Francis Bonnefoy (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
silencetoreason) wrote in ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png)
towerofanimus2013-04-08 10:04 pm
silencetoreason) wrote in towerofanimus2013-04-08 10:04 pm
{Un} L'État, C'est Moi
Characters: France and you!
Setting: Dorm room 3-14, Floor 101 (the hanging gardens), the staircase between floors 97 and 100, the elevators, and Floor 1 (the cafeteria). Backdated slightly to before people started disappearing because of the event.
Format: Starting with action, but I'll match you.
Summary: One fabulous, frantic Frenchman wakes up in the Tower, and has a look around.
Warnings: France is a flirtatious guy, so be aware of that when tagging. Also, a fair amount ofsometimes Google translated French. Other than that, nothing, but I'll update if needed.
3-14
Impossible! What a cruel joke! How terrible!
[These are the things that can be heard in dorm room 3-14, where a rather distressed-looking Frenchman is sitting, one hand on his violet collar, the other on his welcome notes. France is no stranger to waking up in strange places with no recollection of how he got there, but the situation he's in today is much weirder than what he's used to. The sleep paralysis was disconcerting, for one thing, and the catsuit and collar are different, too. The more France reads, the more upset he gets, until he's shouting so loudly that the entire floor may well hear him.]
Sacre bleu, this is not funny at all..!
Floor 101
[Once France calms down and changes into normal clothes, he starts to explore his new surroundings, however tentatively. He creeps down the stairs, and when he steps on the glowing stair that transports him to floor 101, he's left momentarily breathless for a variety of reasons. The first and most obvious reason is because he's never been teleported like that before, and the shock of it leaves him bent over and gripping his knees for a few minutes after it happens.
The second reason is because, when he gathers his bearings and looks around, he finds that the floor is absolutely beautiful.]
Mon dieu... [He wanders slowly around the hanging gardens, taking in every detail. His voice is set at a low mutter, as if he's afraid that speaking too loudly will disrupt the fragile beauty of the place.] I can't believe it. How could this..?
[And he trails off, taking in the sights in silence.]
Staircase between floors 97 and 100
[France continues making his way down the Tower ever-so-slowly, until he finally comes upon floor 97 - i.e., the floor covered in gigantic monsters. As soon as he sees them, he does what the gallant people of France are known for.
He turns around and starts to run like hell.
France stumbles up the stairs, taking them two, three at a time, trying not to slip and fall as he goes. Anyone coming down the stairs will have to risk running into a terrified newbie.]
Elevators
[So, once he makes it back up to the dorm levels, France decides that taking the elevator will probably be best. This doesn't mean that he's prepared for how slowly it moves, nor how long it takes to get to the cafeteria where the welcome notes have instructed him to eat a bowl of oatmeal. He leans against the wall and sighs heavily, seeming so inconvenienced that one might wonder if he's laying it on thick on purpose.
He turns to the person he's standing closest to in an attempt to strike up some boredom-eradicating conversation.]
I haven't even been here for a day yet, and already, je vous jure, I am sick of it. What a horrendously inhospitable place, don't you think?
Cafeteria
[Finally, France makes it to the cafeteria. He's prodding at his oatmeal with his spoon, shoulders slumped over, looking as if he's undergoing the worst punishment in the world. He mumbles to himself, stirring the oatmeal around to avoid having to put it in his mouth.]
Disgusting food... So bare, so plain! How do they expect me to 'be happy here' when they cannot even serve a decent meal? [He reluctantly puts a spoonful in his mouth, swallows it with difficulty, and winces.] Like English food, augh...
Setting: Dorm room 3-14, Floor 101 (the hanging gardens), the staircase between floors 97 and 100, the elevators, and Floor 1 (the cafeteria). Backdated slightly to before people started disappearing because of the event.
Format: Starting with action, but I'll match you.
Summary: One fabulous, frantic Frenchman wakes up in the Tower, and has a look around.
Warnings: France is a flirtatious guy, so be aware of that when tagging. Also, a fair amount of
3-14
Impossible! What a cruel joke! How terrible!
[These are the things that can be heard in dorm room 3-14, where a rather distressed-looking Frenchman is sitting, one hand on his violet collar, the other on his welcome notes. France is no stranger to waking up in strange places with no recollection of how he got there, but the situation he's in today is much weirder than what he's used to. The sleep paralysis was disconcerting, for one thing, and the catsuit and collar are different, too. The more France reads, the more upset he gets, until he's shouting so loudly that the entire floor may well hear him.]
Sacre bleu, this is not funny at all..!
Floor 101
[Once France calms down and changes into normal clothes, he starts to explore his new surroundings, however tentatively. He creeps down the stairs, and when he steps on the glowing stair that transports him to floor 101, he's left momentarily breathless for a variety of reasons. The first and most obvious reason is because he's never been teleported like that before, and the shock of it leaves him bent over and gripping his knees for a few minutes after it happens.
The second reason is because, when he gathers his bearings and looks around, he finds that the floor is absolutely beautiful.]
Mon dieu... [He wanders slowly around the hanging gardens, taking in every detail. His voice is set at a low mutter, as if he's afraid that speaking too loudly will disrupt the fragile beauty of the place.] I can't believe it. How could this..?
[And he trails off, taking in the sights in silence.]
