Post by Traveling Riverside Roj on Sept 20, 2010 22:58:21 GMT -6
Coup de Grâce is practically a CYOA-ised version of an old story project of mine of the same name. Once the events of the prologue have been concluded, it is revealed to have taken place some twenty-five years after the Earth was blown to hell in the fires of atomic warfare.
I can't really give a more detailed over-view of the plot, as your votes --instead of solely my own decisions-- will determind the majority of the story, along with the setting, protonagist, conditions, etc.
Note: Sorry, but some of the words are pre-censored, as the site I had originally posted it on has a shitty censorship system, fortunately it will only be like that for the prologue.
Prologue
29th October, 1962
Moscow, Russian SFSR, Union of Soviet Socialist Republics
Moscow Kremlin
Four men were sitting at a table in an annonymous room in the Moscow Krelmin, probably some high-ranking fellow's office. They were all dressed impressively in either Chinese silk or fine Italian linen, and several military medals hanged from each one of their jackets. Their fat fingers were decorated with even fatter rings made of materials so precious, that one could only find them in an Egyptian pharaoh's tomb, and their shoes literately sparkled from the obsessive amounts of polish they endured.
The only thing that was equally impressive to their attire was the office itself: its windows were cleaned oh-so-very fluently that one could see through it as though the window itself was not there; the table was made of the finest (not to mention shiniest) wood available and, if one was to rub their hand on it for some reason, it would literately make a pleasant squeak-like noise; the carpetting was made of expensive material not suitable for walking on, but damn-straight it looked fine; must I describe the beautiful, expensive glass chandolier that hanged from above?
A place of this expense, of this beauty could only be fit for an emporer, and so were these four people. Emporers. Not in the "definite" nor "offical" sense, but in the figurtive and literale senses. These four men pracitcally ruled the Earth, and any one country that resisted their influence were bombarded, annexed, invaded, or simply crushed. National Socialist Germany and the assination attempts on anti-Stalinist Yugoslav Josep Broz Tito being the most notable examples.
This "imperial" lot were made up of Karl Kruckova of the USSR; Jack Johnson representing the United States; Dao Reona of the People's Republic of China, and British prime minister Harold McMahon. Two Capitalistic power-players and two communistic power-players: needless to say, their economic and political differences constantly got them into arguments, and they very rarely agreed on one such thing. Nevertheless, at this moment, they're arguing about the status of Soviet missiles being stationed in Cuba. While Kruckova had excuses, everyone --including Kruckova himself-- knew they were there so the Russians would be better armed if and when nuclear warfare occured.
"Now, Mister Johnson," Began Karl Kruckova, who sat at the very end of the table; opposite of that of Johnson. "I do realise that you feel... er... uncomfortable --so to speak-- with our missiles stationed so close to the United States, in Havana, nonetheless you must realise that we are only stationing our weapons there for self-defensive purposes. And," Kruckova made a sarcastic smile, paused, and then continued.
"I do believe your... 'constitution' mentioned something about that."
McMahon, Dao, and Kruckova chuckled briefly, however, Johnson did not appear to be amused. "-This is no time for your little 'jokes', Kruckova!" Johnson replied sternly; obviously pissed. He symbolised this by pounding his fist violently against the shiny table. "I want your damned missiles out of Cuba, or I will--"
"-Or you will what?'
Kruckova cut him short, although he did not sound as sarcastic nor warm as he did a few moments ago; now he too sounded pissed. Offended, even.
"Or you'll 'remove them by force'? That sh!t will not fly with Fidel, my yankee aquantince." He slowly began to rise from his chair, and his facial expression began to twist with anger. Johnson too rose from his chair, however he did so quite quickly, and he appeared more irritated than angered.
"-To hell with Castro and his pinko band of guerillas!" Came the reply. "I will not keep a caution to the lives of millions of innocent Americans just so you will feel more 'safe' and so Castro will not become angered. Pffft, I will kill Castro and make his island a burning ******* memory if I have to!"
"-Kill Castro?!"
