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thearena2016-01-25 04:20 pm
etcircenses) wrote in thearena2016-01-25 04:20 pm
They strung up a man they say who murdered three.
Who| All those on the liberation mission and all those being made to fight against them.
What| The liberation of District 8.
Where| District 8.
When| This week.
Warnings/Notes| War, violence, death. Please warn for more in headers.
District 8 is a dirty district. That's one of the first things you notice as you step out. District 13 was underground, but the filtered air was clean, at least. And the air outside of it was crisp and clear. But here? The air is weighed down with pollution and smog. For those perceptive individuals, there's a tension in the air, as well. A feeling that something soon was going to snap.
The woman in charge is wrapped up in various bits of garments that had probably been colorful at one time. But she carries herself with an absolute air of authority, and the way she speaks is crisp, knowledgeable. This is Commander Paylor, and she's quick to order around the new people, let them know what the situation is as she takes them to their current hideout.
Paylor tells them that District 8 had been one of the first districts to openly rebel against the Capitol, but District 13 hadn't been able to send aid until now (and she doesn't sound particularly impressed by this). As they walk, there's graffiti over the walls--the phrase 'Mere'lin' is repeated in multiple places not to mention such phrases as From ev'ry mountainside Let freedom ring, so we can go home, for peace, and we are already free.
This District will be one of the most enthusiastic to see the rebels. The people of District 8 are ready and willing to get started, almost bloodthirsty in some regards when it comes to taking out the Capitol. They were among the first to rebel, and they're eager to see their efforts finally be rewarded.
The majority of the pro-Capitol forces there are either peacekeepers, or the wealthy, some even Capitolites who had moved to District 8 to own factors and take advantage of the loopholes extended to Capitolites. They hold the wealth and power of the district, and they're frustrated and angry that their workers have decided to try to rebel against them--and that the Capitol isn't helping to what they feel is its peak capacity.
The war continues, and in the back of everyone's mind is a familiar phrase; may the odds be ever in your favor.
What| The liberation of District 8.
Where| District 8.
When| This week.
Warnings/Notes| War, violence, death. Please warn for more in headers.
District 8 is a dirty district. That's one of the first things you notice as you step out. District 13 was underground, but the filtered air was clean, at least. And the air outside of it was crisp and clear. But here? The air is weighed down with pollution and smog. For those perceptive individuals, there's a tension in the air, as well. A feeling that something soon was going to snap.
The woman in charge is wrapped up in various bits of garments that had probably been colorful at one time. But she carries herself with an absolute air of authority, and the way she speaks is crisp, knowledgeable. This is Commander Paylor, and she's quick to order around the new people, let them know what the situation is as she takes them to their current hideout.
Paylor tells them that District 8 had been one of the first districts to openly rebel against the Capitol, but District 13 hadn't been able to send aid until now (and she doesn't sound particularly impressed by this). As they walk, there's graffiti over the walls--the phrase 'Mere'lin' is repeated in multiple places not to mention such phrases as From ev'ry mountainside Let freedom ring, so we can go home, for peace, and we are already free.
This District will be one of the most enthusiastic to see the rebels. The people of District 8 are ready and willing to get started, almost bloodthirsty in some regards when it comes to taking out the Capitol. They were among the first to rebel, and they're eager to see their efforts finally be rewarded.
The majority of the pro-Capitol forces there are either peacekeepers, or the wealthy, some even Capitolites who had moved to District 8 to own factors and take advantage of the loopholes extended to Capitolites. They hold the wealth and power of the district, and they're frustrated and angry that their workers have decided to try to rebel against them--and that the Capitol isn't helping to what they feel is its peak capacity.
The war continues, and in the back of everyone's mind is a familiar phrase; may the odds be ever in your favor.
The Battlefield
An old clothing factory is the current base of the District 8 rebellion. The healers will be directed to an old hospital nearby, where there are plenty of people waiting to be looked at. Just try to ignore the dead bodies lying off to the side...
