Strengths/Weaknesses: America's strengths include her literal and terrifying physical strength and endurance, as well as a variety of skills in sports, most notably marksmanship. She has a fascination with heroes and good guys (and gals!) saving the day, so naturally she reads most comics she can get her hands on. You can also give her a machine and she will learn to operate it in a flash. Weaknesses involve her hidden insecurities, her paranoia, and her obsessive yet sometimes-okay-very-often-it's-fleeting attention span. She has a surprising amount of insecurity about her body image and can be strikingly defensive when certain subjects come up in conversation (sexism, for example). Abilities: First, there's the usual list when it comes to playing personified nations ("the usual" being that due to them being nations and not quite bound by mortality, there are a few things that are unique to them.) Example: Longevity--in general terms, their age depends on their growth and status as a nationstate; as well as their strength economically, culturally and via their government/military. This America appears to be physically 19 despite having been alive for much longer. There's also rapid healing, and what I like to refer to as "more hit points"; i.e., they're far more durable than your average human--it takes a lot more to take them down when fighting person-to-person. They're practically (so not quite) immortal, they can take a lot of hits, and they heal very quickly. In Amelia's circumstances, she's been gifted with incredible super strength; exactly like her regular-canon male counterpart.
The jacket still retained its musty worn leather smell, and brought with it memories of other smells, and of sights and sounds and feelings too. That's why she kept it donned, clutched it with tight fingers when no one was looking. Amelia had allowed herself to shake briefly and release what tension she could before having headed out through the creeping paths of the tower. A goal burned in her mind, seared there continuously by the heat of a sense of justice. That sense had always been stoked ceaselessly like mighty bellows that never went out, even if it waxed or waned to extremes. As she went for the viewports, the burn sparked bright and blue through her eyes--to see her world with those eyes as the first step to exposing and toppling the hacks responsible for all of these kidnappings, these torturous rooms and creepy halls. Amelia's nature demanded she do something to challenge the balance a tyrannical few had set for the innocent many.
The young nation stepped up to the viewports, supposedly said to show the dead worlds of those who dared to peer through them. Ever defiant and hiding the nervous warnings in the back of her mind, she brushed a lock of hair from her face and looked through the port.
"There's no going back now," she thought.
At first, there was absolutely nothing; nothing with some kind of substance, an emptiness that Amelia didn't understand.
Beginning immediately with Amelia staring through came a sense of dread. As her eyes adjusted, the dread grew, as did a feeling she couldn't put her finger on--the latter was an old sensation that brought on thoughts of loneliness and fear she had long since grown accustomed to pushing away in order to keep going. The dead world was hard to ignore; more difficult than casting aside the so very human survival instincts that might've kept her from sprinting the breadth of a battlefield amidst cannonballs and flying bullets all screaming through the air, skirts hiked up and flying over the men strewn screaming on the ground. This was different, a bad, awful kind of different, because there really was nothing; nothing to die, because it was already dead.
In her exploring and searching through the port, she had failed to take into account the stale sensation growing in her stomach constricting her chest cavity. She'd done her best to ignore it while she tried to look for any sign of… of anything, but the more she looked the more every dark shadow and every body and every destroyed, burned thing drove home the point she'd begun to realize she so desperately tried to avoid from the start. There was no movement, no light, no breath of air, not even the stars echoed their comforting lantern-like guidance that had always fascinated her. The very coping mechanisms that attempted to shield Amelia were undoing their own work. Her hands began to shake, and the overpowering stench of stale dust and rotting decay filled her nostrils, but she couldn't tear her eyes from the broken world, from her broken world, her own body--its people, its landscape, all dead, a punchline entropy delivered succinctly to the ironic response of utter crushing silence.
Not until her vision blurred over with tears did she realize she had begun to cry. Not until she stumbled back from the viewport did she realize she screamed--was screaming as she looked through. The overwhelming tide had become too much, had broken over her and wrapped her up in not purely abject horror but searing pain. Empty pain. The scream was a terrible sound, a low, loud, resounding wail of those inner bellows being wiped from existence by the inconsolable despair. A sister--a mother in grief, unfiltered mourning even when her knees gave way and she slumped down against the wall.
The feeling was death. Complete death. Annihilation. So hard a blow it was, the weight of over three-hundred million rending a gaping hole of nothing through her, Amelia could not yet have processed what it actually meant. All she could have done and all she did was collapse there and cover her mouth to keep from screaming all over again. It was not unlike being torn in half--
--It was far, far worse. It was the sense of failure, not just understood but truly felt because her failure led directly to her own destruction.
