouting with irritation, and bearing an unbelievable sort of hope that she could actually sit out the entire dilemma... on a damn staircase...




OOC: Dugout is the enclosed area where the staircase leading down the the concessions stand is located. I can't find the right word for it.
OOC2: Sorry, lots of errors, I don't proofread.

OOC3: If it doesn't make sense, she's just waiting outside (after banging on the doors) on the staircase for you guys to open it for her...

OOC4: Some errors I "lined" off. I'll proofread more of it later.

[Pavlostani]

Kraftenburg, Fanaglia
The Mort Prix

"Yes, produced in the Pavlostani style. The wheat was grown in the fields near Vitograd. Mount Dagov looms over that port, and the ash from the dormant volcano produced a uniquely fertile area. A man named Grigoriy Barenov discovered a way of processing the wheat into a fine pastry that has allowed our donuts to become one of the few products in the world my countrymen can call something we do best. I think the other is alcohol." Vorshenko said.

"These were made with some of my last stocks of Vitograd wheat. We should most certainly keep them at hand, I think we may be pressed for food in the days to come." The Delgosi man added. He looked down at Efremov's corpse. Following the arrival of the westeners, he had almost forgotten about his dead friend.

"That man, Petar Efremov, he was a merchant from Vitograd. It is possible I could have acquired more wheat with his help. Then, they got him. These wights that have beset us." Vorshenko stared at the blood congealing on the floor. His mind wandered for a second.

"Gagh!" He heard the knock on the door. He stumbled away, believing another corpse was outside. Then his face turned.

"I don't think a wight would knock like that..." He said.

"Someone's on our doorstep." He whispered. He cocked his illegal Thunderhorse pistol, prepared to fight whatever was waiting for them outside.

[Fanaglia]

Bloke sure takes his doughnuts seriously, jeez, Giselle thought to herself as he rambled on. At least he's a bit calmer, now.

A pounding at the door.

"Gagh!" Blurted Vorshenko as he staggered towards her and Franco. "I don't think a wight would knock like that...Someone's on our doorstep," he whispered as he cocked his gun.

Well, there goes calm. She instinctively rifled through the pockets on her coverall for something -- anything -- that could be used as a weapon. What she came up with was only a flathead screwdriver, an adjustable open-end wrench, a pencil, a handful of change, and some disappointment. She looked to her unlikely companions, who were staring dully at the door. Still staring. Not moving. "Men," she muttered, shaking her head as she made her own cautious way to the door, screwdriver in hand. She crouched low, below the small, dirty, barred window, so that whoever -- or whatever -- was out there would not be able to see her. She inched her eyes upward. Slowly. She could just make out the top of the stairs -- oddly quiet-looking. The next step down. And the next. She shrank back quickly like a startled eel when she saw the top of a person's head. She waited in silence. After a few moments of not hearing anything, she rose again, more slowly this time. Top step. Next step. And the next. The top of a woman's head. Her forehead, her eyes, nose, mouth, and face. She was Zhaoan, that much was clear, and she sat on one of the lower steps, staring dejectedly at the ground. "You boys stay well back," she said to the two men behind her. "I'm 'bout to do somethin' bloody stupid," which she punctuated with the tiny click of the door latch opening.

The door made a very slight groan as she eased it open into the dark concessions stand, but the sound was deafening on the tense air that surrounded her and the light flooding in from outside was blinding, despite being only open a crack. "Hey!" She hissed to the woman. "You! You ain't gone all 'bitey,' now, 'ave ya?" She stood behind the door, out of sight, her screwdriver clutched white-knuckled in her hand, ready to strike, should the woman try to rush the door.

[Inoroth]

Concessions Stand
Kraftenburg Board Track, Kraftenburg, Fanaglia
9th of July
10:59 am

Franco could care less about where the flour for these 'doughnuts' came from, much less who invented them years and years ago... but it seemed to take the edge off of the man's fears, and the man needed to keep his grip on his sanity, for everyone's safety (but especially Franco's), so he feigned interest... though he was a poor actor and likely the man noticed his disingenuous head nods for what they were. The Khamulite seemed to be doing much better, actually, even as his thoughts returned to his dead comrade lying there on the ground.

Still, he'll only keep it together for so long if he has to look at that body every time his eye wanders towards the floor... we'll have to get rid of the body or move out of this room... and I'm not touching the body.