Dao interupted. "Johnson, you must be out of your god damned mind! You could provoke nuclear warfa--"
"-And that is the whole point of this so-called 'Cold War', Dao." Johnson said. Kruckova at first looked as though he was about to say something, however, he simply slowly sank back into his chair while muttering a few unpleasant things in Russian. "-Look, Mister Johnson, Mister Kruckova; calm down." A British voice muttered after an awkward pause; no doubt it was McMahon's, however neither Kruckova nor Johnson cared to confirm. "Let's just bring the Soviet missiles back to Moscow, and in return the Americans," McMahon made a hand gesture at Johnson. "Will promise to seldom invade Cuba again, and to increase trade and social conditions with the USSR, the PRC, Cuba and other Socialist nations. See? Win-win for us all--"
Although McMahon's proposal sounded quite civil and was the right thing to do, it seemed as though Johnson and Kruckova refused to see the reason in it. Violence, arguably, gets sh!t done. Negotions, also arguably, do not.
"-Be silent, Brit!" Johnson hissed, before redirecting his attention to Kruckova. "I refuse to listen to this trash! Either you remove those missiles without condition, or we go to war!" He pounded his left fist on the table once more as though he thought this feeble attempt would intimidate his Russian opponet, although it presumably did not.
Kruckova's face progressively calmed, and then his lips twisted into a smile, and he suddenly began to laugh szhisophrenically; as if for no reason. Johnson, somewhat confused, glanced at both Dao and McMahon to see if they understood why Krushchev was laughing, however their facial expressions told Johnson that they were also quite confused.
Still laughing, Kruckova slowly put his hand into the breast pocket of his suit jacket, and yelled, "I am one ******* step ahead of you!" He unholstered a shiny black 9mm luger from his jacket, and quickly proceeded to aim it at Johnson's forehead. And then...
BAM!
The American president collapsed onto his chair, before tumbling to the ground with a freshly-made, black hole in his head. Kruckova then redirected his aim at McMahon who --paralysed with shock-- began studdering. "-I--I--Kruckova, wha--"
BAM! BAM! BAM!
The Briton's neck split open and blood splattered all over the then-clean table and onto his own clothes. McMahon began to choke and grasp his neck for a few moments involuntarily, but then he too collapsed to the ground and began to slowly suffocate; he was dying a slow, terrible death.
"-Damn," Dao, the only surviving member of this "imperial meeting" other than Kruckova somehow calmly exclaimed, as though Kruckova had merely stomped on a rat. He got up from his seat --which was located tatically inbetween that of Johnson's and Kruckova's--, and began to walk towards Kruckova, as if to confront him. When he spoke to the Russian, his mood changed instantly from calm to crazed. "What the **** was that, Kruck'?! That sh!t is going to provoke a nuclear war! Just because they are Capitalists, it doesn't mean they are not untouchable!" Kruckova, who was fidgeting with the luger, simply smirked. "-Well, let's just say I am ending the war declared by Karl Marx, proposed by Vladimir Lenin, and administered by Iosef Stalin. We all have to go through painful sacrifices in love and war, my dear Dao." Dao simply sighed, and nodded in somewhat-agreement.
"And in order to win that war... Capitalism must not only be abolished..." Kruckova muttered under his breath. "The pseudo-communist Maoists must be eliminated, too..."
Since Dao was a communist and in affiliation with Kruckova, he naturally did not see this coming: the Russian grabbed him by the collar of his coat, and then slammed the barrel of the luger into his chest, before unloading the rest of his pistol's magazine into the poor Chinese's torso. Two of the bullets pierced his heart, and he fell fatal before screeching out a single word,
"Traitor!"
After knocking Dao's corpse to the ground, Kruckova rushed to a nearby telephone that was located on a wall opposite of him, picked up the phone, and dialed a number.
"Hello? Georgy?" He said after putting the phone to his ear.
"-Yes? Mister Kruckova?"
Came the voice from the other line.
