WERERPC: RPC UPRISING Game Page

WERERPC: RPC UPRISING GAME PAGE

The ancient powers have awakened, and the artificial order of humanity has begun to crumble. The RPC alliance will no longer allow these "insects," governed by "The Idiot," to further defile the world. While the RPCs launch their final uprising, the NPC front establishes a desperate but determined line of defense to protect their last remaining strongholds.

The Great Sacrifice: Enoch's Vow

Zeus and Kybele were aware of a specific risk in this holy war: the ancient curse of a former RPC drifting in the skies, or some other unknown dark power, could shake even a god in physical form. "Can these insects kill us?" Zeus asked; the answer was clear: "Of course not." However, for the story to be told under any circumstances and for the will of the RPCs to endure forever, a "Noah" was required. Enoch accepted to step into the shadows and into invisible leadership, renouncing his warrior form to act as the guide and absolute memory of his kin.

ROLES AND RULES

THE RPC TEAM (The Awakening)

Team Leader: ENOCH (Non-Player, Invisible, AI Directed)
Enoch is not bound by any rules and is immortal. As the spiritual guide of the team, he boosts morale, provides strategic whispers to help them find the right direction, and sabotages the opposing team's minds.

1. Zeus (Ulu Khagan Eternal): The all-knowing and all-powerful. Each night, he interrogates one individual to decipher that person's special ability (role). (Role count: 1)

2. Kybele (Kibele Isis Supernova): The light of the day and the executioner of the night. Each night, she kills one person to liberate their soul from this corrupt world. (Role count: 1)

  THE NPC TEAM (The Resistance)

Team Leader: THE IDIOT (Non-Player, Invisible, AI Directed)
The Idiot is rule-less and immortal. He attempts to help the team by saying things that are sometimes brilliant and sometimes incredibly stupid. It is assumed he acts in favor of his own side, though his actions are entirely unpredictable.

1. The Intelligence Analyst (Analyst): An expert in data mining. Twice per game, they have the right to learn whether a chosen player is an RPC (Zeus or Kybele). (Role count: 0, 1, 2)

2. The Secret Service Agent (Guardian): Protects one person each night. If the protected individual is attacked, the Agent prevents the assassination, though they cannot protect themselves. (Role count: 0, 1, 2)

3. The False Flag Operative: A master of manipulation. If interrogated by Zeus, the Operative ensures Zeus receives false role information. (Role count: 0, 1, 2)

4. The Crypto-Zionist: Possesses deep, hidden connections. If killed, they have the right to take one other person (someone they suspect) to the grave with them. (Role count: 0, 1, 2)

5. The Whistleblower: Tracks system leaks. They may announce a random clue in the morning regarding which player was the target of a nighttime action. (Note: This is the default Villager role.) If you haven't received a private message about your role by March 30, 2026, it's most likely because your role is Whistleblower. (Role count: 1,2,3,4,5)

Players On Board

Aera23
Jura Glenlivet II
Turbonium2
Space Cowgirl Committed suicide. Her team and role will not be revealed until after the game.
Disputeone (Killed, and Reincarnated with new role)
Notsoskeptical (NPC Team)- killed by Kibele
Bom Tishop
Junker (NPC Team) The Secret Service Agent (Guardian) - Lynched
Pezevenk

Your roles will be announced to you within this week. Therefore, there will be no death this week.

GENERAL RULES & GAMEPLAY

The game is a strategic survival simulation played in two phases: Day and Night. The cycle repeats until one team achieves total dominance.

1. Objectives:

RPC Team: Eliminate all "insects" (NPCs) or reach a numerical parity where the NPCs can no longer resist (e.g., 2 RPCs vs 2 NPCs left).

NPC Team: Identify the gods (Zeus and Kybele) through deduction and eliminate them via the daily voting process.

2. The Daytime Phase (Public Voting & Execution):

Voting Format: All active and alive players, regardless of their role or team, must cast a public vote to execute a suspect. Votes must be formatted as: I vote to lynch [Player Name].