The healers of the rebellion will be tasked with helping the wounded, though some may recognize that the pile of dead that haven't been able to be buried are as much of a safety hazard as the bombs are, and take time out of helping the wounded to find a place to bury them.
Meanwhile, Capitol support will be received by Peacekeepers and Mayor Octo, who looks worn around the edges, and very tired. They're in the Civic building, easily the nicest--and cleanest--building in the area. Inside, there are various rooms that have been dedicated to taking care of the wounded. Everyone seems on edge, and there's some coughing from the fumes.
For Shepard
It's with a handgun and a trusty steel pipe that James hurried about, trying to get past the buildings and more. But he knows he can't make his presence known as his sentiments towards the Capitol and his lack of struggle when he was captured made his alignment very clear. When he does spot her in the heat of combat, he looked at her dead in the eye and motioned his head to head before he whacked a Capitol soldier's head with a steel pipe.
There had to be blind spots in this District or else everything would be in vain.
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There came a certain camaraderie with fighting alongside these men. Even if they died as easily as they were replaced, they all had names. Most of them had families, still living, somewhere in District One, or Two, or back in the Capitol proper's outlying urban areas. But then, on the other hand, they certainly wouldn't have felt the same for her in return; too often cycled out, too often with their lives spent like blood was as easy to replace as water.
You can't stay brothers with a man who spits down his nose, as they say.
So, when she sees him signal, she moves to intercept, cutting a line through the chaos, as indicated. Just one more Capitol loyalist, moving to take out a dirty rebel, right?
Right.
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"Commander Jane Shepard, correct?" he said in a hushed, desperate voice that seemed more like a cornered dog than a person. He had to be quick. He wasn't much of a man, even less without armor, but he had perseverance (or an unsettling lack of survival instincts) to back him up.
"I need to tell you something from the other side."
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Well, he'd better have something good, was all she would say about that.
"I'll listen until you're done talking; make it good."
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For Kousuke Nitou
Not that being out here made it likely that he'd find him.... but he's got his equipment and his powers today, and he's got Garuda flapping here and there through the smoggy air, with orders to keep quiet and to find the Ancient Wizard. Two sets of eyes could do more than one. He has hope. He always has hope, and he'll have it even if he has to finish this mission empty-handed.
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Now's not the time to worry about it. What he has to do is figure out a way to use this information to his advantage and not get caught by either side. This kind of personal mission is probably not approved of by the higher-ups... but like hell he's passing up this chance. He'll take whatever disciplinary action needs to come down on his head. As he listens to the rest of Garuda's twittering explanation of where it was and where to go, he thinks... and reaches for the Dolphi ring of Nitou's that he had brought along. Yeah. He has a plan.
Some time later, the rearmost of those Peacekeepers will find himself being tackled from apparently out of nowhere. He'll have time to let out a surprised grunt and possibly alert the others, but when they turn to find him he'll be down on the ground, unmoving. And with no sign of the one that did that to him. It's nice, the things that you can do when you're magically able to dive through solid surfaces as though they were water.
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For Wesker and Sam
He leaned the still warm bike against the side of the building and tore into the fray without a second thought in that treacherous direction. A little blood on his hands would surely cool his mind.
He used his gun first, sharpshooting with deadly accuracy until he ran out of bullets and back-ups. He'd already made a sizable dent in the peacekeepers here, but his infamous sickle sword came out to continue the damage. He'd take down as many as he could; he wouldn't give up this district-this cause- without a fight.
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Albert Wesker.
His eyes a glow, his hands flexing at his sides in preparation.
His goals depended on District 13, but the Capitol had given him this factory specifically. It was a line he couldn't allow to be broken; not without a great deal more effort than the rebel soldiers had shown thus far.
His chin tipped down toward the rebel leader: a challenge, if he dared.
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The tip of Bucky's sword, previously angled to the ground, came up now as a response to the challenge. He'd seen Wesker fight, so long ago now, there was nothing he'd wager that this would be easy.
Fight or fall. No other options.
