Red Star Resurgent [IC; See OOC for Applications]

[Skegness-on-Pirn]

The OOC

They said that the war would never come to our home.
The war was never supposed to be on our doorstep,
But there it was.

We fought hard, and we fought long, but we were no match.
When the red star flew above the Capitol, we knew that it was the end...
But we were wrong.

Deep in the Blue Ridge Mountains, we have waited.
We've trained hard, and our hope grew stronger.
We all knew that America wasn't defeated.
Now it's our task to make that the truth.

2 July, 2016
SSG Jackson Taylor
Asheville, North Carolina

Pack Square Park was once a place of beauty and youthful fun, but this was no more. The Vance Memorial was broken in half, with the upper half now lying broken in the reflecting pool which once helped people to understand the tale of Zebulon Baird Vance. The Russian soldiers fighting for the RSB had done their job destroying the hopes of the people of Asheville. They laid waste to Asheville, killing many civilians, as well as destroying the last official United States Army installation on the continent. It was rare that the citizens of Asheville came outside of their homes, but today was a different sort of day. The Russian special forces were in town, and the citizens were told to gather in Pack Square Park. In front of the Vance Memorial stood a Russian officer whose name was known very well to the American public. Major Todor Belyakov was a hardened man with a brutal means of ruling over his occupied territory. He was responsible for both the terror of the American civilians, as well as the Chinese reluctance to co-occupy the East Coast. Major Belyakov stood with a GSh-18 pistol, and three hooded prisoners next to him. He was shouting to the large crowds of people in broken English, and the prisoners were terrified. The gathering at Pack Square Park was a rally around an execution.

In a building nearly a mile away, a pair of men watched the Russian officer intently. One of the men looked through a scope detached from the sniper rifle, which was held by the other man. SSG Jackson Taylor knew that his spotter was damned good, but the classic military branch rivalries sometimes got the best of him. Jackson's spotter, a former Marine called John, signalled to Jackson that Belyakov was very close to executing the prisoners. He spoke out loud various details about wind speed and direction, as well as a few variables that Jackson already knew. Just as Major Belyakov brought his pistol up to fix on a prisoner, Jackson squeezed his trigger, sending a high-powered bullet with perfect placement into Major Belyakov's chest. The Russian disappeared in a burst of blood and bone fragments, and the prisoners fled. Before the Russian soldiers in the square knew what had happened, Jackson and John were on their feet and moving quickly. Before long, they were back in the BMC, unwilling to brag about taking down the most notorious Russian thug in the mainland.

---

3 July, 2016
Emma Greist
Blue Ridge Mountain Camp

Emma walked through the BMC, careful not to bump into anybody. She carried with her a veterinary bag that she had brought with her to the BMC when she first went there. All around her were rudimentary cots set up quickly by the people who had come to the BMC looking for relief from the occupying forces in the mainland United States. She had been called over by a family who had a dog; one of the only families in the BMC with a pet. The dog had fallen ill, likely due to malnutrition in the wartime, so Emma worried that she wouldn't be able to do too much for the animal. When she saw the dog, she knew that she had her work cut out for her. In the BMC, people didn't always speak to each other, so Emma wasn't surprised when the woman sitting next to the struggling animal didn't greet her in any way. People were depressed after the war times, which was to be expected. Instead of talking to the woman, Emma just looked the animal over. She started by estimating the dog's weight, in the absence of a scale, and writing it next to her estimate of the dog's normal, healthy weight. She then did a thorough physical examination of the pet. During her physical exam, she found blotches in the dog's eyes, which told Emma that hemorrhage had occurred. With her lack of medical equipment, Emma knew that she wasn't able to do anything for the dog. She looked up at the woman, a tear forming in her eye. She stood up just as Jackson Taylor walked by, still visibly energised by the prior day, so she nodded kindly to the soldier. Jackson had been put in charge of training residents of the BMC in the art of combat, so that they could mount a fight against the RSB. After her temporary distraction passed, Emma went to the woman watching over her dying pet.

"Ma'am, I'm very sorry. Your dog is clearly malnourished, and this has caused hemorrhaging to happen. Since the war, I haven't been able to get my hands on the right equipment, so there isn't anything I can do. I'm very sorry." Emma looked at the woman, noting her reaction. The woman was clearly shaken, having nobody else around to call her family. Her dog had been her only family through the war time, and that family was dying. Such was the way life was in the BMC, and Emma knew that she had to deal with it.

[Sanabel]

Tanner Stratton

Tanner sits on his cot. He's ready to fight. Carefully, he cleans his .44 magnum revolver...actually, his father's. The man had given it to him before sending him off with his sister to the BMC. "I can't wait to knock some chink on his ass with this," he thinks to himself. "As soon as I can, I'll nab a QBB-95 or a nice Russian PKM." After he finishes cleaning his pistol, he wipes the gun oil off of his hands with a rag, and loads the gun. He holsters it, and stuffs the rag in his back pocket. Then, he lays down on his cot, and starts napping.

[Barboneia]

Steven McDowell was sitting down outside of his tent on an old, bulky computer monitor, likely from the late 1980s or early '90s from the look of it. It's screen was smashed, and most of the wiring and circuitry inside had been torn out. He held in his hands a cellphone he had found in a house not far from the Blue Ridge Mountain Camp. It looked to be an iPhone 5C, once a shiny green, but now a duller shade. There was a large crack across the screen of it, and it seemed like if he were to hold it hard enough the entire device would shatter. He kept clicking the home button in an attempt to start it up, but to no avail.

