thearena | Strange things did happen here No stranger would it be

Entry tags:

Strange things did happen here No stranger would it be

Who| All those on the breakout mission and all those being made to fight against them.
What| The liberation of District 6.
Where| District 6.
When| This week.
Warnings/Notes| War, violence, death. Please warn for more in headers.

District Six stretches out for miles, a wide expanse of red and brown dirt with only the slightest hint of mountains in the distance. The air is starchy and arid, sucking the moisture right out of the eyes and mouth. The sun pummels down. Everything about the District screams of harshness, of elements cruel in their intensity and exposure being a serious concern. Combatants are advised to hydrate and try to avoid heatstroke in the temperatures rising above a hundred and fifteen fahrenheit.

People in District Six are too poor to consider their safety, already risking it every day in their jobs at the auto manufacturer with huge under-kept machines and toxic exhaust as they build cars and hovercrafts. Though they know they’re the epicenter of another attack, they go back to their assemblylines, under the watchful and paranoid eyes of Capitolite foremen. There’s an anxious air about the place. People drop their wrenches sometimes and make their screws extra tight, as if fortifying the vehicles against the coming storm.

They’ve been told that there are Rebels attacking, and so the residents here have diligently placed landmines throughout the desert; the wind has already erased all traces of where they are. Other than that, there are machine guns at each factory, aimed towards anyone - anyone - who approaches.

Between that, and subservience, there's not much in the way of propoganda. Most of what's done are the chalk drawings of children. A watch. A coin being flipped. A very small arrow with flame.

Vultures circle high overhead.

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

"Those behind me. I came from the ceiling, only see one way down." He makes his way toward Firo, nodding toward the stairs. "You'll go down first, I think. I'll follow. How's your shooting?"

Firo nods, and he turns toward the stairs as he gives his answer. "I'm all right with a gun but nothin' to write home about. Haven't fired one since before I got here, so I'm probably a bit rusty."

He pauses to scan as much as he can of the stairs and their surroundings before moving to start down.

"Hm. We'll hope we don't meet any friends on our way down." See how hard Roland's trying for you, Firo? He's even making jokes. The Capitol, those he should be calling friends, if it wouldn't bring so much down on Firo's head he'd hope they do meet some of those friends, and that Firo's lack of aim ends them. He shouldn't be thinking those things, not because of any moral reason but because, in other battles, he never would have. He knows the way a battle feels, the way it comes over him, stripping him down of everything but the most essential parts. He knows that pure purpose, the clear thought. It won't come.

It's a relief, being in the presence of a friend who, Roland's fairly sure, can not see something which has happened to Roland fewer times than he'd need all his flesh and blood fingers to count on. He starts down, and the butt of his gun stays too close to his hand.

The mission. Think on that. "This machine we're looking for. Have you seen one like it? I'm fairly sure the soldiers thought we all knew already what to look for."

Firo smiles back over his shoulder. He appreciates the humor. "Yeah, we will. I'm not in the mood for a party."

It's nowhere near quiet or peaceful, but he doesn't yet see any enemies on the factory floor ahead of them. He keeps moving.

"Never in my life. I've got no idea what they were talkin' about." But at least Roland's here. Roland's pretty good at most things. ...Except things that have to do with technology. Firo's relief immediately evaporates as he follows that train of thought. It's a good thing they both probably don't care much about this mission, he reflects, trying not to laugh.

"...And I'm gonna guess you know just as much about it as I do?"

"I know it won't be down here, where the common men work." Roland looks around at the place as he steps off the stairs, listens, doesn't hear anything. A couple machines are running in the distance, loud, so the fact that he hears no one else here might not mean much. "We'll be looking for some place set apart, maybe another set of offices. Any ideas on where to look first?"

The suggestion makes sense, and Firo nods. He cranes his neck to do a sweep of the area, finally pointing off to the far corner where one hallway juts off from the main floor.

“What about over there? That hall looks darker than the others—they probably let those guys go home.” Couldn’t have any very important businessmen or bureaucrats get in the crossfire, right?