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For Clint
He knows they're here on the Capitol's behalf - just like last time, he's dressed in white with a red Capitol symbol, and just like last time, he doesn't want to be. But it's harder to remember that this time. He'd been too much rebel, he'd tipped his hand too much for the Capitol to let him go into battle again the way he was, but Sam's still fighting it.
Sam's still too much rebel, and he's not willing to let go of that.
But he's being good. Trying to be good, trying not to put himself in more danger. He promised, he remembers that, even if he can't remember if he broke it or not, and he can't draw more attention to himself. He needs to let the Capitol think he's not fighting as much as he is, that it's working more than it is, so he can buy himself more time.
It's easier with Clint next to him. He can focus on fighting with Clint, on fighting for Clint, and that's all him, not the Capitol. It's what he'd do anyway. It's what he's been doing, holding tight onto Clint like he's holding on to a piece of himself. Holding on to all of his family.
He leans in a little, pressing his shoulder against Clint's to ground himself, and ignoring the way that he leans a little heavier than he used to. This is also the first time in a while that they've gotten out of the Capitol, out of their cells, on the battlefield where there's less eyes on them.
Still, Sam signs rather than talking, anyway. 'Still with me, cupid?'
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But Clint's been playing this game for so long it's second nature to keep his cover. Yeah, he'd purposefully broke it once, fighting desperate once he understood what was coming for Sam, but afterwards there his cover was, maybe a bit battered but whole. Celebrus had once called him birdbrained, and the Capitol had never lost that image -- it served him well. Well enough, he supposes, that his mind is mostly his when they set him loose on the battle field again. Clint would kill them all for what they'd done to him, to Sam, but -- but there's just enough behind him. He subsides, stays quiet and dumb, and they forget there's a master assassin behind his glass eyes.
It's not enough, but it's all he has.
For now, his head tilts, slowly, bird like, bolstered under the warm press of Sam leaning into him. Beneath his newly plated ribcage, Clint's heart beats slow and steady, the breath in his lungs forcibly and carefully regulated with sniper's precision. It's not that he's overly nervous, or anxious -- Clint's simply spent too long under the Capitol's eye, under the thumb, to do anything else.
So his sturdier frame holds up Sam's, and Clint takes the comfort offered in this quiet moment. There's an owlish blink, lashes covering the still newly gleaming blue of his gaze for a moment, before he nods. Clint's quieter now, just a little bit. Sam might have gotten the rougher end of things, but that doesn't mean Clint isn't feeling it.
He shifts, freeing his hands from where he'd been sightlessly checking over the bow they'd given him. They don't need to sign, not really -- his hearing is better than it ever was before, now, and they all know there's nothing hidden in the twitch of fingers. But it makes him feel better, just a tad, seeing the familiar shape of his name.
'Always, angel.' He signs, something muted and softly fond kindling beneath the uncomfortably Tesseract blue of his gaze.
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They just have to stay together, and that? That's easy. They're partners. They've played this game before and maybe the stakes are higher now, but they know each other better now, too. There's metal under their skin, bared free of the tattoos that had once marked it, and Sam's wings itch under his shoulder blades - he'd felt the itch before, but now it's real, as real as the way his heart beats too steady and his lungs pull in too much oxygen.
He’d lost track of where he was going, what he was thinking, other than that thinking about his wings makes them spread out, metal feathers twitching.
Always. Sam's told Clint that before, more than once, he remembers that. He holds tight to that, to memories of sitting in back alleys holding each other together when everything went to shit. Not all that different from now, really, but it helps Sam focus, cling to clarity.
To zero in more on Clint's expression, to see the guilt behind the too blue color of his eyes.
’Still here. Still me, cupid, gonna take more than this to mess me up.’ He knows he doesn't need to sign, less now than he ever did, but he's doing it anyway because it's his. The Capitol can't take away the way he communicates with two of the people he loves the most.