At the end of the horridly tiresome dissertation on the history of Khamulite Pastry, it's creation and it's production (basically, when Vorshenko stopped talking), Franco bit into the delicacy the man was so clearly proud of... and it seemed justifiably so. The dough was soft and sweet, and Franco, clearly enjoying the taste, went for another bite when the door-knock occurred. Startled, he let his hand fall limp to his side, the pastry continuing along the trajectory until it splattered onto the floor into three or four decent sized chunks and many, many crumbs... one of the pieces bounced and began soaking in the dead man's blood rather nastily. He waited for the sound of a biter claiming yet another victim, but no such sound came...

Strange...

Looking back at Vorshenko, he saw that any success they had had in calming him was completely reversed now... he was tense and nervous, and he had his piece drawn yet again. Franco placed his hand near his own pistol, safely tucked away. He hadn't fired it in over six months, and never before that, so he wasn't going to risk shooting unless no choice was given... but he would shoot Vorshenko if he had to. He continued standing, staring at the Khamulite for a a long spell before Giselle, muttering something about "men" began to inch towards the safely locked door. Franco whispered harshly.

"What are you doing? Are you going to unlock that door? ARE YOU CRAZY?!?!"

His last remarks were rather loud, and he realized that whatever was outside might hear, so he toned his voice down a bit."

"C'mon, you're putting us all in danger! Don't be stupid -- we're safe in here as long as that door's shut, but open it and, well, we're no longer safe! DON'T LOOK!"

Too late. Giselle had popped up and back down rather quickly, seemingly quite frightened. Franco was frightened as well.

And here I was thinking she was the sensible one... but now she goes and pulls a stunt like this! These two fools will be the death of me, of all of us!

Giselle still sat, back against the wall near the window. Franco motioned quickly with his hand, beckoning her back away from the door.

"There, you've seen whatever it was you felt the need to see, not GET BACK before something happens!"

She was ignoring him...

Typical woman.

He fumed. His hand subconsciously slipped into his pocket and gripped his revolver -- hard. Giselle poked her had up again, this time slower and more deliberately. She froze for a moment when she saw something, and then eased towards the door. His hand was beginning to fell numb by the time Giselle turned towards them for a moment and told them to stay back. Frantically (though still quietly), he pleaded

"Don't do it! No no no no no nooo..."

Too late, the latch was opened. Franco turned to check on Vorshenko, and he had his gun pointed towards the door. Franco backed against the wall and waited as Giselle began talking in a sweet, muffled voice that hid her fear rather well.

[Dalruanazkal]

Where am I? What happened? I turned my head around. It seems that I am on the ground, nestled between the stands. As I pulled myself up I heard the relative silence. I remember watching the motor race, with Lord Heanaba Azar-Kade. He was on a tour of the world and he stopped here to watch and gamble on the races. He rather enjoyed his hedonistic lifestyle, and I think he found a sick pleasure in having me go out and solicit prostitutes for him. Since his father died, he's been spending money like mad. But I have to focus. Standing up, I surveyed the stadium. No one was here, not even Lord Azar-Kade, nor the other servants he had with him. Small fires dotted the field and bodies littered the race track. Interestingly, the only thing that seemed to be moving was a man who had a trashcan over his head and hadn't .

I walked down to the track, trying to remember what happened. There was the race and... and a crash? And then I just blacked out. I rubbed my head as I neared the man in the trashcan. My head was bruised and very sensitive to the touch. I had hoped that the man, whose movements were odd even for someone lost in a trashcan, would help fill me on what happened. If he understands Alkurdian that is!

I reached out to grasp the trashcan and lifted it off his head. Almost suddenly he attacked me and we fell to the ground. What is going on with this man? I asked to myself as he lunged his jaw to bite me. I managed to shove him off of me, but it he started to stagger towards me. I crawled way from him like a beach crab until I stumbled unto a broken bike. I had a good three meters between me and the crazy man. Across the field, I saw some other people, crouching around a dead body. I was paralyzed with fear at the foul sight, even forgetting that there was another man slowly approaching me that wanted to do the same to me. I sat staring at the family devouring the poor fellow until one turned and looked at me. Then the other man let out a wail as he came closer to me.

