thearena | Where a dead man called out for his love to flee.

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Where a dead man called out for his love to flee.

Who| All those on the liberation mission and all those being made to fight against them.
What| The liberation of District 10.
Where| District 10.
When| This week.
Warnings/Notes| War, violence, death. Please warn for more in headers.

Fields of grass are all that can be seen in any direction for at least an hour while the hovercraft come in. These fields are broken only by the occasional color change (marking different kinds of grass and even the occasional wheat field) and a farmstead every now and again. It’s easy to see that the animals here far outnumber the people as it’s more likely to see a grazing horse or cow or even something stranger like llamas and elephant before one would ever notice a human being. The temperature is mild in this season, not too cool in the shade and not too hot under the sun, although as the hovercraft come in and the people of the main city come into view, quite a few are dressed in long pants and sleeves, their clothing worn and dirty from hours of hard labor. In wide open fields like these there are only a few groves of trees to park a hovercraft out of sight behind. It’s one of these far off groves the craft lands. It would be a shame to have to hoof it all the way into the city.

If you’re from the Capitol, this doesn’t apply, as they can land wherever is most convenient. For those in the rebel forces... well just be glad someone knew what to expect and has procured more than a few horses to carry you into town.

District Ten has always been overlooked by the Capitol. A large district by landmass alone, its people are perceived to be just as domestic as the livestock they tend to, so despite whatever political climate it may hold, rebellion is not seen as a concern here. Consequently, those on the rebellion’s side will find they’re the first ones on the scene.

They’re greeted by friendly, if not guarded, faces. These are people who stick to their own community, their own families, but they’re not an unfriendly group. They know who you are and why you’re here. They’ve said for ages that the Capitol needed to go down, that something ought to be done about Snow and his Games, but no one ever paid them any mind. Probably because all that talk may be there, but it’s only ever been that. No one expects an uprising from the countryfolk.

Being so laid back, there's really not much in the way of graffiti. No one particularly has anything to say that has been said and shrugged off. One might hear laughs and mutters about the compliance video or a morose mention of Bison and the call to fight. There are also others pointing out that this is just the way things work.

Even the peacekeeping forces here are limited and laid back, not nearly as strict as might be found in other districts, but they are still there, so it’s best to keep your heads down as you move through the town.

As for how the Capitol forces are greeted upon their arrival, well, that all depends on how successful those rebels are.

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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It's funny, going into something like this with the knowledge that he'll most likely die and not bring frightened in the slightest. In fact, he can set it up to his advantage once the fear of the unknown is removed. He'd already given Sam the messages he'd intended, and now all he needs to do is create a distraction, some opportune moment for Sam to make a run for it. Preferably something flashy and distracting for more than just those in their general vicinity, but subtle enough that it can't entirely be pinned on him when he's inevitably revived and there's a possibly inquiry. So he needs a dupe, and it doesn't take long to find the perfect person whose buttons he's well accomplished at pushing.

"Cassidy," Albert jogs up beside Tom, fresh from the field with the scent of ranch dirt on his boots. "There's fighting creeping towards our camp. We may be able to put it down if we're quick, otherwise they might get it in their heads to set a fire."

"Aye, and that'd be a pity, wouldn't it?" Tom's mostly stuck to the field, because even without powers he prefers the lush terrain. It's made sneaking up and sniping stragglers that much easier.

No one is under any illusions that there is love to lose between him and Albert, but the powers that be are under the impression that the two of them can cooperate towards a common goal. Tom's fine to let them labor under that delusion, but he doesn't plan on fulfilling it in any way. The first chance he gets to club Albert over the head and leave him for dead, he'll take, consequences be damned.

The only thing stopping him now is that he doesn't trust himself not to be overpowered if he waged some sort of attack, and so he'll play nice for now.

"If we can clear the area and keep them pinned down long enough, they'll have to retreat when the flank falls." He gestures with his hand and they both head towards the border of the camp. Tom keeps his palm on his holster.

He'd more expected at least some level of convincing to be necessary, or at least animosity, but instead there's a quip at his 'former' rebel ties - ties which he's certain Tom at least knows there's nothing former about and just doesn't have proof - and a simple move to achieve their shared goal. Albert can only conclude that Tom is planning his revenge for the way Albert had taken him out the last time they'd been in a battlefield scenario.