There's a flash of memory, and Sam makes another sign, curling his middle and ring fingers in while holding up his index and pinkie finger - then he punches Clint in the shoulder with it. If the punch is harder than the last time he did that, he doesn't notice.
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and wrap here?
Thimblerig; The Old Army Game
However, the rebellion caught wind of the plans, and have sent out three trucks to act as a decoy. Which ones are which is a secret for all but the highest officials in the rebellion, as they have grown suspicious of all the leaked information. The Capitol has managed to figure out a handful of information, and has passed it along to the forces, to try to puzzle out through the info which is the real truck.
Meanwhile, a force from the rebels will be trying to defend the truck--but which truck should they defend? They're not sure either, and they'll have to take the information they know to try to figure out which truck needs their protection.
For Haruto
Unease sat like lead in his stomach as he looked over what little information they did have and then pocketed it again. They didn't have time for him to overthink this, he just had to make a choice.
He got onto his bike and rode over to where he was to meet up with Haruto. He didn't cut the engine when he pulled up next to the other man, simply nodded at him in greeting. "You ready to go?"
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Also, he is already transformed when Bucky gets to the rendezvous point, which makes it kind of hard to read the expression on his face. "Ready as I'll ever be!" At least he's good at forcing optimism into his tone. "Have we been able to narrow the targets down at all? I sent a familiar out to have a look, and it couldn't tell a damn thing." He shrugs, sighs as though it's not a big deal, and reaches down for another one of his rings. "You want me flying in there, or...?"
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But they didn't really have much time to question it or how he was even going to 'fly' to where they were going, so Bucky simply tried to keep his emotions off his face and stick to the mission at hand. "Or you can ride with me, it's up to you. I...haven't heard anything else, but I picked up a bit more information where I could and I've narrowed it down to two out of the three." Fifty/fifty wasn't his favorite odds, but it was better than a thirty percent chance of picking right.
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Our Shield and Armor
So the mission is given, to take over the factory. The job sounds simple enough--make it through the doors, defeat the resistance, and get everyone in there to surrender, and shut the factory down.
But it's never that simple, is it? The Capitol forces have heard rumors of a focused attack on the factory, and have upped the security there. Forces will be there to defend it, and that's not even taking in the civilians.
Some civilians may be willing to accept the rebel authority, but some may not be willing to. The rebels will have to decide what to do about them.
Meanwhile, the Capitol forces will be trying to protect the factory--and at least on paper, protect the civilians working there. Of course, if the civilians get caught in the crossfire--well, it's up to each fighter what to do about that.
And, of course, the factory itself is not going to make it easy. There's little to no safety regulations, and while both sides have plenty of people who have worked inside the factories alerting them to the various dangers, it's one thing to be told that a certain machine can crush a grown man and quite another to avoid it while under heavy fire.
Wesker and Joan
His hands curled and uncurled as he walked, as he stood and watched, and waited.
He'd almost forgotten what it felt like.
Magnificent.
It was such a shame his goals wouldn't allow for a little indulgence... but he'd come too far to falter now.
Let me know if this works
When Joan sees Wesker she can't help a small smile. She knows full well that he's in this for himself. He might turn on her if he decides it sufficiently serves his purpose. And she might turn on him if (and, let's be honest, when) his self-interest manifests as something Joan feels she has to oppose. Still, they seem to have enough of an understanding that they'll work with each other with a basic level of trust they might not extend to others. Joan feels that she will probably protect him, even if she works against his. She imagines it's possible the other way around as well.
The fact that she's fond of him (and she's pretty sure he's fond of her) has a lot to do with that.
Joan creeps closer, and once she's sure no one else is close enough to hear, she softly whistles the mockingjay call.
Works great!
And then, the low sweet call.
His eyes flashed - that unholy red - and his lips curled upward in a sharp smile.
"My, my," he turned, head tipping, and moved toward it in confident, easy steps, like a man out for a stroll. "A clever little bird, unless my ears deceive me."
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(frozen comment) Results
(frozen comment) Thimblerig; Old Army Game
(frozen comment) Our Shield and Armor