"-Yes, it's me. Set up a press confrence and tell the Moscow press that the Americans attempted to ambush Dao, McMahon, Johnson, and I en route to the Kremlin and successfully assasinated Dao and McMahon... oh, and tell them that Johnson was accidentally killed in the crossfire, and that I am the only survivor. Message recieved?"
There was a pause. And then the other voice grunted and replied,
"-Message recieved."
"-Oh, and Georgy, before you 'hang up'..."
"-Yes, Mister Kruckova?"
"-Tell our military commanders to launch our atomic stockpiles in Havana, Leningrad, and Moscow at the United States. To hell with this psuedo-Cold War rubbish, we're going to show these sukyes how real men fight!"
And with those final words, Krukova slammed the phone onto the reciever, and glanced mournfully at his opponets' corpses.
It's going to take a hell of a long time to get all of that blood out of the carpets... Sigh, at least one good thing came from this day: it will become the most important day in modern Eurasian history. And I --Karl Krukova-- will be canonised historically as the saviour of the Soviet Union, the destroyer of the West, and the reborn Vladimir Lenin himself.
Karl was partially right; he would be known of the destroyer of the West. In fact, he would be known to be the destroyer of us all.
The next day, the United States, the Soviet Union, and multiple other affiliated nations were engulfed in the flames of nuclear fire. This atomic war had begun on the thirtyith of October, 1962. And on that very same day, so did it --along with humanity-- end, in one horrific explosion that nearly destroyed Earth's surface.
There were only five thousand survivors.
What should the sub-genre of this CYOA be?
A: Horror with spiritual elements. (Takes place in Jamaica, Haiti, Louisiana, or an African country)
B: Survival Horror (Random area)
C: Horror with scientific elements. (Takes place in UK)
D: Horror with adventure elements. (Takes place in Southern Europe)
E: Horror, mixed with all of the said elements. (Random area)
And what should the opponets of the protonagist be?
I: Mostly zombies and things of undead nature. This is a zombie fan site, mind you.
II: Mutants, freaks, retards, practically the uttermost sick shit you'd expect in the aftermath of a nuclear holocaust.
III: Zombies and humans (humans being raiders, bandits, etc).
IV: Humans and mutants.
V: Something new and original.
I can't really give a more detailed over-view of the plot, as your votes --instead of solely my own decisions-- will determind the majority of the story, along with the setting, protonagist, conditions, etc.
Note: Sorry, but some of the words are pre-censored, as the site I had originally posted it on has a shitty censorship system, fortunately it will only be like that for the prologue.
Prologue
29th October, 1962
Moscow, Russian SFSR, Union of Soviet Socialist Republics
Moscow Kremlin
Four men were sitting at a table in an annonymous room in the Moscow Krelmin, probably some high-ranking fellow's office. They were all dressed impressively in either Chinese silk or fine Italian linen, and several military medals hanged from each one of their jackets. Their fat fingers were decorated with even fatter rings made of materials so precious, that one could only find them in an Egyptian pharaoh's tomb, and their shoes literately sparkled from the obsessive amounts of polish they endured.
The only thing that was equally impressive to their attire was the office itself: its windows were cleaned oh-so-very fluently that one could see through it as though the window itself was not there; the table was made of the finest (not to mention shiniest) wood available and, if one was to rub their hand on it for some reason, it would literately make a pleasant squeak-like noise; the carpetting was made of expensive material not suitable for walking on, but damn-straight it looked fine; must I describe the beautiful, expensive glass chandolier that hanged from above?
A place of this expense, of this beauty could only be fit for an emporer, and so were these four people. Emporers. Not in the "definite" nor "offical" sense, but in the figurtive and literale senses. These four men pracitcally ruled the Earth, and any one country that resisted their influence were bombarded, annexed, invaded, or simply crushed. National Socialist Germany and the assination attempts on anti-Stalinist Yugoslav Josep Broz Tito being the most notable examples.