He flipped the phone to it's back and took the back off, revealing it's inner workings. He poked some of the wiring, before taking out the battery and flipping it over in his hands, inspecting it. It appeared to be a bit... Rusted, oddly enough. Steven flicked the battery to the ground and put the back back on the phone. He slid the phone into one of his pockets, making a mental note to look for a phone battery the next time he went out. He rested his hands on his knees and squirmed a bit on his makeshift chair, looking around the camp.

[Lancearc]

During the early days of World War Two, Japanese Admiral Isoroku Yamamato is credited with a very famous quote when asked his opinion of involving the United States and allies in their war. He begins with claiming that for the first years, he would "run wild, and win victory upon victory. After this, he claims to have "no expectation of success." He finishes by saying that "You cannot invade the mainland United States. There would be a rifle behind every blade of grass."

"I fear all we have done is awaken a sleeping giant and fill her with a terrible resolve."

This was something that Rob Samuels learned what seemed like a lifetime ago, during his studies at the University of Montana. And while he wasn't the one taking that thrilling course on the happenings of the past, his close friend, Tyler Greene, had always made certain to keep him informed about the glories of mankind's history. Rob preferred to be in the field, watching history as it unfolded, rather than relaxing behind s book and reading about it years after th fact. He's always wanted to capture one of those moments that people would remember forever, the unnamed photographer that saw history first hand, like the shots of dead, lifeless ships sunken in Pearl Harbor, with smoke columns rising over the water, or the American Flag flying over the rubble of a devastated World Trade Center. Luckily, he's not managed to lose his camera even after the fall of D.C., and his subsequent capture. He'd taken his most memorable shots during the fall of the capital. He'd felt an odd sense of patriotism choking him up as he wa forced to abandon the city as a lost cause.

All that patriotism wasn't doing much good now though, and things must have changed since Yamamoto's time. The mainland could be invaded, and with a deadly efficiency. Maybe the US and its citizens had grown complacent, or maybe the forces arrayed against it were simply overwhelming. Regardless, Rob somehow knew that even after the capital fell and he was captured by Red Star troops, for the brief time he was in their custody, he knew that his role in this conflict wasn't over. Whether he was still trying to make history or he was simply doing it to save his countrymen, he continued his personal fight.

He was glad that here, most of the men and women were civilians lie him, rather than trained soldiers. They, like him, were novices when it came to combat. He wouldn't be seen as one of the weakest links,like if the camp was populated by trained troops. He wouldn't be alone if he was...overwhelmed by it all. Even if he was, he knew that he'd have to get over that quickly. It had been explained to him more than once - his duty in the field was to keep his comrades alive and kill the enemy.

They made it seem so simple.

Rob stood from his lousy, uncomfortable cot, careful to avoid stepping on any of the poor souls confined to sleeping on the floor, camera still dangling at his hip. He'd taken more than his share of photos depicting life in his new home, and while he would pretend that it simply didn't interest him as much anymore, the reason he'd largely stopped was that he felt it annoyed a good number of his neighbors, being photographed in this state. He couldn't help that it was a great opportunity should he survive this war that was all but decided, but he wasn't a member of the paparazzi, so he took the annoyed glares as a hint.

These strolls he took through the bunker often had him following the same route from his cot, and although overcrowded, he found himself enjoying actually moving about. It cleared his head, helped him see things a little clearer. Besides, if they were going to be discovered and slaughtered, he wanted to have a clear mind to account for every detail of his massacre, at least so he could haunt the shit out of the one who pulled the trigger.

[The Danish Confederacy]

taggy.

[Plzen]

3rd July, Blue Ridge Mountain Camp
Johan Kekkonen

It was surprising, really, how much one could find in the American wilderness, if one merely cared to look.

Construction wood from the log cabins, butane from the fire-starters, steel from the knives and the trailers, spare parts of the repair kits, an occasional diesel engine from a junked car... a thousand little useful things, and that was from just one abandoned civilian camping spot. Johan's keen mind could see dozen uses for every bit he found.

What a rich country the United States used to be, to leave all of these things in what was essentially unpatrolled wilderness. No wonder the Russians wanted to take over.

Johan eventually arrived at the Blue Ridge. Safety. Outside, he had to be always alert. Stopping and listening at the smallest rustle of the leaves.

He didn't like it, so he was glad to be finally back. These weekly scavenging trips were really taking a toll on his nerve. Next time, he'll ask someone else to go with him. Four excursions into Russian-controlled territory, alone and unarmed... enough was enough! If nobody wanted to go with him, he'll just stop going.

Johan plopped down his loot in his "room" - which he shared with five other people - for examination. Wood and petrol was his priorities now. Petrol gave him power, and wood... well... the blasted plumbing pipes weren't going to fix themselves. The entire camp, thanks to it being essentially a cave with one open side, stunk up every time a pipe leaked.

It was nine months between the establishment of this camp and Johan's arrival at it. Nine months, during which the inhabitants of this cave built that system of holes, dikes, pipes and ditches that carried waste outside the cave.

Johan didn't know who designed the system before it was built. Just as well, since he'd have probably killed that incompetent designer if he knew.

In the few weeks Johan stayed in this camp, he helped restructure the entrances, fix the camp radio systems and find space to squeeze in fifty more tents.

Why, he wondered, after all that work, did nobody ever ask him to actually restructure the damned plumbing?

Somehow, he was the only one who thought that was a priority. "Power first," they said, "power to resist, to fight, is our first priority."

He agreed, of course, but...

It absolutely stunk in the camp!