The family of cannibals stood up and started moving towards me, even faster then the man who was in the trashcan. My hands felt around as I tried to will myself to stand up, and I managed to grab a pipe that broke off from its bike. Still a lit hot, I wrapped it with the head scarf I wore. I tried to appear threatening, but even with the pipe, my small frame was very imposing. As the crazy people charged me, I swung the pipe at the first man, who was int he trashcan, with all my weight behind it and he fell to the ground. I dropped the pipe and ran as fast as I could ran away, my hands shaking from the murder I committed. I'm sure Lord Azar-Kade would have spit his Opi-Coca if he saw that.

I climbed back up into the stands and I started yelling "Mira! Mira! (Help! Help!)" as I ran through the halls. Down one hall I spotted a woman by a door that was slowing opening and I ran...

[The Holy Dominion of Inesea]

Batu looked out from behind the Grand Stand Barrister. Below him, in the pits and on the Track, milled the infected. They shuffled about like cattle, moaning and grunting. Batu could see his fellow pit team, Ming-ha Faloran and Kublles Xhan, impaled on the metal spike where he left them. Batu thought back to those fateful minutes.

~A few minutes earlier~

"Hey Batu, I found out the problem with the bike!" Shouted Ming-ha.

"What is it?" asked Batu over the rumble of the passing motorists.

"The steel wasn't galvanized correctly. The gas tank must have rusted and failed in transit from Ixtaccihuatl. It must have dropped loose and severed the fuel line. We'll have to ship it back to the Republic for repairs. I do trust these Amplectorian Industrialists, at least as far as I can throw them. Fat Bourgeoisie and their tyrannical Queen" said Ming-ha. All three men chuckled at the joke, one of many the Republic had for the Nations of Amplector.

"Now now, you two, remember, we are like them now. Capitalist and Parliamentary. High Councilman, excuse me, Prime Minister Wo Phat saw to that in '06. Though, we still lack a Monarch, and am I grateful for that" chided the younger Kublles.

"Kid, take my advice," the oldest of them, Batu, said "We may be a Republic in name, and the People's Council may have become the House of Delegates and House of the People, but we have not, nor will we loose the ideals of Formbi while people of our generation live. Now back to work you lazy Sukees! Enough of the philosophical crap. I want the bike packed and ready to ship in 30 minutes and .. *CRASH*

A motorbike, Rothian Batu thought, crashed into the shed-pit of the Republic's Team. The bike collided with the disassembled roadster and exploded in a fiery bloom. The ungalvanized steel and presence of 30 gallons of open fuel created quite a bang. Shrapnel and parts flew everywhere. Kublles and Ming-ha were impaled against a wall. Out of the smoke came a swarm of, of people. Moaning and shuffling they filled the end of the area opposite Batu. Batu panicked when upon reaching the two impaled men, they began to devour them. Batu turned tail, and ran as fast as his semi burnt body allowed.

On the track he saw chaos as people attacked people. Diving behind a trash bin, he hid.

Now here he was, in a stadium filled with the infected of what could only be Xecuii Flu. The cannibals were everywhere. Batu sighed and leaned back. He began to say the rosary when he heard a Delrua voice yelling hell, no help. Batu stood, and saw the man running pas the point where he was, running towards an opening door. Batu stood and ran after him, yelling in Delrua "Mirame Mirame", what he hoped was help me.

[Cyprum Xecuii]

Fanaglian Grand Prix
Concessions Stand Entrance

The door at the bottom of the stairs opened just a smidgen; the creak of it's movement caused Nozomu to look up and rejoice, at least for the moment. The door didn't open any further than 4 to 5 inches outward before someone behind the door uttered, You! You ain't gone all bitey , now, 'ave ya? Nozomu's face paled; though the accent somewhat caught her off guard, it was clear that the person wasn't Cycuiian. Though it was wonderful that whoever was behind the door spoke a language Nozomu knew, it did little help in convincing her to trust or cooperate with the person. She moved slowly to the side, as not to provoke the person to think of her as a foe, and tried to peek through the small gap in the door to get a better view of whoever was inside.

The silhouette was still unrecognizable as Nozomu got closer, but even then, she was still hesitant to enter, and it was likely that the "door guard" isn't very keen on having some random person slowly "creep" their way towards their holdout spot. Feeling that this meeting was perhaps a feat of fate, Nozomu suddenly stopped and held her arms up with the palms facing the door as a sign of passivity and non-aggression. She also nodded in response to the past question confirming her current "human condition". Soon enough, the door peeked out just enough for the person to pop out their face and a portion of the body. All Nozomu saw was a western woman dressed in some type of engineer or mechanical operator's garment; at least, that's how a Cycuiian would define it. Welded in the woman's hand was a screw driver which she gripped tight; clearly the woman wasn't stupid as to allow Nozomu straight in, keeping most of body still behind the cover of her impenetrable door.

