thearena | They strung up a man they say who murdered three.

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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.

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There was a storm brewing in Bucky's mind and heart as he rode up to the factory that served as the rebellion's base. Things weren't looking very good here either and it just made that storm rage harder in him. This isn't right. This wasn't how this was supposed to go, if they'd known more-

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.

And suddenly there were no more Peacekeepers in Bucky's way. Instead, as if the sun had ducked behind a bank of clouds, a shadow rose up in his path. A blur that turned into a man.

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.

Bucky paused in his tracks, heart rate picking up a bit at the seemingly unnatural way the man seemed to part the fight around them. He couldn't afford to hesitate or doubt, he couldn't show any fear. He stood his ground and let that could snap of determination that had served him so well in life take over. He would not be stopped.

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.

He had pistols, twins, tucked in holsters snug against his flanks. They were well within in his reach, hanging under his shoulders, but he didn't reach for them.

He didn't need them. He didn't want them.

Death was not foremost in his mind. (And even if it had been, he was more than capable with his hands, with T flowing through his veins.)

There was another flash of red; there was a curl of Wesker's lip. And then he was moving. A blur of shrapnel deflecting leather, crossing the distance between them in a blink. Striking out with an iron fist in another.

Wesker was a force to be reckoned with as a normal person, with powers on, Bucky felt the cold grip of realization: he had next to no chance of facing him and winning.

Before, that would have been fine. A year ago and he could have fought with all his might in one final blaze of glory and gone down happy; he was ready to die for his cause. Now things were different, now he had something to live for. The Capitol wouldn't bring him back to life, he wouldn't want them to anyway, he had to do everything in his power to live. He'd promised Sam.

Bucky blinked and and Wesker was moving, Bucky's sword came up, the next moment found Wesker's fist meeting up with the flat part of the blade near the hilt. A second into the fight and Bucky already found himself on the defensive.

Such a blow should have resulted in broken bones, in his fingers at least, if not throughout his hand; and there was a small flash of heat near his pinky, but as quickly as it came, it was gone again, as T rushed to repair.

He didn't flinch. Didn't waver.

He pushed forward, taking the inch Bucky allowed him and tearing for a mile.

Twisting, he kicked, aiming for Bucky's side.

It wasn't natural, the amount of force jolted Bucky's arms and yet Wesker seemed almost no worse for it, he just kept going. The disbelief alone put Bucky just enough off his guard to distract. The push shoved him back, his sword uselessly in front of his chest as the kick was aimed at him.

He tried to move, but he wasn't nearly as fast as this super powered man and Wesker's boot collided with Bucky's side, knocking the air out of him. He stumbled back, but kept his balance enough to keep his footing, even as one hand went to his injured side.

He tried to recover and push back with his foot to launch himself towards his opponent, sword swinging for Wesker's throat.

Except he, and his neck, was simply no longer there. Another blink, another blur, and the man had moved, impossibly, out of the way and that wide swing cut nothing but air.

Turning behind him, Wesker struck again, a stiff, horse-legged kick aimed at the center of Bucky's spine.

His sickle sword cut through empty air and he barely had time to react in surprise before that boot connected with Bucky's back. He could have sworn something sounded like it snapped, but he didn't have time to think about it as he tumbled forward and tried to catch himself with his arms. The jagged rocks bit into the skin on his hands and he winced as he tried to turn onto his hip to face Wesker.

There was a sharp, searing, pain in his back where he'd been kicked. It wasn't broken, he could still move his legs, but something was wrong and it was leaving him vulnerable. There was no way he could move out of the way of another attack.

Slowly, trying to keep from drawing attention to it, he reached for the hilt of his fallen sword. Maybe, maybe he could deal a damaging blow at the last second. Maybe.

He stalked toward Bucky, a hand at his side flexing and curling, preparing to strike. His lip twisted into a snarl, white teeth flashing. An inhuman growl rumbled up from his throat as he bent and reached, going for Bucky's throat.

There'd been a moment where Sam wasn't entirely sure why he followed Bucky into the factory, why he perched somewhere close by and out of sight. Then he sees Bucky on the ground with Wesker stalking towards him, and everything snaps into focus.

He can't think straight, can barely think at all, but that doesn't matter when the need to protect Bucky goes beyond conscious thought, deeper than anything the Capitol's been able to reach so far. He may wear the Capitol's uniform, he may have their fingers in his mind and their metal in his bones, but they haven't touched that.