[Vacif]

July 3rd, 2016
Blue Ridge Mountain Camp
Garden

Brandon was outside sitting on a few bags of fertilizer. The wind rustled the green leaves of the mountain's forest, the sun breaking through the leaves. It was peaceful, just being there made Brandon almost forget the RSB had occupied America, and that he was sitting on a bag of crap, and not on a nature hike. Sighing, he got up, he wore a pair of blue faded jeans, with some worn brown work boots, his top consisted of a white t-shirt, and a red flannel shirt, unbuttoned, with the sleeves rolled up. At the beginning, the garden was very simple, and bare, featuring very little in aesthetics. Now it was a large system of plants, and flowers. It was one part scenery, one part production, and it was all covered by a series of camo nets, giving the plants enough sunlight to grow, and providing a pleasant shade to the gardeners. Putting on his gloves, he marched towards his side project, the potato plants. He'd planted a whole bunch in March, and it was early July now, so they should of been good to harvest. Crouching down to examine the leaves, they showed no indication of pests, or disease, he looked around for some of the other people in the area, most were just bunker dwellers looking to get away from the dull grey walls, or the stench of the underground, but there were a few other planters. Signalling them over, he asked them for their help in harvesting the potatoes. The assembled group of 5 walked over to the shed to get some tools, and returned shortly after to harvest the bounty. The potatoes looked healthy, and were a nice size too. He wondered briefly if they had any oil to use for cooking, he was pretty sure someone had brought one of those rip-off "Make your own fries" machines that only used a teaspoon of oil. He hadn't eaten anything fried in a while once he thought about it. Shaking off the irrelavant thought, he continued to work.

[The Danish Confederacy]

July 3rd, 2016
Blue Ridge Mountain Camp
Armory

Travis Reese walked around the camp, looking for anything that could help him. Of course, it was the 80th time he had, so he wasn't going to find anything new. He went to the armory and decided to look at the weapons there were. He had only been at BMC for, what, 4 weeks? Well, it didn't matter about how long he had been there, all that mattered was the common goal.

To kill the Reds.

All though it was summer, it was cold in the building, so he was wearing his favourite Georgia Tech sweatshirt, along with some worn boots, a red T-Shirt underneath, and some jeans. He would die wearing the sweatshirt, he hoped. And killing some RSB wouldn't hurt either. Anything to get America back. Anything....

[Kwadai]

July 3rd 2016
Blue Ridge Mountain Camp

Mikhail Semyonov opened his eyes to the sunlight that was entering the camp. Decorative shadows from the leaves of the trees above. He lay against the lower trunk of the tree taking the all too rare moment of peace to relax. He had arrived in the Blue Ridge Mountain Camp a little over three weeks prior to the day.

He was wearing black skinny jeans and a light grey sweatshirt. Perhaps not ideal considering the situation he was in, but he would have to make do. Eight years ago when he moved to the United States from his home in southwestern Ukraine he had never imagined he would be here in the forests of the Blue Ridge Mountains.

When he had first arrived at the camp the others already there had been more than a little on the suspicious side. The issue was most likely because Mikhail was in fact, Ukrainian. The reason he had come to join the camp was because he held a very strong dislike for Russia and anything pro Russian.

He yawned straightening his back and standing up he looked around at the camp. It wasn't exactly the most comfortable of bases but that was to be expected, they were very much isolated in the wilderness.
The peace could almost make one forget that the United States was occupied by foreign forces.

[Galdius]

Whoever fights monsters should see to it that in the process he does not become a monster....

It had been seven months since she had been taken in at the very makeshift blue mountain camp. Seven months for all the hate and anger that stewed away deep inside her soul to work up a seemingly unquenchable thirst for vengeance for all the people whom she held close in the collapsing city of Columbia that had fallen to foreign invader's guns, from a nation that her blood line traced back too, people who her parents and ancestors before them would consider fellow patriotic countrymen. And she thought she was ready. When the idea of fighting back and dragging the invaders from our home came up, Jay didn't even blink, she wanted blood as reparations for everything she had lost in a war that should have never happened, and the opportunity take justice into her own hands helped concentrate the self-destructive flame of hate inside towards an appropriate outlet. She trained hard just like everyone else, watching her instructors with fiery gaze, a look they knew well and could harness with deadly effect, with her learning things from a field of expertise that she never thought she would delve into in her life, with it feeling like a life time ago that she was burrowing into the performing arts at University of South Carolina, a building and piece of history that was now gone, turned to rubble and ash by bombing runs and howitzer barrages, much like what remained of her dream of working in theatre, with its only remaining thing remaining standing of that wish was its essence, captured with one of her many polaroid photographs she kept close.

They where plastered onto the corner wall where her cot rested, a memorial to how things had been before the war began, a reminder to what had been lost and what she would be fighting for. Not that she needed one. All of the pictures captured gleaming faces and warm personalities, some depicting a group of joy loving and naive young adults who had just moved away from the restrictive but loving grasp of their parents so that they could better discover the world at large, with the pictures captured at various scenic locations around Colombia, whilst others where family photo depicted the large loving Dubolazov's from various ages and places with some showing a few rooms of a very simple house, that remained very much same over the various year gap of the photos, whilst the ones taken outside the confines of the old house captured the essence of Detroit in the background of the picture, with each one having both cyrillic and English taglines along with silly doodles sharpied onto it.

