Room 1A - America and Israel

[Professor Pangaea]

[Alfred F. Jones]

Alfred bangs the door open rather abruptly, since his key kept sticking and it took him about fifteen million tries to get the door to open so he didn't honestly expect this try to work, but... success! He grins for a moment before taking a quick look around the room.

The first thing he does is frown. Because it's tiny. Too tiny. He hopes he's not REALLY expected to share this place with someone else - where will his 72 inch flatscreen go? And his full-sized fridge/freezer unit? And his superhero action figure collection? This SUCKS!

He sets the bags he's carrying down, trying to figure out how this is all going to work... but then an idea comes to mind. His room mate (if he even EXISTS) is obviously not here yet, so that might mean that he'll never come, right? Or if he does, he probably... no, he DEFINITELY wouldn't care if Alfred put his action figure collection over there and placed his flatscreen on the wall over the opposite bed. The fridge was going to be a problem no matter what, though, unless he moved EVERYTHING...

Which was definitely an option. Alfred starts rearranging the room, guessing the amount of space needed for his fridge and moving the furniture around like puzzle pieces in order to find some kind of arrangement that would allow him to keep the fridge in the room.

[Michael Dayan]

And that's when Israel conveniently decides to show up, at the perfectly perfect opportune moment when America was shoving all of his furniture into one tiny corner to make space for his… refrigerator. Roughly the size of his entire chest of drawers. Instinctively, his eyes are drawn to the carpeted floor, where a meticulous line of masking tape spans the length of the room, cutting it into two proportionally identical halves on which he'd written 'YOURS →' and 'MINE ←' in thick black sharpie. It's barely visible, half concealed beneath one bed and a bunch of bags--full to bursting--dropped haphazardly over top.

Israel feels his eyes start to bulge, then twitch, as a wave of sudden irrational rage washes over him. Contrary to America's initial thought, yeah, he'd been on time for once in his life and actually settled in hours before—but his possessions took up hardly any room, and he was tidy, tucking everything in its proper place and ok maybe his bedspread was a little drab and blended in with the generic dorm furniture, but no way in hell America could've missed the Israeli drapeau hung on the wall just above the window. It was hard to miss.

Except now it's just another splash of blue and white amongst all the clutter America's unpacked thus far, and Israel doesn't even bother trying to stop himself from flinging out one hand (the hand not glued to his blackberry, which he'd nearly dropped when stepped foot through the doorway) to shove the collection of action figures from the top shelf of his (his) desk onto the floor. The Captain America figure didn't stand a chance. It was thoroughly crunched beneath Israel's combat-booted foot.

[Alfred F. Jones]

"Hey! Nice boots!"

At least, that's what Alfred had been trying to say before Captain America met his defeat. It actually came out something like, "Hey! Nice b-ahhhhh, what are you doing?!"

He rushed to his hero's side and attempted to comfort him. "You'll be all right, little dude, it's just a scratch," he told the action figure. Alfred turned to Israel and covered the part of Captain America's boot-scuffed head with his fingers so his hero wouldn't hear the real prognosis. "He's going to need at least two limbs AMPUTATED, I hope you're happy! What's your deal, anyway?"

No, he honestly hadn't noticed the room had already been occupied. And would he have necessarily cared even if he had noticed? Well...

[Michael Dayan]

He pays America's anguish no mind, simply moves on from methodically desecrating one action figure to another, stomping Superman into oblivion.

"They're mine. I can do what I want with them," he offers by way of explanation, near-jumping on top of Batman.

"In case you didn't—" Crunch. "—notice, they were on my side of the room." Squish. "On my desk." Related sound effect. "So they belong to me."

[Alfred F. Jones]

Give America's anguish some mind, won't you, Isreal? Your actions are hurting him deeply, so deeply that he's inclined to grab his surviving action figures, put them on the bed that he assumes is his, grab a Nurf gun from one of his duffel bags, and shoot Nurf balls in Isreal's general direction.

"It's better to walk softly and carry a big Nurf gun than stomp on a dude's superhero's!" he says as his last projectile leaves the gun. (This would almost be fun, he thinks, if this kid wasn't insane.)

[Michael Dayan]

The nerf balls bounce harmlessly off of his chest and abdomen, and Israel doesn't so much as move a muscle as the attack is launched, merely watches visibly perplexed. Then, as if reading America's intentions, he springs into action and hurls the broken pieces and limbs from his busted action figures as projectiles, whipping them in tandem directly at his new room-mate's great, overinflated head. Trust Israel to take it to the next level. Those things look fucking sharp.

[Alfred F. Jones]

"Ow ow ow ow ow ow ow owwwww!!!"

It's right about now that Alfred really resents the fact that they're not allowed REAL firearms on campus - something about safety and preventing school violence and blah blah blah, but the second amendment exists for a reason, and this kid is IT.

It's time to get the big boy out.

Alfred does a stunning back-flip-roll maneuver and manages to avoid a few of the action figure limbs - Spiderman, Hulk, Superman... America will make sure you all get your purple hearts in due course, it's no less than you deserve! From another bag America grabs his pride and glory, the biggest campus-legal gun he has, an AK-47 replica that if nothing else will make really loud and distracting popping noises so he can get out safely and maybe fetch an RA (not that he needs back-up or anything!).