He pauses where he stands, waiting for Roland’s verdict. He doesn't make the conscious decision that his friend should be the one to direct their progress, but it only feels natural; there's something Roland has that's so much like the effortless authority of Maiza, Ronnie, and even Don Molsa Martillo.

Roland, too, does not consciously decide to take charge here. It happens, as a large part of him expected it to, and he does not consider that he might have stood back instead. He does not consider, either, that Firo's thought is one which did not occur to him, one which should have. He could consider it. Doesn't. "It's not unlikely. We'll head there first. Go around, rather than through."

Roland waves a hand at the wall, expecting Firo to keep one side next to it, keep at least one side of him safe, and expecting then to take up a position on his other side, wanting to keep Firo in the middle of as much protection as he can manage and not thinking too much on why. Ordinarily Roland would keep one side to the wall too, keep going after Firo and keep some space between them, enough space that a shooter couldn't take them both out at once. That would be the wisest thing to do, but wisest is not always best.

Firo doesn’t realize what Roland’s doing with their positioning, seeing only that his reach with his knife and thus his usefulness will be restricted. But he figures the man knows what he’s doing, so he slips into place and doesn’t quarrel when Roland takes up his spot as well.

They haven't been moving long at all when someone from deeper in the factory spots them, and a shot rings out only a few feet away--luckily their attacker isn't such a good shot.

At the sound, Firo's immediately reaching for Roland if he hasn't moved already, aiming to pull him to the ground so they can take cover behind one of the whirring machines. He'd be wary of getting too close, considering what happened last time, but they don't have the luxury of worry right now.

“Where is he?!” He didn't see where the bullet came from and is stuck, unable to figure out a next move, until he has some idea of where their attacker is.

"That way," Roland says mildly, lifting his head from the ground where Firo's pulled him and tilting it in the general direction of the shot. If whoever it was had been a better shot, Roland might be dead now. This does not particularly bother him. It barely occurs to him. He isn't dead, and Firo isn't dead, either. Whoever it was isn't a better shot, and that is that. "Can't tell exactly. Might need to lure 'im into shooting a little more. Might be a little difficult with you on top of me."

It's a testament - as if Roland needed another one - to just how far he is from that pure and deadly place in his mind which he should be in that a certain thought now drifts into his head, a realization that this is the kind of situation the fans back in the Capitol have written about, save that in those stories this position the two of them are in would lead to sex. That's a thought that would make Signless smile, Roland thinks, if the Signless weren't on the other side of a war at some impassable distance. He wonders if Signless still reads those kinds of stories, as the two of them used to, wonders how many of Panem's romance novels Karkat managed to sneak into District 13, and wonders where they went when the boy died.

Focus.

Roland blinks, pulls himself back to this building and this room and the too loud, grating noise of the machines, back to whoever it is who's shooting at them. "I'll duck out, I think. That'll at least tell us how green our friend is. If he's new to battle, he'll shoot before I've even made myself a target."

Firo hardly realizes their position--his mind's too busy thrumming with how they should strike back--until it's mentioned. "Oh." He scuttles back, just enough to free him but not enough to reveal himself to their enemy.

One hand remains fixed on Roland's sleeve, though, and he stares intently at him. "You're not gonna make yourself a target, right?"

It may be simple enough for Roland to pry those fingers off, but Firo's not moving them himself until he gets confirmation.

"Hm? Oh, no, not much of one. Wouldn't do you much good to have the man at your back shot for no good reason, would it?" He pulls himself up a little, not leaving the cover of the machine churning above him and not moving the hand on his arm. So long as Roland has time to settle Firo's mind from whatever it is concerning him, he'll do it. Another bullet pings off their cover - or, he thinks, the cover next to them, off the machine a foot or two in front of their own. Of course the noise of this place still hasn't let up, but shooting is loud, and Roland's ears are still good. He hears a voice, too, distant, scared and trying not to sound it. Their enemy, probably.

"Ought to pay attention to that," he murmurs. "Can you make his words out? If we can get him talking, we might find out how many there are. Tricking your enemy into wasting words is even better than tricking him into wasting bullets." Did you like that last part, Firo? It was a little lesson, just for you. Don't say now's not the time, either - it's never not the time to teach.

