Day TWENTY-TWO is saved, thanks to ME, via VOICE

[omnomfuckyeah]

[yeah, that machine gun? The whole island should probably be able to hear it going off right now.]

DIE DIE DIE DIE DIE DIE FOR THE LOVE OF GOD, DIE!!

[he's hyperventilating, on the verge of downright sobbing, and the LP bumps against him as he turns and twists in his spot, paranoia eating away at any sense of what's actually around him]

D-don't

Comments

[voice and action]

[fractiousfroggy]

[a little pause and a low sound that could almost be a chuckle]

Crazies shouldn't be left alone in the woods~

[the voice post cuts out, but Fran decides to get his gear on and goes tracking America - it doesn't take long with the LP GPS thing in place and his quick moving, jumping through the trees like a ninja.

he sits crouched on a tree branch dressed in black leather with beige trim and his oversized black frog hat on his head, peering down at America]

Oh, hello there, crazy.

[action]

[omnomfuckyeah]

[he barely notices any of the responses to his post, gripping his gun like a lifeline, shaking as he turns in his spot frantically, and that voice from up above? Scared him shitless. Thus he pulls the trigger instinctively and drags the machine gun up in a swift rainbow-shaped motion aimed towards the tree tops, shooting whatever may be there.]

O-oh god, oh god, oh god... [he stops, holding the gun tight to his chest, tears bubbling in his eyes] Wh-who's there?!

[action]

[fractiousfroggy]

[he wasn't quite prepared for that sort of reaction, mind you, it was his own fault for being unprepared in the first place and not putting up an illusory self or anything.

or not moving fast enough. or approaching a stone cold crazy in the dark while zombies were around.

yes, yes. his fault completely. such a shame.

as a spattering of bullets goes through the trees, he does manage to jerk to the side and avoid the worst of them. one of them, however. well. daggers weren't so bad, but a bullet wound - eesh, he hasn't had one in ages and forgot how much they stung - a bullet wound somewhere in the abdominal-type area, that was another deal]

Eep!

[stumbles backward on the branch, but hangs on, spits behind himself when his mouth fills up with blood, and sighs deeply. the bullet hole and blood will probably be next to invisible in the dark and with his black clothing]

It's just me, America! Fran! I came to take you home~

[very chipperly. the hole in him is, after all, his own fault]

[action]

[omnomfuckyeah]

["Home"? That didn't quite compute with him at this point, and the fact that an ally--one that he shot, at that--was in the vicinity almost didn't, either.

He breathes heavily through his mouth, sort of like a pant, as he scans the trees, darting his burning eyes around, but all he sees is black, black, and more black with only a faint light from the sky to guide his vision around.

Swallowing, he loosens his grip on the gun, not noticing the water in his eyes.]

H-home...? [he's hopeful as he ever was, grinning stupidly with a hint of amusement; he wouldn't mind going home, going back to the protests, the drugs, the amendments, the crooked presidents...no, he wouldn't mind at all.]

H-ha ha...as...as if I could be allowed home without a victory under my belt! [Russia's maddening, twisted grin, Vietnam's defiant frown, China's huffy disposition...they flashed in his head like a broken motion picture.]