The majority of the pictures had one thing in common, most had Jay in them in someway, and it spoke a thousand words of her current state. In the pictures, it had captured a young girl of various stages of her life, dressed in feminine clothing, with a personality so jovial and friendly that a certain relaxing warmth emanated from the pictures just by looking at them, like a gateway back before the war started. But one glance at the same girl who sat upright on the cot next to them, clad in a Bennie hat, goretex olive hiking jacket, button up shirt, navy blue jeans and stolen Russian army boots, whilst performing a field strip on her rifle, provided a much different different story. She was now quiet, beaten and tired, her eyes no longer filled with joy but rather rage as it was the only thing keeping her going as it burned deep inside her soul to the point were it would likely to consume her whole, as this war forced her naive and somewhat purer self to morph in order to help her cope with the sight of friends getting chewed up by mortars and bullets. Her sweet personality forever maturing into a darker, more serious one.

Her eyes watched her AKS-74 carefully as she stripped down her rifle on her lap, dismantling it by hand in order to inspect the various metallic parts thoroughly, making sure everything was in as good of a condition on the inside as it could be and most importantly, working perfectly. She had become infatuated with the piece of machinery ever since she got handed it, with it becoming n like an extension of herself, she carried it everywhere with her, stock folded, weapon slung across her chest ready to use at a moments notice, just like she had been trained to do, her now knowing just about everything she needed to in-order to use the tool, thanks to the help from the various military personal that decided it was time to fight back. Before all of this, she would have referred to the weapon as AK-47, rather than a AK-74, and her RPG-7 as a Bazooka, and likely kept her finger on the trigger until scolded not to.

There was a lot of things she didn't know about back then when it came to fighting, such as how deadly back blasts could be from the Anti-tank weapons, and how to clear a jam in her weapon, with the basis of the knowledge that she knew coming from movies and video games. All things that in the heat of the situation would easily get her put six feet under, in theory of course, as she had still yet to actually experience combat or take another life, with the veterans choosing to take things slow until everyone was fully ready to fight and take it to the foreign invaders. She hated how slow things were moving, She had been ready a good month and was more eager, desperate in fact, to get out there and fight, all in order to quench that thirst for blood, but the veterans said they had to wait, wait for us to gain our strength and wait for enemy to grow complacent and at ease in this alien land before they struck hard, forever leaving a deeper wound that way, hurting them more. But it didn't stop her from volunteering on just about every occasion to go with just about anyone outside who was willing to leave the safety of the camp to go looking for supplies or just for some fresh air.

With the parts inspected, cleaned and ready to kill, she put the weapons parts back into the correct positions in a few very fluid motions with great ease, with it only taking her with her few seconds to assemble the weapon back together, looking like she'd be able to do it blind fed, slamming an empty plum magazine into the weapon before racking the bolt back a few times. Everything seeming in working order, and she slung the weapon under her shoulder, removing the empty magazine and replacing it with a full one, which she had very few of at the moment, before laying back onto the uncomfortable cot which she was more than grateful for after some of the places she had slept during the siege. In fact, while most others found the conditions to be somewhat sub par, with them finding the lack of running water and the fact that they had to burn their excrement disgusting, but having come from much worse conditions, she was grateful for what they had, the food, the water and on the few occasions she engaged with other people in the camp, the company and the mutual feeling of comradely that went around, although it tended to be more rare that she found it, because of her family being Russian migrants and the fact that she spoke Russian fluently, she found that people tended to keep a closer eye on her nor be as friendly towards her.

She glanced towards her pictures intently as she attempted to pass the time, looking over them with a combination of both nostalgia and regret, her eyes falling onto a picture of the family, the most recent one she had, taken shortly before she left for South Carolina. It featured them crowded round an extraordinary small diner table filled with steaming plates of Beef Stroganoff as her five elder brothers turned to the camera smiling away, as Jay and her father sat close by, her dads arm wrapped round her shoulder with a gleaming expression on his face. It was her most priced picture, with her happy that she been able to make her old pa proud. Now whenever she thought about them, the only thought that went through her head was whether or not they'd be dead if she ever got back home.

....And if you gaze long enough into an abyss, the abyss will gaze back into you. -Friedrich Nietzsche

[Castle Crashers]

Abigail Stratton

Abigail woke with a yawn, sitting up on the tan cloth cot she'd been sleeping on. She didn't know how long she'd been out; there was poor lighting, and almost no one had a clock that still worked. Still, it was better than waking up in a prison camp or something. That, and she was slowly getting used to the surroundings of the camp. The mountains were beautiful, one of the only normal things left in this new world. She remembered her families annual trip into the mountains; they'd always rent a cabin and stare at the stars at night. She missed the normal life she had. Then again, who didn't? With a sigh, Abigail sat up on her cot, running her fingers through her surprisingly still-straight hair. That was new. She usually woke up with bed-head. She then proceeded to stand, straightening out her light blue shirt and then brushing off her jeans. She didn't have any pajamas, so she really just slept in her day-clothes. After standing and stretching, Abigail headed over to where Tanner sat. He was cleaning the gun their father had given him. "Hey." Abigail said, sitting down beside him.

[Sanabel]

Tanner Stratton
Tanner puts down his gun and wraps his arm around his sister. "Hey sis," he says. "You ok?"
While not much older than her, Tanner is very protective. If she isn't getting enough food, water, protection, or is being abused in any way, he will track down the perpetrator and knock them on their ass, feeding into why he wants to kill some Rooskis and Chinks so bad.

[The Krogan]

Somewhere in the Blue Mountain Range: Getting Close to Blue Mountain Camp

Jack Shepard strolled along the mountain path, enjoying the sunlight on his skin and the sounds of the forest all around him; for the first time in a long time he was enjoying himself. Jack had been traveling across the Appalachian Mountain trails for a little over 20 days now, searching for a place that only seemed to exist in rumors, The Blue Mountain Camp. A place, people had told him, that would bring about the end of the occupation, a flicker of light in the darkness that was now North America.