Honestly, it suits him fine so long as the man is particularly flashy about it. That's the real trick. The Psiioniic had warned him he was going to die, but the manner in which it happens is something Albert intends to use to greatest advantage. He can't let Tom thwart him in that.

He has no rifle, as he walks beside Tom. Powers are on, and so he's been fully loaded with rounds in his arm and extras in a small bag strapped to his thigh in the same manner as a holster. As such, he carries the air of a man who's fully armed despite all visual being to the contrary.

"That shouldn't be too hard to manage. The ones from Thirteen have had training, but the combatants from the District are still wet behind the ears. Still, we'll need to be careful. Those fighting for their homes are often more savage than the aggressors." Albert keeps an eye around them as they travel, and half of one on Tom, just in case.

Tom's under no illusions that Albert is a new devotee to the Capitol. He doesn't even understand why the Capitol is using the offworlders for their combat, aside from the fact that most Capitolites are about as useful as a bag of synthetic hair. They're pitting people against their loved ones. It seems a painfully obvious way to have a military force eager to turn on you.

He's seen a few governments toppled in his time. None of them were running it quite so badly as the Capitol is now, and that says something.

Tom doesn't feel the need to use his powers right now, but they're everpresent in the field. It would be easy to just trip Albert with a frond, to use a stem of wheat to bring him down. But he doesn't. At least not now.

"There's something to be said about an untrained foe, too. They'll surprise you." He jokingly lurches a hand forward to snap a finger in Albert's face. "Boo!"

The sudden movement gives Albert a jolt, his left hand coming up with the outside towards Tom as if to block some kind of karate chop. The enormous combat knife encased withing the arm, however, remains so. Luckily, or he might have started that fight right now when he'd rather get a bit closer to the rebels' position.

"Don't do that," he brings his hand down with the warning, continuing on their way with an irritated look to his companion. He gives his words an imperious air, as if lecturing a child. "You're lucky I am trained, else I could have taken your hand off."

True, he doesn't want a physical fight just this second, but building up to one realistically is certainly in his favor.

Tom grins, not the least bit fazed at the sudden startle, having wanted to provoke that reaction all along. "Ah, how could I ever manage if I were attacked by the great Albert Heinrich, who's apt to topple the Capitol on his own?"

He's not even bothering to hide that he's baiting Albert. He's looking for an excuse, any excuse, to start a row between the two of them. All the better if he can play along that he was nullifying some Rebel threat to the Capitol, someone who was clearly not as controlled by the threats and hostages as he might be pretending.

"We're on the same side, Cassidy. Something I shouldn't have to remind you of." An enormous lie and they both know it, but it sounds good through the bugged gear they have on them. At least, Albert assumes its bugged. It would be if he was inclined to run an outfit like this.

They're nearly far enough out that Albert's comfortable provoking Tom into making a move. It should be easy enough to start something now and generate a big enough distraction to catch 13's attention and prompt them to use it as cover. He looks sidelong at the Irishman. "I know you'd love a clover for your cap in turning in a rebel, but I believe you may be looking at the wrong end of the rainbow."

Albert amazes even himself that he could say that with a straight face.

"Are you serious with that, lad?" Tom raises an eyebrow, rather than flying into a rage. It's such a ridiculous jibe, so jejune and over the top, that he can't respond with actual anger. "Or should I start casting aspersions about sauerkraut and the Fuhrer at you?"

He does cast a glance over his shoulder, though, checking to see how far out they are, if someone living could pick up any sounds of a quarrel or if that would be left to security footage and microphones at best.

None of the consternation in Albert's expression is feigned so much as amplified. He lets himself use the vague annoyance he always feels at racist comments like that and allows it become anger. Narrowing his eyes, Albert stops walking and faces Tom, playing the part of the offended party to keep Black Tom where he wants him.

"Low, even for you." He lets his words sound as if they're holding back a tide, as if his own racist jab had simply been good-natured banter and Tom had crossed a line. "I made no mention of anything real. I didn't call you a pot-licking bog jumper, now did I?"