This "imperial" lot were made up of Karl Kruckova of the USSR; Jack Johnson representing the United States; Dao Reona of the People's Republic of China, and British prime minister Harold McMahon. Two Capitalistic power-players and two communistic power-players: needless to say, their economic and political differences constantly got them into arguments, and they very rarely agreed on one such thing. Nevertheless, at this moment, they're arguing about the status of Soviet missiles being stationed in Cuba. While Kruckova had excuses, everyone --including Kruckova himself-- knew they were there so the Russians would be better armed if and when nuclear warfare occured.
"Now, Mister Johnson," Began Karl Kruckova, who sat at the very end of the table; opposite of that of Johnson. "I do realise that you feel... er... uncomfortable --so to speak-- with our missiles stationed so close to the United States, in Havana, nonetheless you must realise that we are only stationing our weapons there for self-defensive purposes. And," Kruckova made a sarcastic smile, paused, and then continued.
"I do believe your... 'constitution' mentioned something about that."
McMahon, Dao, and Kruckova chuckled briefly, however, Johnson did not appear to be amused. "-This is no time for your little 'jokes', Kruckova!" Johnson replied sternly; obviously pissed. He symbolised this by pounding his fist violently against the shiny table. "I want your damned missiles out of Cuba, or I will--"
"-Or you will what?'
Kruckova cut him short, although he did not sound as sarcastic nor warm as he did a few moments ago; now he too sounded pissed. Offended, even.
"Or you'll 'remove them by force'? That sh!t will not fly with Fidel, my yankee aquantince." He slowly began to rise from his chair, and his facial expression began to twist with anger. Johnson too rose from his chair, however he did so quite quickly, and he appeared more irritated than angered.
"-To hell with Castro and his pinko band of guerillas!" Came the reply. "I will not keep a caution to the lives of millions of innocent Americans just so you will feel more 'safe' and so Castro will not become angered. Pffft, I will kill Castro and make his island a burning ******* memory if I have to!"
"-Kill Castro?!"
Dao interupted. "Johnson, you must be out of your god damned mind! You could provoke nuclear warfa--"
"-And that is the whole point of this so-called 'Cold War', Dao." Johnson said. Kruckova at first looked as though he was about to say something, however, he simply slowly sank back into his chair while muttering a few unpleasant things in Russian. "-Look, Mister Johnson, Mister Kruckova; calm down." A British voice muttered after an awkward pause; no doubt it was McMahon's, however neither Kruckova nor Johnson cared to confirm. "Let's just bring the Soviet missiles back to Moscow, and in return the Americans," McMahon made a hand gesture at Johnson. "Will promise to seldom invade Cuba again, and to increase trade and social conditions with the USSR, the PRC, Cuba and other Socialist nations. See? Win-win for us all--"
Although McMahon's proposal sounded quite civil and was the right thing to do, it seemed as though Johnson and Kruckova refused to see the reason in it. Violence, arguably, gets sh!t done. Negotions, also arguably, do not.
"-Be silent, Brit!" Johnson hissed, before redirecting his attention to Kruckova. "I refuse to listen to this trash! Either you remove those missiles without condition, or we go to war!" He pounded his left fist on the table once more as though he thought this feeble attempt would intimidate his Russian opponet, although it presumably did not.
Kruckova's face progressively calmed, and then his lips twisted into a smile, and he suddenly began to laugh szhisophrenically; as if for no reason. Johnson, somewhat confused, glanced at both Dao and McMahon to see if they understood why Krushchev was laughing, however their facial expressions told Johnson that they were also quite confused.
Still laughing, Kruckova slowly put his hand into the breast pocket of his suit jacket, and yelled, "I am one ******* step ahead of you!" He unholstered a shiny black 9mm luger from his jacket, and quickly proceeded to aim it at Johnson's forehead. And then...
BAM!
The American president collapsed onto his chair, before tumbling to the ground with a freshly-made, black hole in his head. Kruckova then redirected his aim at McMahon who --paralysed with shock-- began studdering. "-I--I--Kruckova, wha--"
BAM! BAM! BAM!