Staircase between floors 97 and 100
[France continues making his way down the Tower ever-so-slowly, until he finally comes upon floor 97 - i.e., the floor covered in gigantic monsters. As soon as he sees them, he does what the gallant people of France are known for.
He turns around and starts to run like hell.
France stumbles up the stairs, taking them two, three at a time, trying not to slip and fall as he goes. Anyone coming down the stairs will have to risk running into a terrified newbie.]
Elevators
[So, once he makes it back up to the dorm levels, France decides that taking the elevator will probably be best. This doesn't mean that he's prepared for how slowly it moves, nor how long it takes to get to the cafeteria where the welcome notes have instructed him to eat a bowl of oatmeal. He leans against the wall and sighs heavily, seeming so inconvenienced that one might wonder if he's laying it on thick on purpose.
He turns to the person he's standing closest to in an attempt to strike up some boredom-eradicating conversation.]
I haven't even been here for a day yet, and already, je vous jure, I am sick of it. What a horrendously inhospitable place, don't you think?
Cafeteria
[Finally, France makes it to the cafeteria. He's prodding at his oatmeal with his spoon, shoulders slumped over, looking as if he's undergoing the worst punishment in the world. He mumbles to himself, stirring the oatmeal around to avoid having to put it in his mouth.]
Disgusting food... So bare, so plain! How do they expect me to 'be happy here' when they cannot even serve a decent meal? [He reluctantly puts a spoonful in his mouth, swallows it with difficulty, and winces.] Like English food, augh...
no subject
But France doesn't much feel like laughing right now.]
A day in April that's important to us-- Honestly.
[Despite how strangely empty he's feeling, France does manage to force out a laugh. He steels himself to continue on the train of thought he'd been riding before he was so rudely interrupted by England's fist. For nations, there are countless days of note in any given month, so many that it's impossible to keep track of them all - it can almost be forgiven. But one that happened only 109 brief years ago, and one that France was sure he'd been teasing England about over the phone not too long ago?
A smile lingers on France's lips, playing there like he's amused by all of this, but the rapidly-growing concern in his eyes offsets it by a bit. His tone betrays no strong emotion one way or another when he next speaks, mere words that he forces out as best he can.]
England, today is the Entente Cordiale.
no subject
Before he can finish piecing it together, France helpfully provides him with the answer he's wracking his brain for.
He stares at the other nation, his eyes wide and unblinking with a kind of awe that doesn't have the most positive of connotations. The Entente. Of course. Obviously. And yet— he'd forgotten. Not that it would have been important if France hadn't serendipitously been dropped into the Tower, but he can't remember it last year, and that's bothering him a little more.
He'd been so intent on not having to face what happened to that France. What he saw still makes him sick to think of, and it makes him sicker to think that he avoided it. France had just been so unlike himself, and it reminded England too much of everything else at home he'd lost, to the point where he'd tried not to think about any anniversary that they were mutually supposed to give a damn about.
England draws his knees up slightly, folding one arm across them and using the other to support his bowed head.] Hell. You're not kidding.
[There's a certain amount of distant disbelief in his words that suggests he's stunned at himself for not realising.]
no subject
[The words linger between them for a good long moment, which France spends thinking. He's seen a lot of strange things in this Tower so far, and encountered people he never expected to see. For some reason, though, when it comes to England, France feels like he should have at least had that one constant. An anchor; something to keep him grounded, no matter where he is.
England has always been one of the only things in France's life that he could always count on never to change much. Ever since they were little kids, their formula of mutual antagonism has more or less stayed the same - one of them would get on the other's case for something, the other would give some scathing response, and they'd fight until they both felt better. They've each had their off days, of course, where they'd act meaner or nicer than usual for whatever reason, as was to be expected in beings that were over a thousand years old each. But in all their lives, France had never felt like their relationship had shaken as much as it has today.
...Except, perhaps, for 109 years ago, when he and England signed that treaty and put an end to their hitherto near-constant wars.
And France has to put a hand over his mouth to keep himself from laughing too loudly, because the irony of it all is just too brilliant.]
no subject
He doesn't want to think that he's changed. He won't accept it. It has always been one of his talents not to change if he didn't want to, and to think that he might have done so without even realising is unnerving to an existential degree.
So instead he says:] Serious as the plague. [And considering both of them are two of the few people that can say they've lived through the plague...
God, he really does feel like shit. While "friend" is a bit of a stretch in any attempt to classify France, shared history isn't something they take lightly, and the Entente is one of the rare positive things they have between them. He'd be offended in France's position, too.
Of course, he still hasn't let go of France implying he's crazy, but that's a bit more on a personal level.]
no subject
Désolé. Let's get off this dirty floor.
[He gets up with a tiny groan, dusting himself off. He glances over at England, but doesn't offer him his hand. Perhaps it's a false assumption, but he thinks that England fancies himself as having too much pride to accept help from a Frenchman.
So instead, he takes to wiping away as much blood from his face as he can. He can still taste it in his mouth, and he prods his tongue around his cheek, wincing when he finds the spot he had inadvertently bit open.]
...You should be happy. [He flashes England a look that's half a smile, half a glare.] Your right hook has not changed, at least.
[Implying that there's quite a bit about him that has changed... Oops.]