Nozomu kept her arms up as she walked still ever so slowly towards the door. The woman was beginning to feel calm now, Nozomu could tell because the door was opening more and more as the distance lessened. Still weary of the westerner -- and anyone else who may be inside the room, Nozomu kept to being silent and did what she could to make an facade of minimal expression. It seemed to work, the woman held the door open said nothing while Nozomu still made her way less than 3 feet from the door. Out of the blue, someone shouted from the top of the stairs and caught the attention of both women at the door. The woman reacted instinctively and quickly tried to shut the door; unfortunately, Nozomu also reacted from the sudden outburst and made a run into the room. Yet again, the woman reacted to what she saw and for a moment, took Nozomu's bolt to be a threat. As Nozomu made it halfway into the room, the door was slammed on her and was being kept that way by the woman. After noticing that Nozomu was more concentrated on trying to get the other half of her body into the room rather than getting mad, the woman came back to her senses and realized that her new guest wasn't trying anything with malicious intent. She quickly opened the door to allow Nozomu to fully enter; the door swinging was so sudden though, that Nozomu tripped and fell fumblingly onto the floor of the room and rolled along the floor until she hit a drawer.

Getting back up with an utmost pathetic move to display nonchalance after that awkward entrance, Nozomu patted down her clothes to wipe off the dust and sat as if nothing happened. She turned to her left, and found that she was not alone with the woman.

[Fanaglia]

The woman, who looked to be Zhaoan, began to creep silently towards the open door; Giselle's already iron grip on the screwdriver tightened to the point where its edges began to dig painfully into her palm as she eyed the woman with the utmost suspicion. The stranger nodded and held her hands up, as if in surrender. That's a good sign... she thought to herself as she drew the door open ever so slightly more.

Then it all went to Hell.

Apparently, someone had spotted the woman, shouting "Mira, Mira," whatever that was supposed to mean. Giselle's wide, panicked eyes darted from the Zhaoan woman to the direction of the sound. It was hard to tell whether the Zhaoan charged the door first or whether Giselle made the first move to try to slam the door, but they were soon locked in a scuffle with the woman pinned against the door frame by Giselle's frantic and desperate attempt to close the door. After a moment's flailing by both parties that seemed to last hours, Giselle finally released her tension on the door to let the panicked woman through before slamming it shut and bolting it securely.

The woman stumbled down the four stairs into the hallway, followed by a dramatic roll ending with her head striking a cabinet. She rose clumsily to her feet with a rather poor attempt at appearing suave and began dusting off her dress. She turned her back on Giselle to see her two companions. That was her second mistake.

Before the Zhaoan woman even realized it, Giselle was behind her with her left arm around her neck, her right arm wavering the screwdriver threateningly near her eye. "Just what in the bleedin' 'ell d'ya think you were doin'? You coulda gotten us all killed!" She shouted at the woman. Of course, she couldn't answer her even if she wanted to; she was too busy gasping for air in Giselle's chokehold. Realizing her error, Giselle released the newcomer. As the latter tried to catch her breath, the former, short of breath herself, said to her, "Sorry. Really, I am. We're all just a bit...stressed, y'know?" She eyed the gasping woman with mixed anger and pity. "Christ," she muttered to herself before flopping to a seat on the lower steps below the door. The screwdriver was still gripped tightly in her hand, just in case the woman decided to retaliate. Giselle had to admit she wouldn't blame her if she did so.

[The Holy Dominion of Inesea]

Oh God no, oh please no, stay open... no, No, NOO! mentally screamed Batu as the Xecuii tumbled through the door and it was quickly slammed shut. Brushing past the startled Delrua, he sprinted to the door. Panting, he leaned again the frame in surprised fatigue. Damn, he thought, I am 31, I shouldn't be feeling like Voerd in Downtown Attograd.Still breathing heavily, he knocked on the door, awaiting a response.

As he knocked, he turned to ee if the Delrua was still coming. Indeed he was, however, so was something else. Lumbering behind the man was an Infected. No, two, no three...a whole group of them, turning the corner and walking deliberately towards him and the door. Batu gestured for the man to come faster, than began to beat on the door, this time with passion. He shouted in French, then Ingrish, then Russian for help, for someone to open the door. He looked down the hall. The Infected were getting closer...