Panem Events (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
etcircenses) wrote in ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png)
thearena2016-03-28 11:13 am
etcircenses) wrote in thearena2016-03-28 11:13 am
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.
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.
no subject
Firo follows behind him, shoulders squared. Perhaps he's done wrong, but he's not going to hide from it. "If I disagree with your command, I'm gonna tell you."
And why does he want him 'far enough away'? He clenches his fists. "Look, if you want me to fuck off, just say so. But I can't promise I'd listen to that either--somebody's gonna have to pull you outta the next machine you fall in."
no subject
There's a door beside him, which leads most likely to another office. He puts his hand on it, but looks to Firo with his eyebrows raised before doing anything more. It doesn't look like the boy's terribly ready to catch any enemy who might be waiting inside, and faintly, Roland wonders if that's his own mistake there, whether he's driven the boy to that state. Roland knows well the mistakes that can be made in leading men, has a nasty suspicion he might be making more than one of those mistakes here, and pushes on, anyway. Not inside the office though, yet. He tilts his head toward it, meaning his expression to ask whether Firo is ready. With the way the rest of this has gone, who knows how Firo's going to interpret it.
no subject
Incompetent? It takes him a moment to figure out where that came from. "I just meant--" That he had to watch his back. It had been an olive branch, in a way, though not a deftly offered one.
He supposes he can understand why Roland's mad, even though part of him chafes and insists that Roland isn't one of his bosses. He's a cop. And yet... Another part of him concedes that he should've listened. He sighs and points to the door. "You can punish me later if you want. We need to get this done now, so let's go."
no subject
The door opens. Not suddenly, not noisily - although, with all this talking they're doing, he supposes he may as well have shoved it open. He edges inside, looks around, and glances back at Firo, tossing his head toward the insides of the office to direct Firo in, too.
"Punish, Firo?" He mutters it, turning toward a desk and beginning a search through it. "Where in the world did that come from?"
no subject
As soon as Roland speaks, Firo almost wishes there had been an enemy waiting for them. Does this really need to be picked apart? He's not even entirely sure where it came from. That's a lie; he knows where it came from--he's spoken to his bosses in similar ways before at times like these--but he's not sure why it came into this conversation.
"You're not my boss, but..." He shakes his head and busies himself rummaging through a bookshelf on the other side of the room. Don't get on that train of thought now. "I just thought it'd get us movin' on sooner. You're mad because I didn't listen to you, so..."
He shrugs. It's a trade, of sorts. Or like being extended a line of credit on his disobedience.
no subject
Then he reconsiders, shuts the first drawer and pulls out another, and flips through the papers there. His reading is, as always, slow, but it doesn't take too long to get a general idea of whatever it is he's looking at. "Suppose I should be honored by the comparison, that you'd place yourself in my hands that way."
He considers it, then nods. "I am. But Firo, you must understand, I'm no man's - if only I could use the true word for it - I'm no man's leader-caretaker, Firo. I'm done with that. It's done with me. One may have to give the other orders in a time of battle, but you're your own man. If you really feel you ought to be punished, feel free to do it for yourself."
no subject
He relaxes when Roland finishes speaking, even laughing a little. "If it's all the same to you, I think I'll pass." He did do wrong--refusing to listen, showing mercy--but he had his reasons. Killing is wrong too, he reminds himself, even as he curses the soft thinking behind that.
He takes one of the books off the shelf and shakes it so see if anything falls out of the pages. It's stupid, but as relieved as he is that he's not in trouble, he's almost disappointed to know that Roland's lost that role--whatever he calls it. He frowns. "I bet you woulda' been good at stuff like that."
no subject
"This part of the room's got nothing but paper." It feels strange to say that, still. Paper, like many things, is so plentiful in this world. But none of this paper is useful, which is the point. Roland walks over, wanting to peer over Firo's shoulder. "Anything useful over here?"
He reconsiders, snorts. "Anything that strikes you so, anyway." The closest they can get when the Capitol didn't deign to tell its soldiers what they ought be looking for.
no subject
Firo holds up the open book he's holding for Roland to see. "Nah, just books and reports. Just stuff like how much they built, how many workers can get killed before it cuts into their profits."
So the last part isn't in there, but Firo figures it probably is somewhere.
no subject
"Time for the next room, I think. We'll search the rest of this hall, then try to meet up with any others who've been searching, too. No point in going over the same places twice."
no subject
He shakes his head roughly to get his brain back on track. “Right. You don't think we coulda' missed anything in here? Secret doors or whatever?"
It's only a halfhearted suggestion, as he doesn't even really want to do too well at their job.
And possibly your next comment can end this thread, or maybe mine after that?
But the topic is dropped, and he doesn't give it a second thought. What he's thinking on instead is Firo's question, and the more important one it leads to. That is, how badly they can get away with searching, here. "We'd best not linger. Those tied up outside'll be waking to call their fellows any minute now."
Yeah, I think that's good!
But Firo figures that he does have a point--which means that they have something more important to worry over. Besides, what good would it do to steer things into another argument?
"Fine." He nods and sweeps an arm down the shelves to spill over some of the old files--essentially just making a mess. To make it look good if any Peacekeepers or Capitol rats come in to check their work at some point; he's seen enough searches to know what the end result looks like.
no subject
Nevermind. Get this over with. Do it quick. He waves his arm toward the door. "Let's search for that damned machine, and then get out of here."