Jack had first heard about the camp while he had still been operating with his guerrilla Regiment, at the time he had dismissed it as pure fantasy. Surely a camp such as that couldn't hide itself from the occupation forces, he had originally thought, and had put it out of his mind. Only surfacing again when what was left of his insurgency cell decided to dissolve itself before the Russian's hunted them to extinction. Jack couldn't see any other viable option, his home province was a burning wasteland, Quebec was a shitstorm and it's borders would be impossible to cross, there was nothing in Nova Scotia, P.E.I. was a huge concentration camp, and Newfoundland, which was the last piece of free Canada, was a starving deathtrap. With nothing to lose, Jack hatched a plan to sneak south into the United States using the Appalachian Mountain chain and try to find this mystery camp of rebels. He managed to get four others to join him in his crazy escape plan, the closest people he had to friends.

Everything went smoothly for the most part, they had to dodge a few drones and patrols but other then that it looked like they were going to make it out. But of course fates a bitch, and when the group reached the border she was having an especially bad day. They stumbled upon an outpost that they couldn't sneak past and had to fight their way through it, ending with the Russian troops dead and three of Jack's comrades gone from this world. Not one to waste an opportunity Jack and the last member of his group quickly raided the enemy bodied for weapons and ammo before they made off across the border. Nine days ago Jack lost the last member of his fellowship, she had an allergic reaction to something on the trail and died gasping for breath in his arms.

Now, he was all alone, only his thoughts and the surrounding landscape to keep him company. Hell, it was so peaceful he had even thought about just getting lost our here, building a cabin, and forget about everything that was happening. Yeah.... Maybe it would be best if I just let it all go.. he thought to himself, before his daydreams were rudely interrupted by an object lying on the path. It was a patrol drone, and by the looks of it had suffered damage in last nights high winds. Immediately upon seeing the RSB logo on it, the peaceful state that Jack had been in evaporated, and was replaced by the anger and hate that had been consuming him ever since his family had died. He began to walk towards the downed drone to smash the thing, when he heard the sound of motor bikes coming up the path. Shit! must be the repair crew, Jack thought to himself, jumping off the path and behind some cover.

Two bikes came into view as they zoomed around the paths corner, slowing down and stopping at the damaged drone. Two male RSB soldiers dismounted, took off their helmets, and began to look over the patrol drone. Jack watched the pair with pure hatred as they joked and laughed about something. What gives you the right to laugh, to be happy when I can't, to rape and kill my people!!, these thoughts swirled though Jacks head as he watched the pair, working himself up into a thunderous rage.

Quietly, Jack placed his assault rifle on the forest floor, took his double headed ax from where it was attached to his pack, and loosened one of his knives for quick access; he was going to make this as quick and silent as possible in case there were any other nearby patrols. He snuck around behind them and slowly made his way to the closest of the two, the one that was standing up while the other opened a panel on the drones side. Slowing his breathing to mask his approach, he waited while the standing soldier finished his sentence before lifting the ax up above his head... and bringing it down two handed on the soldiers unprotected head. A sickening crunch and a pop was all that could be heard as the mans head was cleaved in two, and Jack's ax sank itself deep. Letting go of the handle, he ripped the hunting knife from it's sheath and buried it in the other soldiers neck just as he was turning around to investigate the noise, Jack made quick work of the man. Standing back up to his full height, Jack pulled his ax from the soldiers body and cleaned both weapons on the dead men's uniforms, before heading back into the forest to collect his pack and weapons.

Without a glance backwards, Jack collected one of the men's helmets, put it on and mounted one of the bikes; and rode off down the path in search of the Blue Mountain Camp.

[Castle Crashers]

Tanner Stratton
Tanner puts down his gun and wraps his arm around his sister. "Hey sis," he says. "You ok?"
While not much older than her, Tanner is very protective. If she isn't getting enough food, water, protection, or is being abused in any way, he will track down the perpetrator and knock them on their ass, feeding into why he wants to kill some Rooskis and Chinks so bad.

"Yeah, I'm alright." Abigail replied, a smile on her face. "I see you're still keeping that gun in good condition. I bet Dad would've been proud of you." She didn't like to speak of him in past tense, but they had no way of knowing if he was still...alive. That stung, too, knowing that those foreigners had probably killed her father, and she could do nothing of it.

[Sanabel]

"I've got to keep it in good condition, so I can get a better weapon." Looking around the room, he sees no one is talking. Lowering his voice, he continues, "I'm worried about you going into combat, when the time comes. I don't want anything to happen to you."

[Castle Crashers]

"I've got to keep it in good condition, so I can get a better weapon." Looking around the room, he sees no one is talking. Lowering his voice, he continues, "I'm worried about you going into combat, when the time comes. I don't want anything to happen to you."

"I'll be alright, Tanner. I'm only there to help the wounded; I won't be fighting. Most of the time I'll be in the cover of buildings and stuff. I'm the one who should be worried...you're going right into the line of fire, Tanner." Abigail replied, turning her blue eyes to look up into his brown ones. "I know I can't stop you from going...but just be careful, okay?"

[Sanabel]

"I've got to keep it in good condition, so I can get a better weapon." Looking around the room, he sees no one is talking. Lowering his voice, he continues, "I'm worried about you going into combat, when the time comes. I don't want anything to happen to you."

"I'll be alright, Tanner. I'm only there to help the wounded; I won't be fighting. Most of the time I'll be in the cover of buildings and stuff. I'm the one who should be worried...you're going right into the line of fire, Tanner." Abigail replied, turning her blue eyes to look up into his brown ones. "I know I can't stop you from going...but just be careful, okay?"