Sam moves faster than he ever could before, wings flaring out from under the skin in his back in the blink of an eye as he launches himself at Wesker, aiming a midair kick to try to knock him away from Bucky.

The blow didn't connect, but it was still effective.

A shift in the air, a flash of scent and Wesker was jumping, impossibly high, and twisting back to flip over the newcomer. He landed heavily, but gracefully, in a crouch behind Sam. Rising up, his eyes moved over him.

Sam in his Capitol uniform. Sam decidedly more interesting an opponent with those little wings of his.

He clucked his tongue.

"What would the Capitol say?"

His fingers nabbed his fallen weapon just as the flurry of activity happened around -no, above- him. Sam. Sam was protecting him. Sam was going to get hurt. He couldn't let that happen.

The pain in his back as he sat up to kneel turned his vision momentarily white, but he still lashed out with his blade, strained muscles screaming in protest.

If they were both a threat, maybe Wesker would back off, maybe the easy kill wouldn't be worth it, maybe Bucky could protect the man he loved from a man who could surely kill them both. He had to try.

The kick may not connect, but Sam doesn't waste the momentum. He spins in midair, body twisting and wings flashing as he twirls before landing lightly on the ground, facing Wesker.

If he was fully himself, he'd think that he doesn't give a shit about what the Capitol would say. But as it is, there's a wave of confusion, of fear, of what is he doing he knows the rebels can't be trusted he's here for the Capitol.

Bucky attempting to stand and fight at his side anyway, despite the pain, cuts through it, replacing fear and disorientation with equal parts affection and exasperation.

"Stand down, farm boy, you think I swooped in here like this for you to hurt yourself more?"

There's anger in the snap of his voice despite the term of endearment, but it's mostly because his eyes are on Wesker. They gleam red, pupils flaring like the lens of a camera as his HUD vision activates and he scans for any weaknesses.

"Back off."

He wants to say not him, anyone but him, but he's already tipped his hand enough.

A laugh, like scales sliding over silk, a snake between sheet, and Wesker's teeth flashed, equal parts humor and threat. Unfazed. As unconcerned by Sam, as he was of Bucky, flapping that sworld uselessly beside him.

"How sweet."

As quickly as it had come, the sharp smile disappeared, and his eyes flared in a mirror of Sam's, adrenaline rushing through his veins. T strengthening him.

"This is my facility."

But he didn't move to attack. Not yet. Sensing, perhaps, an opportunity.

"Leave."

"Your facility?" Bucky's voice crackled with barely checked anger. This wasn't anyone's facility but the people of District 8, or at least that's how it should have been, the fact it wasn't was the problem here.

But he didn't have any fight to back up his words, not with his gun empty and his sword just as useless when his back screamed and protested every movement. He glared at Wesker but put his sword away and struggled to his feet. A sound of pain escaped him despite his best efforts but he tried not to let any more weakness show. At least not to Wesker.

His hand found Sam's arm and held tighter than he would have normally, partially for balance and partially to try and draw Sam's attention to his words.

"Don't. Let's go." Sam saving him was bad enough, but actively fighting someone else on the Capitol's side...it would either end in his death at Wesker's hands or the Capitols and Bucky couldn't encourage that.

His eyes caught a hazy glance at Sam's back and how there was no pack on it and something cold and vile slipped around in his head. Something was wrong-- he couldn't, not here, they had to get away first then he could look, could ask, could face what was in front of him but he didn't want to see.

"Sam."

Sam stares blankly at Wesker, red eyes narrowed and holding himself tense as he keeps himself geared up for a fight. There's a war in his mind and his body matches, a confusing jumble of his own determination not to let the Capitol know how much he loves Bucky mixed in with the Capitol's orders to fight for them, at war with his own stubborn defiance at an order from this fucker, with the bone deep need not to let him get away with hurting Bucky.

But the pained noise that Bucky makes pulls his focus away, even if he doesn't turn to look at him yet. Bucky's grip on his arm is an anchor, calming the battle in his head and helping him think a little more clearly.

Bucky's right, they need to go.

He tilts his head to Wesker, as if acknowledging the command, before he turns to Bucky. He keeps himself between Wesker and Bucky as he pulls him in, trying to stay gentle, and then launches up into the air.

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They strung up a man they say who murdered three.

For Wesker and Sam

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