Plastic ammo is hoisted up on one shoulder and he points the gun at Israel. A cut on America's forehead starts bleeding from a peice of Batman's cape that cut him there. It looks really bad ass, he's convinced. "Make another move and I'll shoot." And then run to find back-up, he mentally adds.

[Michael Dayan]

The sight of an (admittedly) well-constructed gun in America's arms causes Israel to still, juggling chunks of Mr. Fantastic and the decapitated head of Wolverine in his single free hand (still refusing to put down that gd phone) before he drops them completely, thinking he's beat. Every single one of his weapons had been confiscated days ago, when he arrived in the country and the security people at HU were way more thorough than US airport personnel, because there were quite a few of them. Predominantly uzis. Uzis and knives. He's silently considering how in the hell America managed to sneak in such a huge, cumbersome gun when he makes the ridiculous realization that it's… an obvious fake. Plastic. Ineffective, just like those stupid foam balls.

"Are you joking me with this?" He states, retaining his aggressive stance and watching America like a hawk. That stupid toy… might make a good club, but that's about it. Israel can't quite decide if this is Western humor he doesn't understand, or if his room-mate honestly is that idiotic.

[Alfred F. Jones]

"There's nothing funny about a well-constructed AK-47 replica," Alfred says bluntly. "It's really loud and would have allowed me a chance to..." get back-up... "Formulate an alternate strategy." That sounds better. And less wimpy.

Alfred bites his lip and glares at Israel. "I hope you're done MURDERING MY SUPERHEROS, because if you are maybe we can call a truce." And get you some Prozac.

As a sign of good-will, Alfred points his gun AWAY from Israel and at the ceiling. His finger's still on the trigger and he's still ready to bolt, but Israel doesn't need to know that.

[Michael Dayan]

"It's a toy," Israel deadpans, making a face like he's personally wronged. Disarmed by a toy. It's almost shameful. But he'll cry over that in the shower later, right now, he has a competitor's surrender to gracefully accept. As America raises his gun up and away from his general vicinity, Israel moves warily nearer, nearer still, until he can smack that absurd excuse for a weapon out of his hands. Up close, America is significantly taller and Israel actually has to tilt his head back like a baby to look him in the eye, and he probably looks ridiculous, but none of that registers in his stoic expression.

"I accept your surrender," he offers, putting out one hand expectantly, waiting for the gesture to be returned.

[Alfred F. Jones]

Israel's rather abrupt way of disarming him puts America immediately on the defensive, and he raises his arms to try to protect his face, which he's sure is going to get a smack, but today is apparently his lucky day because he just wants to shake hands! There will be peace in the dorm room yet! The idea of it fills America's heart with joy.

In his joy, he is rather blunt and tactless. Actually, he's pretty much always like that. "You're pretty short!" he says with a smile, broken action figures and bloody forehead all but forgotten as he shakes Israel's hand.

It takes a couple seconds for him to register the "your surrender" part of Israel's statement. He pulls his hand away and his expression changes from pleased to annoyed. "I didn't surrender, though. A true hero never surrenders! A true hero knows how to compromise, that's what just happened here."

[Michael Dayan]

Somehow, he manages to look smug without actually moving a single facial muscle. It's all in the aura. "You were injured, your weapons were ineffective, you gained no ground." He counts each point off on one hand. Haughtily. "Surrender." Casually, Israel wipes the hand he'd shaken America's with, like it's been dirtied, on his pants, ridding it of microscopic nonexistent germs and America cooties, before setting his sights back on the masking tape line that serves as a makeshift border.

He points to it, directing America's attention like he's a particularly slow child. Not a huge stretch. "This marks my territory. You are currently invading it with your possessions. Remove them, set my furniture back in place, cease stepping into my land in the future and we will avoid a further ordeal." And the destruction of your crap. Israel's eying one of America's bags now, conveniently on *his* side, and might just be contemplating lighting it on fire. Or throwing it out the window. Or both.

[Alfred F. Jones]

"Uh..." says America intelligently. "But I had a gun. And a PLAN."

He observes as Israel wipes his hand like that and raises and eyebrow. Does he think America's sick or germ-y or something? Sure, swine flu had gotten him sick, but that had been months ago, and currently he was in peak health! He had learned a few things from that ordeal, though, such as the importance of hand sanitizer and how to properly sneeze.

After Israel pointed out the line (so that's what the tape was all about, America had brushed it off as some weird college dorm thing, but apparently it was just a weird college room mate thing), America went to grab his bag in order to maybe NOT have it stepped on or crazied on.

"Yeah, sure, I'll move everything! But uh, what about my fridge and my TV and stuff?" America pondered his options for a moment, then looked to the ceiling. "I wonder if I could put the TV on the ceiling over my bed. Then I could lay down and look straight up and boom, there's American Idol in beautiful 1080p! Wouldn't that be awesome?"

This was going to happen. He didn't know why he hadn't thought of it before! Getting it to stay on the ceiling was the only problem, but he'd overcome it! He'd overcome worse.

[Francis Bonnefoy]

Ohohoho~ While the occupants of this room were too busy arguing among each other, there was a threat that was quickly making its way up the wall. This threat, which came in the shape of a naked Frenchman, seemed to disregard the many obstacles in his way, such as windows and gravity. Oh, no, he kept climbing on, his face staring at his objective with a lewd expression.

Finally, he made it! And... started peeking into this room, somehow balanced by the window below. You get what I mean.