The pang of the mighty death rattle sent America into shock. And so she curled in her jacket right there and did not move except to breathe, shallow and heavy; and the familiar smell of aged leather no longer offered any sense of comfort.
no subject
Abilities: First, there's the usual list when it comes to playing personified nations ("the usual" being that due to them being nations and not quite bound by mortality, there are a few things that are unique to them.) Example: Longevity--in general terms, their age depends on their growth and status as a nationstate; as well as their strength economically, culturally and via their government/military. This America appears to be physically 19 despite having been alive for much longer. There's also rapid healing, and what I like to refer to as "more hit points"; i.e., they're far more durable than your average human--it takes a lot more to take them down when fighting person-to-person. They're practically (so not quite) immortal, they can take a lot of hits, and they heal very quickly. In Amelia's circumstances, she's been gifted with incredible super strength; exactly like her regular-canon male counterpart.
Relationships to Canon Characters: N/A
First Person:
Dear_Mun post 1
Dear_Mun post 2
Third Person: (placed in towerofanimus:)
The jacket still retained its musty worn leather smell, and brought with it memories of other smells, and of sights and sounds and feelings too. That's why she kept it donned, clutched it with tight fingers when no one was looking. Amelia had allowed herself to shake briefly and release what tension she could before having headed out through the creeping paths of the tower. A goal burned in her mind, seared there continuously by the heat of a sense of justice. That sense had always been stoked ceaselessly like mighty bellows that never went out, even if it waxed or waned to extremes. As she went for the viewports, the burn sparked bright and blue through her eyes--to see her world with those eyes as the first step to exposing and toppling the hacks responsible for all of these kidnappings, these torturous rooms and creepy halls. Amelia's nature demanded she do something to challenge the balance a tyrannical few had set for the innocent many.
The young nation stepped up to the viewports, supposedly said to show the dead worlds of those who dared to peer through them. Ever defiant and hiding the nervous warnings in the back of her mind, she brushed a lock of hair from her face and looked through the port.
"There's no going back now," she thought.
At first, there was absolutely nothing; nothing with some kind of substance, an emptiness that Amelia didn't understand.
Beginning immediately with Amelia staring through came a sense of dread. As her eyes adjusted, the dread grew, as did a feeling she couldn't put her finger on--the latter was an old sensation that brought on thoughts of loneliness and fear she had long since grown accustomed to pushing away in order to keep going. The dead world was hard to ignore; more difficult than casting aside the so very human survival instincts that might've kept her from sprinting the breadth of a battlefield amidst cannonballs and flying bullets all screaming through the air, skirts hiked up and flying over the men strewn screaming on the ground. This was different, a bad, awful kind of different, because there really was nothing; nothing to die, because it was already dead.
In her exploring and searching through the port, she had failed to take into account the stale sensation growing in her stomach constricting her chest cavity. She'd done her best to ignore it while she tried to look for any sign of… of anything, but the more she looked the more every dark shadow and every body and every destroyed, burned thing drove home the point she'd begun to realize she so desperately tried to avoid from the start. There was no movement, no light, no breath of air, not even the stars echoed their comforting lantern-like guidance that had always fascinated her. The very coping mechanisms that attempted to shield Amelia were undoing their own work. Her hands began to shake, and the overpowering stench of stale dust and rotting decay filled her nostrils, but she couldn't tear her eyes from the broken world, from her broken world, her own body--its people, its landscape, all dead, a punchline entropy delivered succinctly to the ironic response of utter crushing silence.
Not until her vision blurred over with tears did she realize she had begun to cry. Not until she stumbled back from the viewport did she realize she screamed--was screaming as she looked through. The overwhelming tide had become too much, had broken over her and wrapped her up in not purely abject horror but searing pain. Empty pain. The scream was a terrible sound, a low, loud, resounding wail of those inner bellows being wiped from existence by the inconsolable despair. A sister--a mother in grief, unfiltered mourning even when her knees gave way and she slumped down against the wall.
The feeling was death. Complete death. Annihilation. So hard a blow it was, the weight of over three-hundred million rending a gaping hole of nothing through her, Amelia could not yet have processed what it actually meant. All she could have done and all she did was collapse there and cover her mouth to keep from screaming all over again. It was not unlike being torn in half--
--It was far, far worse. It was the sense of failure, not just understood but truly felt because her failure led directly to her own destruction.
The pang of the mighty death rattle sent America into shock. And so she curled in her jacket right there and did not move except to breathe, shallow and heavy; and the familiar smell of aged leather no longer offered any sense of comfort.