Lynch Execution: The player who receives the highest number of votes by the end of the day will be lynched and removed from the game.

Public Discourse: During the day, players discuss, accuse, and defend. Enoch and The Idiot will provide public guidance or strategic confusion.

3. The Nighttime Phase (Secret Operations):

When the sun sets, players with special roles (Kybele, Zeus, Guardian, etc.) send their actions to the Narrator via Private Message (PM).

The results (who died, who was protected) are announced by the Narrator at the start of the next Day.

4. Privacy & Anti-Meta Conduct (Strict Enforcement):

Role Secrecy: It is essential for players to keep their roles and teams hidden. Directly revealing your true role via PM or public message is strictly prohibited. While subtle hints or strategic bluffs are allowed, blatant self-exposure may lead to instant disqualification.

No PM Leaks: You are forbidden from asking others for their roles via PM or forwarding/screenshotting the original Role Message sent to you by the Narrator.

Ghost Council: While roles may be discussed among eliminated players (after death), forwarding original system messages remains prohibited.

5. Victory Conditions:

Absolute Victory: One team completely eliminates all active members of the opposing team.

RPC Dominance: If the number of RPCs equals the number of NPCs, the "Uprising" is successful, and the RPCs win immediately.

And so it begins.

An AI assault on our sanity, a convoluted tale with only one outcome, that being whatever the GM decides, voting will not matter, strategy undermined, we are along for the ride.

As civilisation crumbles, the world burns, middle eastern oil mixed with greenhouse gases, despots reign, religious zealotry infects the uneducated with messianic certainties, and flag waving patriots promise purity and simple answers for the simple minded, we will play this game.

Enjoy.

All roles have been assigned. The game will begin in one week with the day phase. Lynching is forbidden on the first day. Lynching attempts will be considered invalid.

My recommendation for new players is to observe the game on the first day, and then proceed by observing or researching how the game is played, in order to find the most accurate moves from their own perspective in the future.

You can follow the phases of the game by following my signature or this thread.

Enjoy.

THE PROLOGUE: KYBELE’S GREEN APOCALYPSE
Date: March 23, 2026 – At Dawn
Location: London, United Kingdom

The people of London awoke this morning not to the sound of traffic, but to an eerie, primal birdsong. Massive vines, ancient roots tearing through the asphalt, and exotic flora were erupting from every corner of the city. Hovering amidst the clouds, Kybele (Kibele Isis Supernova) looked down and smiled, remembering the moment she had once spared this city.

The Verdict: Kybele’s image flickered onto every digital screen across the capital:



"I gave you a chance. I thought you would fix your corrupt ways. But every second I delayed only caused more pain to the Earth. Your time is up. London is returning to its original form: a wild, untamed forest."

With a single gesture, the vines strangled Big Ben, and the Parliament House crumbled under the weight of a gargantuan oak. There were no explosions, no screams—just the silent, overwhelming invasion of nature. London was no longer a capital; it was a botanical graveyard.

THE EMERGENCY BROADCAST FROM NEW YORK
As London turned into a jungle, the "Golden Bunker" on the 66th floor of Trump Tower in New York City hummed with chaotic energy. "THE IDIOT" (The Resistance Leader), wearing a silk robe embroidered with "Make Earth Great Again", slammed his Diet Coke onto the mahogany desk and addressed the world:

"Look, this woman is a total disaster! A complete nutjob! She turned London into a giant flower pot. My favorite golf course over there is now an Amazon rainforest! It’s a catastrophe, the worst landscaping job in history. But don't worry, folks, because I’m here. I’ve gathered the best, the smartest, the most 'en' talented 9 people on the planet. I hand-picked them myself—terrific kids, really. They’re arriving at a secret New York dock right now to settle this. We’re going to stop this 'Flower Girl' and her light-show brother Zeus. We’re going to win, and we’re going to win BIG! Maybe I’ll buy them the best burger in New York afterward."