The Briton's neck split open and blood splattered all over the then-clean table and onto his own clothes. McMahon began to choke and grasp his neck for a few moments involuntarily, but then he too collapsed to the ground and began to slowly suffocate; he was dying a slow, terrible death.
"-Damn," Dao, the only surviving member of this "imperial meeting" other than Kruckova somehow calmly exclaimed, as though Kruckova had merely stomped on a rat. He got up from his seat --which was located tatically inbetween that of Johnson's and Kruckova's--, and began to walk towards Kruckova, as if to confront him. When he spoke to the Russian, his mood changed instantly from calm to crazed. "What the **** was that, Kruck'?! That sh!t is going to provoke a nuclear war! Just because they are Capitalists, it doesn't mean they are not untouchable!" Kruckova, who was fidgeting with the luger, simply smirked. "-Well, let's just say I am ending the war declared by Karl Marx, proposed by Vladimir Lenin, and administered by Iosef Stalin. We all have to go through painful sacrifices in love and war, my dear Dao." Dao simply sighed, and nodded in somewhat-agreement.
"And in order to win that war... Capitalism must not only be abolished..." Kruckova muttered under his breath. "The pseudo-communist Maoists must be eliminated, too..."
Since Dao was a communist and in affiliation with Kruckova, he naturally did not see this coming: the Russian grabbed him by the collar of his coat, and then slammed the barrel of the luger into his chest, before unloading the rest of his pistol's magazine into the poor Chinese's torso. Two of the bullets pierced his heart, and he fell fatal before screeching out a single word,
"Traitor!"
After knocking Dao's corpse to the ground, Kruckova rushed to a nearby telephone that was located on a wall opposite of him, picked up the phone, and dialed a number.
"Hello? Georgy?" He said after putting the phone to his ear.
"-Yes? Mister Kruckova?"
Came the voice from the other line.
"-Yes, it's me. Set up a press confrence and tell the Moscow press that the Americans attempted to ambush Dao, McMahon, Johnson, and I en route to the Kremlin and successfully assasinated Dao and McMahon... oh, and tell them that Johnson was accidentally killed in the crossfire, and that I am the only survivor. Message recieved?"
There was a pause. And then the other voice grunted and replied,
"-Message recieved."
"-Oh, and Georgy, before you 'hang up'..."
"-Yes, Mister Kruckova?"
"-Tell our military commanders to launch our atomic stockpiles in Havana, Leningrad, and Moscow at the United States. To hell with this psuedo-Cold War rubbish, we're going to show these sukyes how real men fight!"
And with those final words, Krukova slammed the phone onto the reciever, and glanced mournfully at his opponets' corpses.
It's going to take a hell of a long time to get all of that blood out of the carpets... Sigh, at least one good thing came from this day: it will become the most important day in modern Eurasian history. And I --Karl Krukova-- will be canonised historically as the saviour of the Soviet Union, the destroyer of the West, and the reborn Vladimir Lenin himself.
Karl was partially right; he would be known of the destroyer of the West. In fact, he would be known to be the destroyer of us all.
The next day, the United States, the Soviet Union, and multiple other affiliated nations were engulfed in the flames of nuclear fire. This atomic war had begun on the thirtyith of October, 1962. And on that very same day, so did it --along with humanity-- end, in one horrific explosion that nearly destroyed Earth's surface.
There were only five thousand survivors.
What should the sub-genre of this CYOA be?
A: Horror with spiritual elements. (Takes place in Jamaica, Haiti, Louisiana, or an African country)
B: Survival Horror (Random area)
C: Horror with scientific elements. (Takes place in UK)
D: Horror with adventure elements. (Takes place in Southern Europe)
E: Horror, mixed with all of the said elements. (Random area)
And what should the opponets of the protonagist be?
I: Mostly zombies and things of undead nature. This is a zombie fan site, mind you.
II: Mutants, freaks, retards, practically the uttermost sick shit you'd expect in the aftermath of a nuclear holocaust.
III: Zombies and humans (humans being raiders, bandits, etc).
IV: Humans and mutants.
V: Something new and original.