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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.
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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She met his smile with a lift of her eyebrows, and asked him the one question that would allow all others. "Are we safe?"
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War brought out so many truths.
His own was more of a confirmation of what already was. Always confident, always assured. Standing there in his battle dress, weapons at the ready - though unnecessary, at the moment, given the glorious return of the virus, surging in his blood.
"Safer," he replied. Nothing here was - surely she was smart enough to realize he was never - truly safe. "As I assume you're not risking live and limb for another autograph, how may I assist you, Joan?"
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"I have information that I need you to disseminate to pro-rebellion people in the Capitol. We have evidence that the Capitol is planning something terrible. We need people on the inside to stop it."
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"Sympathetic numbers aren't what they used to be," he said, "but I'm listening."
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She didn't specify how, or why. Joan disagreed strongly with the route 13 had apparently taken of "eliminating" the scientists, but it was out of her hands.
"We were able to get another address. We don't know what's there, but it's important to the Capitol. Maybe to Snow himself."
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And there, a little shift between his eyebrows.
"You have no evidence regarding the address; do you have any pertaining to this 'event?'"
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She tilted her head slightly, her expression firm.
"Can you help us?"
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"You are aware of my position in the Capitol, Joan. The fine line I walk. The day may come when it is no longer of use." He fixed her with that black, unreadable gaze. "If that day comes sooner, rather than later, will you be of help to me?"
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"I will do everything in my power to keep you safe. As safe as possible, at least. You have my word."
Her tone was steady and plainly honest. She wasn't the sort to give her word lightly.
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"Such fine lines for us both," he mused. "Who would have thought, all that time ago on the train, hmm?"
He'd known then she was clever, but he had expected her to be too rigid, as maddeningly inflexible as the others. Right and wrong, black and white - his palette was such more fluid.
Had any of it been his influence, he wondered distantly.
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"Things change," she answered. "So have we."
The shift in him hadn't escaped her. She didn't know why or how, but it was unmistakable from the way he held himself, even the way he breathed. Something had changed. And there was a part of her that was sure she should feel scared. And then there was the rest of her that found the subtle changes alluring.
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Did that please him? He didn't say, but he thought so, silently to himself.
He'd put such effort into this. Starting over would be exhausting.
"Tread lightly, Joan."
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"I will. Take care of yourself."
She moved to turn away, then halted and turned back.
"I forgot to tell you. I have something of yours. Two somethings, actually."
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A pale eyebrow arched.
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"I don't know much about guns. But these had your name on them. Your initials, anyway."
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"They're Desert Eagles," he told her, ".44 Caliber. Powerful and reliable... at least last I left them."
He had his doubts that the Capitol would have tended them properly.
Though his eyes were hidden by the dark lenses, the pause he took was obvious. The tip of his head allowing him to scan over her body, looking for them.
"They would serve you well, Joan, if you had the mind."
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"But I'd gladly return them to you. For a favor."
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"I live to serve," he purred instead, ducking his head in a mock bow.
He didn't need them, there were a pair of pistols tucked into holsters along his flanks, but they were his.
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Her plan was still in early formation, but knowing that Wesker was game would help her solidify things.
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"The Capitol has changed since your last visit, Joan. It was dangerous before." It was the closest he came to a warning. To concern. "Your promise will be naught if you're caught."
Because it was the guns he was interested in.
These little interludes were intriguing (she was intriguing), but they hardly mattered.
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She looked at him straight where she knew his eyes to be, remembering clearly their color.
"I would do the same for you."
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