Edited 2016-04-15 21:34 (UTC)

That's probably the best answer he's going to get, though 'not much' isn't quite comforting. He nods and his grip slackens; his hand remains lying there as if he needs to keep track of Roland. Maybe he does.

At the suggestion with the voices, Firo'd turned to hear, but then he twists right back around to stare in disbelief. Is he lecturing him? Now? "Are you serious? I'd rather him not be able to blow our goddamn heads off than not be able to talk."

Sticks and stones will break my bones, but words will never hurt me. Bullets hurt a lot.

But now also isn't the time to argue, so, resigned, he turns back around and strains his ears. It's hard to fight past the clutter of sound around them--his ears aren't as sharp as his eyes--but he can make some things out.

'Hurry up--' 'How many?' 'I don't freaking know, you--'

At their tones, Firo's certain of one thing. They may be outnumbered, but, "They're scared of us. I bet if we got up and--" And charged them, he was about to say, it would catch them off guard. A strategy Firo's used plenty of times before no matter the weapon turned on him. But he bites his tongue, worried that the suggestion's just going to make his friend mad.

With a flash of anger, Firo realizes he shouldn't be second guessing at a time like this, but what can he do?

"And what?" Roland's face says that he knows exactly what you were going to say, Firo. Roland knows and it makes him sigh, quietly. Young men, young men's grasp of strategy. He remembers those days. Maybe it was some kind of blessing that none of their fathers were around in those days, in those last long years, to watch Roland and his old friends thinking in exactly the same way he's sure that Firo was just now. "If our skins were made of iron and our blood never ran dry, aye, that'd do us well. Hush now, and watch what good talking can do."

Roland tilts his head back, looking toward the ceiling thoughtfully. He draws a breath and when it comes out his voice carries that steady and echoing tone he uses so rarely these days, doesn't shout over battlefields much anymore, but which he remembers nonetheless and which will, unless he's particularly unlucky, move fairly well over this wide room and all the noise it has to cross to get there.

"The Capitol's mercy is great." He closes his eyes as he says this. Never forget who it is you're fighting for. Hopefully their enemies over there haven't forgotten, either. He'll remind them. "Even yellowbellied cowards may yet serve our greater purpose. You'll be allowed to see the only beautiful city in Panem - you may eat its food, and even become almost like one of its people, if only you learn to serve as your kind ought! It's easier than standing up to fight, even a districter should be able to understand that!"

He opens his eyes, watching the ceiling still and looking like a man enduring some kind of great weight pressing down on him. There's satisfaction, too, though. It's there. The satisfaction of a bullet well aimed. That'll prick their pride, and hard, if they have any pride at all. Perhaps hard enough to get them up and shooting, or at least shouting. It should. Now comes the time to wait. Wait and see.

Edited 2016-04-17 23:34 (UTC)

Firo puffs out his cheeks, wanting to protest that it's worked for him before and he's still here. But, no, he's already in trouble--no need to argue at a time like this and make it worse.

Skepticism and sullenness quickly melt into shock as Roland speaks. There's a bit of faint horror mixed in there, too. Yes, they're supposed to pretend to be good little Capitol soldiers, but to say all those things? Hell, to even be able to think it all up?

He shakes his head and hisses in a whisper, "You're almost too goddamn convincing sometimes." Almost. Firo wouldn't dream of not trusting him. But these rebels don't know that, and so it's a good thing Firo isn't even thinking of them being caught or else he'd be worried about the torture Roland would earn for such words.

At least one of the shooters is so enraged as to abandon his cover completely; he stands up, firing wildly and shouting about the promises of District 13. The others scream back, but to hurl back their own bile rather than to warn their own to stand down.

Roland's face almost does not change as he hears this. He knows it's true, of course. If he were a more introspective man he might think that this is proof that Firo is truly one of his now, or near to, that he says such things with such venom. Roland nearly finds himself thinking it anyway, is in the middle of trying to chase down that niggling thought when he realizes he's forgotten, for a second, about the enemy waving a gun at him. He realizes this when a bullet bounces with a sharp, very distinct noise off the machine which is giving the two of them cover. He realizes his hand is on that unfamiliar plastic grip of his Capitol-built gun and he hopes, distantly, that he was convincing enough, that he truly did unbalance these amateurs so much because he thinks maybe he needs every advantage he can get.