If he hadn't been thinking about this for some time, he wouldn't have come up with even that, frankly. He's honestly never really thought about the Irish as a people. It's not much in him to be racist when there are so many legitimate reasons to hate people like Black Tom, but to provoke a reaction he feels the need to use something that strictly isn't legitimate. It's easier to get offended and defensive when put upon for something you can't help.

It's not the first time Tom's felt some sort of edge honed towards his nationality, his ethnicity. It's one of those cross-sections of his life where he has to, at times, remember where and when he's unwelcome for reasons entirely unrelated to his decisions. He's a mutant. He sleeps with men. And yes, he's quite Irish. He's usually able to keep brushing it off as the taunts and jibes of lower creatures.

But somehow looking into Albert's eyes as the man says it, hearing it from the coward who put a bullet in his head during what Tom would have considered a fair fight, elevates it from mere immature, annoying banter to just enough to tip him into anger. He feels the adrenaline of indignation catch light in his blood like a damn gas fire.

When he butts the edge of his cane against Albert's chest, his face is deadly serious, eyes like pits carved into his face. He all but dares Albert to continue escalating. "You want to keep moving so I can walk, lad?"

The cane hits Albert's chest with enough force to sound a dull clang, muted by his uniform. Any other time and Albert would stop. Any other person and Albert wouldn't have started in the first place. But while anyone else might see their own demise lurking in Tom's pitiless gaze - and he does, if he thinks of the Psiioniic's warning - Albert sees his plan coming to fruition, sees Sam Wilson and whoever else can be managed back in Thirteen, and a victory for the side that Albert surmises Tom has abandoned entirely.

"Struck a nerve, did I?" He doesn't move, letting a smug grin curl the corners of his mouth. "I'd like to see you try something, toothless as you are. I've known it since you came to gloat at me in the Center. Only comfortable to face off if I'm safely behind bars."

He leans in, pushing the cane into sliding in Tom's grip lest it be broken against his metal chest. They're nose to nose, close enough that Tom could see the faint silvery variation that separates white iris from sclera in Albert's eyes.

"I've already killed you once. Just because we're on the same side now doesn't mean I won't do it again."

Now Tom's face, always a waxy pale, flushes, and his eyes burn like hot coals in their whites. He doesn't back down. He can feel Albert's breath on the tip of his nose, and he's sure Albert can feel the same on his lip.

"Did you think I'd forget a thing like that?" He jabs the cane forward again, adjusting his grip, and the flora around them seems to ripple in restless anticipation. The cane again makes that metallic sound, and somehow that's all the more infuriating, as he can only see the last time Albert killed him as an act of extreme cowardice - something far too base and human to belong in an inorganic form.

"Toothless, you say, when you were the one who took a shot at me when I asked to box you hand to hand?"

Albert can tell he's going to make his death more gruesome through this particular conversation. He only hopes its worth getting choked to death by vines or flowers blooming in his throat until he asphyxiates.

No normal person would come up with things like that, Albert berates himself, certain not for the first time that there is definitely something wrong with him. Oh well.

"You were pointlessly killing the people I was trying to evacuate." Albert returns with a deadpan stare. In that reaction he at least doesn't have to fake anything. "If I'd spent time fighting you, less civilians would have been saved." He snorts. "Pragmatism, not cowardice."

"I was fulfilling the duties assigned to me by my superiors." Which is Tom's weaselwords to avoid taking any sort of responsibility for his actions. They can always be shuffled up to another person.

"You know heroism and pragmatism rarely overlap. So cowardice and pragmatism are all the same to me, boyo." He clinks the edge of the cane against the metal again, eyes burning. Plants start to coil around Albert's ankles. "Either way, you owe me an apology."

Tom's passing of the buck is hardly unexpected but it produces a look of annoyance from Albert regardless. It's his type that Albert's fought all his life, who take pleasure in the pain of others and then hide behind the establishment.

Another clang from the staff around his chest and the creaking rustle of slowly moving vines around his boots and Albert knows it's time to spring the trap. Only Tom has to swing first if he has any chance of being brought back after this.

He's quiet another moment, eyes locked with Tom's, searching for something. Then he opens his mouth.

"Or what?"

"Or I'll make you wish you had when you had the chance!"