"I will be careful, sis. But I need to do this to keep you safe in the long run," he starts to get a bit teary eyed, but he soon pushes that away, resuming a steely eyed and determined look. "And I need to do this for Mom and Dad."

[The Danish Confederacy]

July 3rd, 2016
Forest Surrounding the BMC

Travis had decided to get some fresh air. Living in a cave can screw with your senses. So as he walked outside, he loaded his S&W PC 1911 and holstered it cocked and locked. he had to defend himself from the RSB, and it wouldn't be smart to fight with your fists. He was just trying to survive, like everyone else.

[Vacif]

July 3rd, 2016
Blue Ridge Mountain Camp
Garden

After harvesting the potatoes, they were carried off to the kitchen for preparation. Brandon stayed behind to check on the plants, all of which were in healthy shape, there wasn't much to be done, so he signed off of garden duty to get some training in. He already had his Vityaz-SN, what he perceived as the Russian's answer to the MP5, and he'd done his morning workout routine already, so it'd probably do him some good to log in some hours at the range. It was roughly midday, and lunch had yet to be served, he wondered briefly if the potatoes would be saved for another time, or for their next meal. Navigating through the dirty grey walls of the bunker, he made it to the range, and signed in. There wasn't much in the way of targets, so the range was mostly filled with junk, or garbage for people to shoot at, mostly tin cans though. The upside however was that they had plenty of ammunition, especially 9mm. Grabbing a few magazines for himself, he stood in the improvised shooting booth, and put on the pair of goggles, and ear protectors. Slotting in a new magazine, he leaned forward slightly, and took aim, it was an empty box of Froot Loops. He fired off a quick burst, blowing it off the stand.

[Skegness-on-Pirn]

3 July, 2016
SSG Jackson Taylor
Blue Ridge Mountain Camp

Jackson looked around at the inside of the BMC from his bunk, which was amongst several proper bunks brought west from Fort Bragg when the first of the American military personnel attempted to hold positions in Asheville, NC. Now, the bunks found their home in the BMC, unlike many of the unfortunate soldiers who lost their lives defending their nation. Jackson noted several things from his bunk. There was a younger man cleaning a revolver on a cot, and not far away was a young woman attempting to care for a sickly pet. There was one man wandering around the BMC, seemingly with a lot on his mind. Then, Jackson saw a young woman reminiscing over some photographs. Jackson, a seasoned military man, knew the importance of photographs. He had been married once, but his wife had been killed during the invasion, along with Jackson's three year old son. The loss of his family didn't send Jackson into despair, but rather drove him forward in his will to fight against the enemy. He was distracted by his thoughts by a young woman whom Jackson had gotten to know quite well in the recent weeks in the BMC. Anna Bachmann was a German student who had become trapped in the United States by the sudden war. She was really quite friendly, and Jackson had befriended her rather quickly. She had volunteered from the start of the BMC residency as a patrol-team member, but Jackson had been hesitant to allow her along. A football player from an early age, Anna quickly proved her worth as an excellent athlete, and a quick learner in the firing range. Now, she was signalling to Jackson that it was time to gather a patrol group.

Jackson stood up, sighing, greeting Anna Bachmann as she approached him. They didn't speak much with each other, as Anna was more comfortable speaking German, but they were at a point where they didn't need words to communicate. The two patrol leaders walked to the small speaking area at one end of the BMC, then Jackson turned on the microphone. "Attention, BMC residents. This is Staff Sergeant Jackson Taylor, although I figure y'all know me already. I am bringing out another patrol, and I am requesting volunteers. This will be an armed patrol, so I expect fifteen people maximum gathered here at the podium. Anna will hand volunteers slips to retrieve weapons at the armoury, so please don't rush. Our objective is to find food in the town of Linville, which is likely abandoned. Please begin gathering now. We will leave in thirty minutes."

[The Danish Confederacy]

3 July, 2016
SSG Jackson Taylor
Blue Ridge Mountain Camp

Jackson looked around at the inside of the BMC from his bunk, which was amongst several proper bunks brought west from Fort Bragg when the first of the American military personnel attempted to hold positions in Asheville, NC. Now, the bunks found their home in the BMC, unlike many of the unfortunate soldiers who lost their lives defending their nation. Jackson noted several things from his bunk. There was a younger man cleaning a revolver on a cot, and not far away was a young woman attempting to care for a sickly pet. There was one man wandering around the BMC, seemingly with a lot on his mind. Then, Jackson saw a young woman reminiscing over some photographs. Jackson, a seasoned military man, knew the importance of photographs. He had been married once, but his wife had been killed during the invasion, along with Jackson's three year old son. The loss of his family didn't send Jackson into despair, but rather drove him forward in his will to fight against the enemy. He was distracted by his thoughts by a young woman whom Jackson had gotten to know quite well in the recent weeks in the BMC. Anna Bachmann was a German student who had become trapped in the United States by the sudden war. She was really quite friendly, and Jackson had befriended her rather quickly. She had volunteered from the start of the BMC residency as a patrol-team member, but Jackson had been hesitant to allow her along. A football player from an early age, Anna quickly proved her worth as an excellent athlete, and a quick learner in the firing range. Now, she was signalling to Jackson that it was time to gather a patrol group.

Jackson stood up, sighing, greeting Anna Bachmann as she approached him. They didn't speak much with each other, as Anna was more comfortable speaking German, but they were at a point where they didn't need words to communicate. The two patrol leaders walked to the small speaking area at one end of the BMC, then Jackson turned on the microphone. "Attention, BMC residents. This is Staff Sergeant Jackson Taylor, although I figure y'all know me already. I am bringing out another patrol, and I am requesting volunteers. This will be an armed patrol, so I expect fifteen people maximum gathered here at the podium. Anna will hand volunteers slips to retrieve weapons at the armoury, so please don't rush. Our objective is to find food in the town of Linville, which is likely abandoned. Please begin gathering now. We will leave in thirty minutes."