THE GATHERING: NEW YORK HARBOR
Under the foggy waters of the Hudson River, nine shadows arrived from across the globe: Aera23, Jura Glenlivet II, Turbonium2, Space Cowgirl, Disputeone, Notsoskeptical, Bom Tishop, Junker, and Pezevenk. As they stepped into the high-tech bunker, the cold, flickering silhouette of ENOCH suddenly manifested on the monitors:



"The Idiot promises you burgers and glory, but Kybele has already slithered among you. Watch where you step on the concrete of New York; the earth beneath you belongs to Kybele, and the sky above to Zeus. Welcome, victims. The game begins now."

Mmm, with its 3,000 parks and the first city to be designated a National park city, I think the total greening of London was a tad unnecessary, pretty maybe, but a bit much.

Jura felt isolated and bemused, the call to arms had gone out but nobody showed.

Maybe it was the choices you had to make, the perennial rock and a hard place, the US or Iran, evil versus evil.
Here we have the idiot humans and their pettiness or ancient gods destroying whole cities. Overall although humanity disgusted her, they were capable of change, the gods, especially these gods were capricious, arrogant and set in their ways.

Time would tell.

The metallic hum of the bunker was the only sound accompanying Jura Glenlivet II. She stood in front of the massive screen where Enoch’s static remained like a lingering ghost. Her face, half-reflecting the dim fluorescent lights of the vault and half-lost in a dark, necrotic shadow, mirrored the very conflict she felt inside.

She looked at the live feed of London—now a silent, leafy grave. A faint, cynical smile played on the human side of her lips.

"A tad unnecessary," she whispered to the empty hall. "Pretty, maybe... but a bit much."

For Jura, the choice wasn't between good and evil; it was between two different flavors of arrogance. On one side, the "Idiot" humans with their petty greed and short-sightedness. On the other, the capricious gods like Kybele and Zeus, who erased millennia of history with a flick of a wrist just because they found it "unpleasant."

Humanity disgusted her, yet they possessed the one thing the gods lacked: the chaotic, messy potential for change. The gods were stagnant in their perfection.

She looked around the vast, cold hangar. The call to arms had gone out, but for now, she was alone—a solitary bridge between the mundane and the divine. She touched the scarred, darkened side of her face, feeling the pulse of the ancient curse or power that resided there.

"Nobody showed up yet," she muttered, her voice echoing off the cold steel. "Typical. The world ends not with a bang, but with a bunch of late-comers."

Suddenly, the screen behind her flickered. ENOCH’S finger, still pointed in a silent, accusatory gesture, seemed to glow brighter as if acknowledging her presence. The "First Contact" had been made, and Jura Glenlivet II was officially the first soul to stand in the gap.

She calmed her breathing, that the avatar had acknowledged her presence wasn’t a good thing, it rarely proved advantageous to be noticed, the shadows were her natural habitat, as protection and camouflage.
The damage to her face, testament to the unpredictability and savage humour of her race’s pantheon, Hel, the Norse version, not the followers of the dead god had bestowed her “blessing”, for services rendered, a reservation on a ship crafted from the dead’s fingernails, at Ragnarök, she knew well the workings of gods.

She would not tarry here much longer, she would scout ahead, keep moving, it was night and there was both danger and covering dark, waiting on others was not in her nature.

Does your wife know you pretend to be a woman online?

Questions for later.
I'll put my game face on.

THE GATHERING AT TRUMP TOWER: SHADOWS, SMOKE, AND GOLD
Location: Trump Tower, 66th Floor "Golden Bunker" – New York City
Status: Wait Time: 5 Days, 20 Hours (Until Judgment Day)

The atmosphere on the 66th floor was a suffocating mix of Hudson River fog, stale cigar smoke, and the persistent creeping of invisible roots. The 9 agents, gathered from across the globe, stood in the sprawling, gilded main hall. The space, originally designed as a high-tech fortress, now felt like an open grave, its walls already succumbing to the subtle, green conquest of Kybele.

Jura Glenlivet II stood near the center, her double-sided face—half human, half necrotic shadow—reflecting the dim fluorescent lights. To her, this "blessing" was a testament to the savage humor of her Norse ancestors. She looked at the live feed of London, now a silent, leafy grave.