The last bit of Tom's self-restraint snaps, and this time he really does throw the first blow - or the first several, as he swings the cane at Albert's head, set off by that temper that's run in his blood for generations, that's always made him as impulsive as he is egotistical. The two traits winnow together. The vines and stems snap taut, trying to reverse Albert's knees.

The first swing catches Albert above the ear, rattling his brain a bit but still hitting reinforced metal under the synthetic skin. The others miss widely not because of any grace on Albert's part but because Tom's own vines work against him and send Albert to the ground.

Luckily, he had warning for all of this, fully aware that the plants around them were working with his assailant before this even came to blows. He pops out his knife, shredding his left sleeve as the blade smoothly extends from his arm with the speed of a bear trap, and hacks the plants around his left leg before the opposing forces can quarter him. Even so, they still wrench his joints painfully before he slices his way through, Albert twisting uncomfortably to get the vines at his other leg before Tom tries to lower his cane down on Albert's head like one would split a watermelon.

The mental image is so grisly, Albert leaves off freeing his leg for a moment and raises his right hand towards where Tom was standing when he went down, deciding belatedly due to the blow to his head that Tom himself is the greater danger than some irritating plant life.

And it's true - for all that Tom's florakinesis is powerful, it's also relatively new to his arsenal of techniques. Meanwhile, he's been fighting with his cane, his cudgel, since he was a young man, and knows how to pack plenty of power into a blow.

He tries to bring it down on Albert like a farmer tries to decapitate a chicken.

Meanwhile, the plant life reacts with fury to the way it's hacked aside, and with renewed vigor twists into a cord of wheat and grass as thick as a fist that lurches for Albert's throat.

All the better to hold him in place.

Turns out that swinging his hand up was the right thing to do as the only reason he still has a head a moment later is because of it. He fired at the same moment, a spray of bullets rattling out shortly then cut off as the momentum of Tom's club sends his hand forcefully down, not likely having hit anything with his gunfire with more than a grazing.

His hand, however, comes far too close to his face and like the barrel of a gun, is scalding to the touch after having just been fired. He tries to reel from it, the metal surface burning his cheek, causing the skin to bubble like plastic along his cheek bone and eliciting a strangled bark from the German as he twists, but the cord of foliage holds him still, forcing his hand to remain near his cheek and melting the synthflesh from the point of contact almost to his ear.

He struggles, but the more he does, the more he can hear Psiioniic in his head.

You're going to die. It'll be messy...

Tom doesn't avoid the spray of bullets, but with his powers now that's only a fleeting concern. Anything that doesn't kill him immediately is just something to be taken care of later. Mulch and fibrous tissue rises up out of the earth as a salve and putty to stop up the bulletholes in his leg, so quickly that he only falls for a moment.

"I'll have you dead for that!" Tom shrieks in pure, unfiltered rage, all the feigned civility ripped away to reveal him for what he is - a madman full of hatred for not just Albert, but a wide swathe of the world.

The plants continue to drag Albert to the ground, and Tom's club glows with power as he aims it at Albert's eyes, intending to use it to blast a hole where Albert's brain is now.

It's not big enough, their altercation. He'd imagined something less one-sided but Albert has to admit that Tom caught him by surprise with the plants. His own fault.

He can tell there's no way out of this, that death is coming, because time does that funny thing where it slows down. Logically, he knows its adrenaline forcing a change in his perception, his mind racing more than anything slowing, but the extra moments it gives him allow for a plan.

If he's going to die anyway, might as well go out with a bang.

He curls one knee bent under him, not as much of a fight as he would have thought considering, but the District is mostly grass, not the stronger stuff of roots or vines, and the foliage simply tears at that angle. He doesn't have time to wonder if the rest would come away if he tried to roll; doesn't have time or doesn't bother to consider, given his purpose. Either way, he curls his knee up and instead of throwing a hand out to prevent Tom's oncoming blast, he brings it to the side of his knee, flicking the catch that loads a micro-missile into the launcher housed in his knee.

In the seconds before the energy replaces Albert's face, he looks right at Tom with those blank white eyes. And smirks.

The explosion that follows is enough to leave a crater at its epicenter, and not leave much of Albert's body behind. At least, not intact.

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Where a dead man called out for his love to flee.

For Albert and Black Tom

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cw: racism

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