Travis heard the call for a patrol, and immediately went and volunteered for the patrol. He stood there waiting for whatever needed to be done.

[Lancearc]

As they so often were these recent days, Rob found his thoughts interrupted sufdenly. It used to be every time he heard the sharp cracks of gunfire he wouldn't quite be able to think clearly, but his time at Blueridge had seen him grow accustomed enough to the noise that it only sometimes made him perk up, to confirm that they weren't under attack. It wasn't a rifle shot that so rudely cut in however, it was an announcement broadcast to the camp as a whole. The staff sergeant wasn't someone that Rob knew particularly well, though he was familiar. He remembered at one point, very early in his stay, asking him, and several other soldiers, if they were able to identify any of the soldiers that had rescued him, offering a photograph he'd taken of his savior as they escaped Washington as a reference. None of them knew anything about the platoon, predictably.

The announcement wasn't some kind of trivial reminder though, it was of some importance to him. Rob had noted his lack of field experience in terms of actually operating and fighting with his comrades some time ago, and since had pledged silently to himself that he would take whatever actions he could to attempt to become something more than a useless civvie carrying a military grade rifle. He felt like otherwise, the soldiers looked down on him. Besides, all the best shots were captured in the field. Only this time, it would be 'fire weapon first, photographs second.' An odd change, but one that he was willing to make.

Rob didn't waste any time, jogging to the summons if the staff sergeant, noting a few eager volunteers already lining up. With his camera dangling near his left hip, he came to a halt with a slight nod to the camp's acting leader, waiting to be addressed.

[Vacif]

SNIP

Brandon took off his earmuffs once he was done practicing. Placing them back on the carved wood panel, with the shooting glasses. The shooting stalls were made out of wood, someone someday decided just having tables weren't good enough, so they, along with a few others got together to make the stalls. It took months of work (Getting the materials proved a large pain), but it paid off. The resistance had at least most of a proper shooting range. He checked out with the "quartermaster", handing in his Vityaz-SN. With most of his to-do list complete for the day, Brandon decided to retire to his sleeping bag.

Unlike majority of the Bunker's residents, he slept outside, near the entrance, he often took part in the night patrol. He lived in a tent, which was shared, just like most of the things in the bunker. Space was a commodity. Sitting down by his tent, he took out his sketchpad, draw something pretty, pass the time 'till lunch was served. Before he could imprint anything on the slightly yellowed paper, the good staff sergeant made his announcement. "Better than this..." he mumbled to himself. It wasn't that he disliked drawing, or writing, quite the contrary, he simply liked action better. He was about to leave, but noticed that if they were to go on a supply run, even if the area was likely abandoned, a bright red shirt like his would be quite noticeable. He crawled into the medium sized tent, and was careful not to accidentally step on his roommate's things. Looking around for a few seconds, he found what he was looking for. A faded, dark brown leather jacket. It was a gift from his aunt for when he passed flight school. His mind briefly lingered on the thought of his aunt, if she were okay, or if she were dead. Not wanting to linger on such thoughts, he grabbed the jacket and slipped it on, effectively covering the red flannel shirt underneath. Crawling back out, he zipped the tent shut, he really didn't need bugs getting into the tent.

Quickly, he jogged towards where the volunteers were supposed to meet. A lineup of individuals from across the bunker were in neat single file lines, awaiting orders. Monkey see, monkey do, he got in line. He didn't recognize very many of them, some were "fresh faced", while others were more hardened, having seen real combat. Brandon himself, while participating in several patrols, and many night shifts, hadn't actually seen combat, or at least killed anybody. Most of that was handled by the more veteran members of the resistance, he was usually there as extra muscle, and to help with heavy lifting, or to operate vehicles. Looking himself over, he felt his appearance was satisfactory. Looking ahead, he thought to where they were headed. A food run in Linville. He'd never been there, but he bet it was nice before the RSB came. Hell, he bet many places were nice before they came. It would only be a matter of time before they were pushed out, and America would be free again.

[Sanabel]

Tanner gives his sister a hug. "I love you sis. Take care of yourself. I'm sorry, but I need to go on this patrol." Holstering his pistol and throwing on his canvas jacket he stands up. That canvas jacket had been with him since forever. It was originally a gift from his father, when he was around eight. Much too big for him, he used to try to wear it around the farm like the grownups around him, in the stables, in the pastures, everywhere he went. It became his lucky jacket, for everytime he wore it during a horse race, one of his father's horses won. When he went to college, he left it en lieu of more sophisticated, urbanwear. Once he got back to the farm, he wore it again. He needs the luck, especially since he will be going head on with the enemy soon. The smell of hay and horses it emits reminds him of home, which helped to give him the strength to proceed while on the trails down to the BMC. Especially when his horse died, his childhood favorite, Sadie. He had to put her down after she broke her leg, using this very jacket as a way to muffle the sound of the gunshot from his pistol, used to put down the animal. This worn, stained, olive jacket had been with him through thick and thin, and it would be with him now.