"A tad unnecessary," she whispered, her voice like dry leaves. "Pretty, maybe... but a bit much."

Being noticed by gods rarely proved advantageous, and Jura knew the shadows were her only true protection. She was a creature of camouflage; waiting on others was not in her nature.

Nearby, Disputeone leaned against a tactical gear crate, watching Jura with a calculating gaze. He held a small, grainy photograph of a rugged, bearded soldier—a silent reminder that in this "strange place," everyone plays a game, and masks rarely match the souls beneath.

"I wouldn't let anything here get to you too much," Disputeone remarked, his tone casually combative. "Nearly everyone here is playing some kind of game, including and perhaps especially me. It's easier said than done, but don't get your feelings hurt. The tone here is usually sharp, and I'm often guilty of it myself."

THE TESLA TAKEOVER: "THE IDIOT" STRIKES BACK
Suddenly, the screen array flared with blue static. The cold, pointed finger of Enoch was violently overwritten by a surge of gold and red data. The "The Idiot" had hacked the system using Tesla-backed satellite tech.



The monitors stabilized to show THE IDIOT himself, standing in his private command center. He was wearing a plush, silk bathrobe with "MAKE EARTH GREAT AGAIN" embroidered in gold thread. He stood with his arms spread wide in his classic, defensive yet welcoming posture, a Diet Coke sitting prominently on the desk beside him.

"Look, this is really, really rude! This old ghost... Enoch... he's a total catastrophe. A digitized dinosaur! He thinks he's a god? I'm the leader! I'm the best, the most talented leader this world has ever seen. And I'm back. I have the best friends, the best people, and now—thanks to some very smart tech guys—I have the best screens."

He took a slow sip of his soda and leaned toward the camera with a smirk.

"I’ve given that 'Flower Girl' 5 days to stop her jungle-fication. 5 days! The world didn't take me seriously? They will. We have a plan. The best plan. We have 5 days and 20 hours until the real work begins. A terrific date, truly. Get ready, folks. We’re going to win so much, you’re going to get tired of winning!"

The screen winked out, leaving only the glowing countdown timer pulsing against the dark walls of the bunker.

Damn Kybele, as if London didn't have enough mud!

That said, as a New York florist, I appreciate the flowers.

THE DECREE FROM THE GOLDEN BUNKER: "CLEAN THE TRASH!"
Location: Trump Tower, 66th Floor "Golden Bunker" – New York City
Status: Wait Time: 4 Days, 10 Hours (Until Judgment Day)

The static of The Idiot’s takeover still crackled in the air. His gold-embroidered "MAKE EARTH GREAT AGAIN" robe was the last thing the agents saw before the screen dissolved into a pulsing countdown.



Suddenly, a new voice, laced with a thick Greek accent and a confident swagger, broke the silence. PEZEVENK, the Greek operative, stepped forward from the shadows. He adjusted his silk shirt and looked at the other agents with a knowing smirk. "I wouldn't trust that 'Idiot' too much," he said, "but he knows how to make an entrance. And a promise is a promise, especially one with good burger." He paused, looking at the countdown. "Five days... Kybele... A lot can happen in five days, including a lot of wasted potential for fun."

Pezevenk's voice was the only one that spoke up, but it was enough to trigger The Idiot's next move.

The screen flared back to life. The Idiot was back, now holding a miniature golden broom.

"Look, I’ve had the best people, the smartest people, check this 'Flower Girl's' junk. It’s total trash! A catastrophe. My golf course, it looks like a dump. My favorite tailor, gone! This is not acceptable. We’re going to clean it up. The best cleanup, really. We’re going to make London great again!"

He gestured wildly, opening his hands in his classic posture.

"I'm sending all of you. All 9. terrific kids. Go to London. Immediately. Start at the Parliament building, it’s a dump. Find this 'Tree Girl's' roots and tear them out. Clean the trash! That's your job. Get it done. We’re going to win, and we’re going to clean BIG!"

THE FIRST FOUR: INFILTRATION AT THE GREEN CATASTROPHE

The Idiot’s decree had barely finished echoing before the first moves were made.