"You try for the two," he says in a vague sort of voice, after he's blinked and looked around a little in the direction of that shot. "I'll take the moving one. Can you hear where they are?" Things will go better if the answer is yes. Much better. Maybe he should try shouting something else, lure the others out. Maybe shooting their fellow down will do that well enough.

Back to business, and so the sulkiness fades from Firo’s face and posture. He snorts, shifting position so that he’s ready to spring up and start shooting. “Of course I can, with the racket they’re makin’.”

Sanctimonious bastards. For the moment, Firo can stop thinking of the rebels as the downtrodden, poverty-ridden people so like those he grew up with. Instead, he mentally sorts them into the company of Edward and Victor—the people who see him only as a villain and nothing more. Just as with those two, it doesn't matter if they're right; he still feels comfortable resenting them.

There’s only one hitch in his expression, though. He hesitates, giving his friend one last long look. “Be careful.” He has to, right? It’s only fair when he tried to make Firo do all that stuff too.

"Hm," Roland says, and moves. He's not so fast as he could be, but fast enough; the one already standing yells on seeing him, takes a step forward, and falls over. His other foot is still moving, his mind having told it to move right before being shot through by Roland's bullet, and his body follows it, promptly tumbling stright into the nearest machine.

It happens quickly, as these things tend to. The body falls, and there is a spray of blood. A chain snaps. Something whips around. Roland's head is being held in place because his hair is caught, being slowly but surely tugged under the body and toward the source of a choked and stuttering grinding noise.

Well. Perhaps he could have been a little more careful, just there. Didn't have to step out of cover quite so far. Now, while being held in place as perhaps the clearest living target his enemies have ever seen in their short careers, is maybe not the time to be having those particular regrets.

There's a cry of dismay from the other side as their friend falls. Whatever their training, these recruits apparently weren't yet prepared for this kind of thing. Firo doesn't even spare them thought or sympathy, though, because of what's going on with his friend.

"Fuck!" He doesn't waste time lamenting their terrible luck or wondering how it happened--or really thinking at all--he springs up from their cover as well, grabbing for Roland's arm to try to hold him back. It's a good thing that, despite his height, Roland isn't all too hefty, but Firo can still feel that he won't be able to keep it up long.

He's heedless of the danger from their enemies because they're not firing yet. They still have time, and he has to move to make the most of it. And if they do start shooting, then Firo can at least block some of Roland and that'll have to be enough. "Hold on! Can you get yourself out of it?"

At least one of the rebels has recovered and sends a shot their way; it clangs off the nearest machine.

With his free hand, Firo sends an answering shot back straight for the man's body--he doesn't trust his aim to try for any headshots--and the attacker pivots and ducks down as his arm is hit. Not even his shooting arm, though, and Firo growls in disappointment.

Roland doesn't bother answering, because he doesn't know. Whether he can remains to be seen, doesn't it? No point in turning enough of his attention on the question just to guess.

He's grimacing, reaching into a gash the machine made in his enemy's corpse and pushing his fingers in, feeling the squelch of blood and give of skin and fat and muscle under his hand and not thinking much of it. He's thinking of his other hand, which he'll need to use to get enough grip on this damned body and which he has to convince to unlock itself from the grip of the Capitol's gun sitting uselessly in its holster. He's selfishly glad, for a second, that Firo is no gunslinger, so trained to think in a certain way and to notice every part of his surroundings at once, and he hopes that Firo won't notice this particular struggle, either.

The hand which had never needed to lock itself on his gun and which actively shouldn't have, just now, does rise, it shoves itself in a little ways from the other and pulls. The body moves, not enough but almost, and he throws his weight back again in another try at it. "Why'd you leave cover? Get down, for your father's sake get down and shoot from there!"