"I'll be back soon." Not one for goodbyes, Tanner leaves his sister with few words. He heads out, walking between the bunks with a purpose, suppressing his feelings of guilt for abandoning his sister, fear of the enemy, and fear of death, replacing them with feelings of anger and a lust for vengeance. As he walks by a small family, with a crying mother comforting her equally upset daughter, a little boy, presumably her son, reaches up, tugging on his jacket. "Yeah kid?" He asks the boy. "Are you going on the patrol?" He asks. Tanner replies, "Yeah, why?" The little boy stares up for a second then says with faux confidence, "I'm coming with you!" The little boy hops to his feet. "No, you're not." Tanner gets down to the boy's level. "You're not coming with me. We're going out there so you don't have to, so you can be safe in here." The little boy gets teary eyed. "My dad was killed in the last patrol," he begins to weep. Tanner pats him on the shoulder and says, "I will avenge your father. But you're not going to." As he gets up to leave, the little boy tugs on his coat again. "Wait!" Tanner turns around. "Yeah?" he asks. The boy grabs his hand, and shoves something into it, then pushes him onward. As Tanner keeps walking, he opens his hand. Its a handful of six assorted bullets. Three .45s, two .22, one .308. Chuckling, he puts them in his pocket. He reaches the group waiting for the patrol and stands, silently, pistol holstered, boots on tight, knife strapped firmly to his thigh. He was ready.
Looking around at the others, he sees some that are better armed than he; most actually. But as soon as he can, he will grab some Chink's gear. While they are all armed at varying degrees, they all have a desire for revenge and the same steely eyed gaze.

[Gvozdevsk]

Four months ago, Zvezdana Pavlovic had never even touched a real gun. However, upon arriving at the guerrilla hideout in the Blue Ridge Mountains alongside a group of resistance fighters fleeing from Virginia, she was almost immediately handed a strange looking firearm that looked more like something out of a science fiction movie, which she soon came to know as a QBZ-95-1 assault rifle equipped with a QLG-10A grenade launcher. Having no other skills of use to an insurgent force, it was decided she was a good candidate to train on a more "specialized" weapon, in the case the grenade launcher attached to her rifle. She had become proficient with the rifle, now able to field strip or reassemble the rifle within ten seconds, clear stoppages and shoot the rifle accurately.

Now, Zvezdana sat on her cot, her rifle disassembled in front of her. Once a a young woman who tried to dress well and keep up with fashion trends, her fashionable clothes had been replaced with camouflage pants that were too big for her in the Russian Izlom pattern and a white leather jacket that she had owned before fleeing Virginia which was expensive and made by a high fashion brand, but was now dirty and starting to show wear. Still, it was her most durable piece of clothing, and she brought it with her for that reason.

Zvezdana started to inspect the various parts of the rifle to see if anything needed cleaning, which it shouldn't have, considering the rifle had not been fired recently. And very unsurprisingly, there was no wear or fouling on the bolt carrier, a clear barrel, clean bore, all the springs were in working order. With everything functioning, she quickly reassembled the rifle, inserted a magazine loaded with 5.8mm rounds, quickly pulled back and released the charging handle in a single swift motion, chambering a round and set the rifle to safe. She then took the magazine out of the rifle and loaded a single 5.8mm round, replacing the round in the chamber. She then rocked the magazine back into place, giving herself 31 rounds before requiring a magazine change as opposed to 30. As she had been told by a weapons instructor when she first arrived at the camp, a special forces operative of some sort who had served in Afghanistan, that extra round you can get in before your first magazine change could be the difference between life and death.

With the rifle reassembled, Zvezdana turned her attention to the 35mm grenade launcher, still detached from the rifle. She knew the basics of the launcher and how to use it, but she hadn't fired it yet as no practice rounds had been seized from the Chinese, and the high explosive rounds were to valuable to waste. The launcher was perfectly clean, but Zvezdana gave the barrel a quick brush anyway. Convinced it was clean enough, she reattached the grenade launcher to the rifle and propped the fully assembled rifle against her cot.

Zvezdana looked around her small amount of personal space. She had her rifle perched against the cot, under the cot were a pair of old desert tan American issued women's combat boots with a name written on the inside that was impossible to make out at this point, a box of Chinese military issue 5.8mm rounds, and a Chinese load bearing vest on which she carried six QBZ-95 magazines, ten 35mm grenades, and a QBZ-95 bayonet, which could never be attached to the rifle because of the grenade launcher. There were enough pouches on the vest to hold another two magazines and four hand grenades, but this was all she was given. The section of wall around her cot was empty, save for some carvings she had made with her bayonet of some basic shapes, hearts and stars, as well as her name, in the concrete wall. Most of the others had pictures to put up, but she had nothing save for a copy of the last photo her family had taken together, about a year before the war began. Zvezdana and her parents had flown out to Seattle, where her younger brother had a football scholarship, so they could watch him play football. Before the game, they had taken a family photo together, her brother in his football uniform. All of her other pictures were on Facebook and Instagram, now inaccessible because of enemy occupation.

Zvezdana looked at the picture. Her parents stayed in Richmond, and she was pretty sure they were safe. But she didn't know about her brother. He was on the other side of the country and she had no way of knowing what had happened to him. Even though he was younger, he had always acted as if he was an older brother to Zvezdana. She couldn't imagine what it would be like to lose him. But that wasn't something she could think about right now. Besides, for all she knew, at some point in this war she could end up meeting up with her brother again, maybe even end up saving him from death, returning the favor for the time he had beaten up an ex-boyfriend who desperately wanted Zvezdana back.

Zvezdana's thoughts about her family were interrupted by Staff Sergent Taylor, the Army Ranger who was, essentially, the commander of the Blue Ridge resistance. He was looking for volunteers to go on a supply run into the nearby town of Linville. Zvezdana had been feeling a need to get outside and get some fresh air anyway, so she put on her boots and load bearing vest, slung her rifle behind her back, and made her way to where the volunteers were assembling.