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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.
no subject
"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?"
no subject
"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.
no subject
"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.
no subject
"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.
no subject
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."
no subject
"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."
no subject
A pale eyebrow arched.
no subject
"I don't know much about guns. But these had your name on them. Your initials, anyway."
no subject
"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."
no subject
"But I'd gladly return them to you. For a favor."
no subject
"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.
no subject
Her plan was still in early formation, but knowing that Wesker was game would help her solidify things.
no subject
"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.
no subject
She looked at him straight where she knew his eyes to be, remembering clearly their color.
"I would do the same for you."
no subject
He didn't have to hear the drum of her heart - no quicker than when she'd first appeared - to know she meant it. She dealt in dishonesty by trade, not nature.
It was - intriguing.
"I can't make you any promises." (Can't, not won't. He didn't even seem to be immediately aware of how he said it.) "But I'll attempt to make it easier."
no subject
"Thank you. I'll be in touch."
no subject
Before she could leave, before she could even turn, he was suddenly there. The steps between them nothing as his fingers curled around her arm.
"Wait."
And he lifted his head, breathing deep. He canted his head slightly, raising one ear higher, and there was a bloom of color from under his sunglasses.
"That way." He gestured in a different direction from the one she'd appeared. "Stay to the right."
no subject
"To the right," she repeated. "Thanks."
She was still for a fraction of a second, a fraction of indecision. Then she reached up and cupped Wesker's cheek.
no subject
His grip tightened - a threat... a warning?
"Step lightly."
no subject
no subject
But he didn't stop her; didn't follow.
His fingers unwound from her arm and his hand lowered. He watched, for a long, silent moment as she moved away and disappeared into the dim gloom of the factory. Then he remained, intercepting the patrol as they approached and demanding a report.
Holding their attention as Joan made her escape.