"Why'd you leave cover?" He fires back, never mind the fact that Roland made it clear why. This is the time for action and yelling, not well-reasoned arguments.

He jams his gun back into its holster and goes for his knife instead. The Capitol outfitter had rolled their eyes when Firo insisted on one, but there are things you just can't do with a gun.

"Don't stop. I'm gonna cut it."

His hands have always been steady--just one of the things that made him such a good pickpicket--so he's not worried about cutting Roland even if he's jerking around in his battle with the machine. He stretches up, this time grabbing for where chain and hair knot together, and starts sawing.

A bullet hits metal behind them. Roland flinches. It's the first time in a very long time - he can't remember, but very long - that he has done so at something so simple, and he does it because he knows instinctively who it is that bullet nearly hit. The knife can keep doing its work, that doesn't matter, and it doesn't matter if Firo's hands jostle and cut some other part of Roland instead. The only important task here is making sure the boy gets down.

"Do what you like, only stay low, for your father's sake, Firo." Roland puts one hand on Firo's shoulder and one on his head and shoves at him, not away but down.

Firo’s first instinct is to push back to resist Roland's directing, because he's always been rather stubborn. The knife slips in his surprise, and he grits his teeth as he has to right it to resume cutting at the hair.

“Let go! ‘M almost done. And you're up there!"

He'd promised not to be reckless, but he hardly thinks it counts as being reckless if he's trying to block a friend from getting shot while he's trapped. Besides, just one swipe more and he'll be free!

Roland grunts, not happy at all about this particular arrangement but too practical to keep resisting it. The moment Firo is done he tries to pull the boy down with him, sighing and running a hand over his jaw. Then he looks at his hand, looks at the blood on it, and sighs again.

"Panem has a word for something like this, don't they," he mutters. "A shitshow?" Those amateurs over there should be dead already. Roland has to admit now, if only to himself, that maybe he shouldn't have taken charge in the first place. Maybe he is so far gone as all that.

"If you have a different plan, I'll follow it. A little more goading and they should break cover and run at us. They're grieving. It won't take much." But it's in Firo's hands, not his. Leaving this to a boy whose first choice would have been to simply run at their enemies - but no. No point in complaining. Roland had his chance, and this is how it has to be.

Finished, Firo no longer resists and is easily dragged down with Roland. He sheaths his knife as he crouches down. "Yeah, that's the word."

He's surprised at being offered the opportunity to direct, but he doesn't argue or waste time thinking about it. He shakes his head, smiling faintly. "We'll bait 'em a little more and take care of 'em when they come at us. Just like you said." No running straight at the enemy for these two. Not yet, at least.

He doesn't fancy himself as good at the manipulation game as Roland, but he's being talking trash since he could talk at all. He may not be particularly clever at it, but he knows how to goad someone. He twists back around to yell in the general direction of their opposition. "With back-up like you guys, it's easy to see why your friend died."

It gets one of them, at least, to unload the last of his ammo into their cover--bang, bang, bang, and then a series of frustrated clicks. All that's left is to confront them head on, and that's what this guy rushes out to do.

Roland rolls out and the man is too close and moving too quickly to shoot so Roland hits him on the head with his gun, the Capitol's gun, grabs at him, and finds himself almost in danger of the very thing he just escaped. Almost, because he's being pressed against a different part of the machine now and because there's a lot less hair to be caught in the thing's workings, now. That's convenient, because he has to keep the other man's body between him and their third enemy, and this is the only position in which to do it.

"While this one's busy, Firo!" The man's snarling and yelling in Roland's face and crying but Roland pays that little attention. The enemy in front of him, the machine and its deadly workings behind, those merit some attention but they are not his highest priority just now.

"Careful!" He finds himself adding, though it's completely unnecessary - ought to be, anyway. He isn't sure that it is. Needs to make sure Firo knows. Caution is important.

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Please do not share that train of thought with Firo, Roland

but doesn't firo want to have a THIS ISNT GAY freakout while pinned down by gunfire

He never wants to have it and this is probably the single worst time

now i'm almost sad roland didn't say it

he's a resourceful man; he'll find time in the future to say weird stuff like that

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