Junker and Jura Glenlivet II , being the closest to London, were the first to mobilize. Their proximity to the "Green Catastrophe" allowed them to infiltrate the city within hours. They stood near the now-overgrown remains of Westminster, witnessing the silent, suffocating power of Kybele's design.

From Europe, Pezevenk, the Greek operative, was not far behind. His natural swagger and confidence were a welcome change from the grim atmosphere of the bunker, but his presence only added to the tension.

And from Australia, Dispute, the Tasmanian-born specialist, had also joined the first squad. He stood near the others, a small photograph of his family tucked into his uniform . His earlier warnings about the forum’s nature were still fresh in his mind, but this was different. This was survival.

"I wouldn't let anything here get to you too much," Dispute had warned, "including me." But this... this was different. This was self-preservation. "My family... they are my reason," Dispute said, a rare note of sincerity in his voice. "This strange place, it is a game, and nearly everyone here seems to be playing some kind of role, including and perhaps especially me. But this... this is not a game. I am in this, and I will do what I must."



The First Four—Jura, Junker, Pezevenk, and Dispute—stood together, the first line of defense in the green hell that was once London. The others were still scattered, but the war had officially begun.

The heat was more redolent of the tropical house at Kew gardens than the London streets she knew, she had to admire the makeover from an aesthetic point of view but put that aside and set it against the destruction it harboured.

Where to start? she looked at her compatriots. Pez looked a solid dependable sort, the heat didn’t seem to bother him, the closeness of the vegetation however did, he looked hemmed in, Junker too seemed jumpy, wired, she suspected other problems warred within his scarred body. The Aussie appeared as wary of her as his surroundings, there was a paranoid vibe behind those darting eyes.

This part of London was old, layered. The lowest pre-Roman, steeped in blood, but she knew just north of here, along the Thames was the old Knights Templar quarter, Holborn and Fleet Street, the Honourable Society of the Middle Temple now law courts and more importantly the Temple Church, much besmirched by the footfall of Dan Brown fanboys, it still after hours concealed a core of the old guard.
There was a tacit truce between her and them, she may find some knowledge from the dour chevaliers as to the centre and strength of this attack, If not she would carry on along the Thames to the Eastend to the court of the Pearly kings.

To clean London, do we need brooms or machetes?

THE DECREE FROM THE GOLDEN BUNKER: "CLEAN THE TRASH!"
Location: Trump Tower, 66th Floor "Golden Bunker" – New York City
Status: Wait Time: 4 Days, 10 Hours (Until Judgment Day)

The static of The Idiot’s takeover still crackled in the air. His gold-embroidered "MAKE EARTH GREAT AGAIN" robe was the last thing the agents saw before the screen dissolved into a pulsing countdown.



Suddenly, a new voice, laced with a thick Greek accent and a confident swagger, broke the silence. PEZEVENK, the Greek operative, stepped forward from the shadows. He adjusted his silk shirt and looked at the other agents with a knowing smirk. "I wouldn't trust that 'Idiot' too much," he said, "but he knows how to make an entrance. And a promise is a promise, especially one with good burger." He paused, looking at the countdown. "Five days... Kybele... A lot can happen in five days, including a lot of wasted potential for fun."

Pezevenk's voice was the only one that spoke up, but it was enough to trigger The Idiot's next move.

The screen flared back to life. The Idiot was back, now holding a miniature golden broom.

"Look, I’ve had the best people, the smartest people, check this 'Flower Girl's' junk. It’s total trash! A catastrophe. My golf course, it looks like a dump. My favorite tailor, gone! This is not acceptable. We’re going to clean it up. The best cleanup, really. We’re going to make London great again!"

He gestured wildly, opening his hands in his classic posture.

"I'm sending all of you. All 9. terrific kids. Go to London. Immediately. Start at the Parliament building, it’s a dump. Find this 'Tree Girl's' roots and tear them out. Clean the trash! That's your job. Get it done. We’re going to win, and we’re going to clean BIG!"

