WWIII - Real world roleplay

By the time Qiu had mangaged to get back inside the building, he had somehow picked up a following of a white cat and a piece of chewing gum stuck to his shoe.

Irritably, he shoved open the doors to the dining room, to find the french kid holding a suitcase that was humming, though it was really more of a pulse than a sound, the americans grouped up in a macho circle around the still-eating President, a gang of swiss guards trooping down the stairs, and a sudden rush of japanese streaming out of the kitchen.

The asian ambassadors were no-where to be found.

Ruby~~
Ruby saw a a strange man walking outside and back inside which she found ridiculous for a human to do. She found the opportunity of the nearly closing door to slip inside to find many many intimidating looking people. She immediately clung on the man's legs.

Qiu re-acted instinctively. He kicked the cat off his leg, into the oncoming horde of Japanese.

(As you probably won't bother reading, Bella, a cat once sat on (BABY!) Qiu's face until he blacked out.

And....It exploded. Everything exploded, really... Even the cat.

The whole building blew up, and with it, our only chance for world peace.

10 years later:
It's a real mixed-up America we've got these days, you know, with just the faintest trickle of a sense of identity left, like a guy in the paddedest cell in the most locked up ward in the whole loony bin. If a time traveler from mid Twentieth Century hopped forward to it across the few intervening years and looked at a map of it, if anybody has a map of it, he'd think that the map had run—that it had got some sort of disease that had swollen a few tiny parts beyond all bounds, paper tumors, while most of the other parts, the parts he remembered carrying names in such big print and showing such bold colors, had shrunk to nothingness.

To the east he'd see Atlantic Highlands and Savannah Fortress. To the west, Walla Walla Territory, Pacific Palisades, and Los Alamos—and there he'd see an actual change in the coastline, I'm told, where three of the biggest stockpiles of fusionables let go and opened Death Valley to the sea—so that Los Alamos is closer to being a port. Centrally he'd find Porter County and Manteno Asylum surprisingly close together near the Great Lakes, which are tilted and spilled out a bit toward the southwest with the big quake. South-centrally: Ouachita Parish inching up the Mississippi from old Louisiana under the cruel urging of the Fisher Sheriffs.

Those he'd find and a few, a very few other places, including a couple I suppose I haven't heard of. Practically all of them would surprise him—no one can predict what scraps of a blasted nation are going to hang onto a shred of organization and ruthlessly maintain it and very slowly and very jealously extend it.

But biggest of all, occupying practically all the map, reducing all those swollen localities I've mentioned back to tiny blobs, bounding most of America and thrusting its jetty pseudopods everywhere, he'd see the great inkblot of the Deathlands. I don't know how else than by an area of solid, absolutely unrelieved black you'd represent the Deathlands with its multicolored radioactive dusts and its skimpy freightage of lonely Deathlanders, each bound on his murderous, utterly pointless, but utterly absorbing business—an area where names like Nowhere, It, Anywhere, and the Place are the most natural thing in the world when a few of us decide to try to pad down together for a few nervous months or weeks.

[From the night of the long knives]