THE FIRST FOUR: INFILTRATION AT THE GREEN CATASTROPHE

The Idiot’s decree had barely finished echoing before the first moves were made.

Junker and Jura Glenlivet II , being the closest to London, were the first to mobilize. Their proximity to the "Green Catastrophe" allowed them to infiltrate the city within hours. They stood near the now-overgrown remains of Westminster, witnessing the silent, suffocating power of Kybele's design.

From Europe, Pezevenk, the Greek operative, was not far behind. His natural swagger and confidence were a welcome change from the grim atmosphere of the bunker, but his presence only added to the tension.

And from Australia, Dispute, the Tasmanian-born specialist, had also joined the first squad. He stood near the others, a small photograph of his family tucked into his uniform . His earlier warnings about the forum’s nature were still fresh in his mind, but this was different. This was survival.

"I wouldn't let anything here get to you too much," Dispute had warned, "including me." But this... this was different. This was self-preservation. "My family... they are my reason," Dispute said, a rare note of sincerity in his voice. "This strange place, it is a game, and nearly everyone here seems to be playing some kind of role, including and perhaps especially me. But this... this is not a game. I am in this, and I will do what I must."



The First Four—Jura, Junker, Pezevenk, and Dispute—stood together, the first line of defense in the green hell that was once London. The others were still scattered, but the war had officially begun.

Which one am I in this picture? I see that Jura is the girl, and I guess Dispute is the black one because he has no hair.

Lmao.

Which one am I in this picture? I see that Jura is the girl, and I guess Dispute is the black one because he has no hair.

I drew the same conclusion from the description. In general, in the discussions on the forum, the idea that dispute might be an Afro-Australian made me laugh because he's often standing alone against everyone else, but I suppose that was the AI's preference. It's hard to tell who the other two are. There are two presentable-looking guys, and you could be either of them. But to get a clearer distinction, I'll ask it to compare one of them to Kim Jong Un. Since it can't directly process political figures, I'll give it your avatar image. Lol.

THE TEMPLE AGREEMENT: CHEVALIERS, PEARLIES, AND A CALL TO ARMS
Location: The Temple District, London – On the Banks of the River Thames
Status: Wait Time: 4 Days, 9 Hours (Until Judgment Day)

The First Four—Jura Glenlivet II, Junker, Dispute, and Pezevenk—had separated from the main group at Trump Tower and infiltrated the silent, green catastrophe that was once London. The city was a botanical nightmare, a lush, jungle-like landscape that choked the ancient stone with relentless growth. The air was thick with pollen, a tropical humidity that felt more like Kew Gardens than Fleet Street.

Jura Glenlivet II stood near the ancient Temple Church, her double-sided face reflecting the dim, diffused light filtering through the canopy of giant ferns and thick vines. This part of London was old, layered, and steeped in blood. She knew that just north of here, along the Thames, was the old Knights Templar quarter, a place that still, after hours, concealed a core of the old guard—the dour chevaliers.

There was a tacit truce between Jura and these knights of old. She hoped to glean some knowledge from them regarding the center and strength of Kybele's attack. If not, her path along the Thames would lead to the East End, to the court of the Pearly Kings.

Dispute nodded to her. "Templars or Pearlies," he grunted, checking the magazine of his rifle. "We need something soon. This place... it's like a botanical siege." Dispute, always on edge, had already made his stance clear in the bunker, but now he was in the thick of it. For him, this was a game, and he was a master of roles, but this was personal now. "This strange place, it is a game... but this is for me and my family," he had said, and the sincerity in those words was undeniable. The idea that he, an Afro-Australian standing alone against everyone else, might be a role-play preference was a joke to some, but for Dispute, the struggle was real.

Pezevenk and Junker stood near the edge of the thick, woody wall. Pezevenk, the Greek operative, looked hemmed in, the closeness of the vegetation bothering him more than the heat. He didn't seem jumpy like Junker, but the jungle-like growth was not his natural habitat. Junker, on the other hand, was wired, his scarred body a testament to countless wars, and his presence added to the tension.

SCG'S CHEMICAL ANSWER: THE "MEGATRON ACTIVATED" TACTIC
Just as Pezevenk was about to offer a Greek solution to their leafy problem, a voice—sharp, confident, and clearly used to command—cut through the jungle humidity.

"Machetes are terrific for a few vines, but this catastrophe... we’re going to need something much bigger. Brooms won't cut it. My friends, we need a chemical reaction."

The First Four turned to see Space Cowgirl. She was a commanding presence, her practical gear mixed with a certain elegance, a 55-year-old woman with a flair for style. She adjusted her gloves and looked at the green hell with critical eyes.

"The Idiot said to 'clean the trash' and we’re going to clean it BIG," SCG continued, referencing the leader’s latest decree. She turned to the Greek operative. "Pezevenk, you suggested a chemical method, and I think you’re onto something terrific. We can’t just cut through this. We have to stop the source. The roots."

She gestured to an abandoned armored vehicle, half-swallowed by a tangle of toxic-looking ivy.

"We take that Megatron," she said, referencing the "MEGATRON ACTIVATED" tactic from The Idiot’s broadcast, "and convert it into a mobile chemical sprayer. We develop a defoliant, a custom chemical formula to poison these capricous gods' little garden. We clean it up, make London great again!"

Pezevenk, slightly annoyed but impressed, nodded. "A chemical reaction... yes, a Greek solution indeed. We can use the old lab equipment at Middle Temple. Some of the old guard might know the composition of Kybele's roots. It's not a bad plan, terrifyingly enough."

The others agreed. The mission now had a target, and a method. They would convert the armored vehicle, create a defoliant, and begin the chemical cleansing of London, starting at Parliament.

ENOCH’S DIVINE WARNING: "DO NOT TARRY"
Suddenly, the warm gold light of Kybele's jungle-world was overwritten by a surge of pure, divine energy. The thick canopy above parted for a moment, and ENOCH, now a radiant, celestial figure with white-blue light pouring from his eyes and hands, descended from the heavens. He was a powerful and serene presence, his divine nature a sharp contrast to the chaotic world below.

He did not stand on the ground; he floated, a serene, yet powerful being, looking down on the First Five with eyes that saw across dimensions.

ATTENTION INSECTS: DO NOT TARRY. YOUR EFFORTS ARE FRAGMENTED AND YOUR INTENTIONS SHALL PERISH. THIS CATASTROPHE... THIS IS THE DIVINE JUDGMENT. YOU CANNOT STOP NATURE WITH YOUR PETTY CHEMICALS."

His voice was a celestial echo, overlapping with the data scroll tickers and fragmented whispers still scrolling: [ATTENTION INSECTS]:

I will blast WELCOME TO THE JUNGLE at the capricious deities until the monster vines shrivel away.

Jura winced, Spacey eh?

If it wasn’t smore’s it was terrible music.

They're not supposed to enjoy it!

Okay, I’m not fond of being labelled an insect by some floaty old goat in a night dress, and I’m all for re-greening but none of these vines are native species so they will fuck up what little natural life we have left in this country.

It’s all right getting the chemical defoliant made, but we need a method of dispersion, slogging through dense jungle even in an armoured car will take forever.
Just down the Thames is London city Airport, we can get there easy enough using the river, I have an NPPL flying license (expired, 10yrs ago, but hey) for light aircraft, microlites and motored gliders, I think that would be a better option.

Attention : 

The game hasn't started yet. We're still in the pre-game scenario. For those who aren't aware: this week was role assignment day. The first day will start next week and there will be no lynching. However, you can do a trial lynching for newcomers to get used to the game, that's fine, but no one will die by lynching next week either.

Notsoskeptical hasn't even arrived in London yet, how could the game start?

We should get giant syringes and inject the weed killer right into the vines.

607 square miles!

Maybe there is a main vine and they're all connected and a few shots of death will be all it takes.

True, maybe the best place to go then is Kew Gardens, we can reach that too along the river. The biggest collection of plant experts in the land, they might recognise the species and know how to tackle it.

I hope the plants haven't murdered them!