Deep in the meadow, under the willow...

[etcircenses]

Who| All those on the liberation mission and all those being made to fight against them.
What| The liberation of District 12.
Where| District 12.
When| This week.
Warnings/Notes| War, violence, death. Please warn for more in headers.

It doesn't take long to get to District 12, the closest district to the rebel district. It's one of the smallest districts, and you only know you reach it when rolling hills grow and grow until they become large, fertile green mountains. The environment looks green and lush, beautiful, really--That is, until you reach the part of the District where people actually live. The weather is chillier than the Capitol, though the wind bares the worst of it. Anyone planning on spending any time outside should definitely get a coat.

The town is smaller than any of the others, and more worn down. Everything seems to have a thin layer of cole settled over it, no matter how much cleaning is done. The center of the town isn't too shabby, and there are a few things that stand new and shining--A metal whipping post and stocks. The latter occasionally has an unfortunate person in it, though most people have learned to buckle down and accept the new rules.

In the merchant part of town, there's some signs of wildlife, knobby trees and green enough yards. The merchants used to ply their trades here, though for now, everything's locked down. As you get farther, it gets shabbier, poorer. Into the Seam, where the poorest of the poor live. Here, the houses are barely more than shacks. Trees grow wild, and what animal life exists is quick to run from any humans, no doubt having survived at least one attempt by the people of the Seam to capture them for the supper pot.

One thing in common with all the sections of the District is a feeling of hopelessness. The mood is dour, as heavy and permanent as the cole dust that seeps into everything. The only sign of anything even resembling any rebellion is a few chalk scratchings on the sides of abandoned buildings, a few zodiac symbols--Anyone who knows the trolls can recognize the symbols of Karkat, Terezi, Psiioniic, and even the Initiate. That, and the grand pictures of Sam Wilson and Joan Watson, and the bold words stating NOT ALONE and WE ALL DESERVE BETTER.

The war continues, and in the back of everyone's mind is a familiar phrase; may the odds be ever in your favor.

Comments

Open to Those Who Want to Witness Wesker's Benevolence

[president_evil]

The air was thick with coal dust and gunpowder and the stink of fear. Gunfire echoed, an almost heartbeat, rap-tap-tap, and screams cut loose, sharp and erratic. Figures darted like birds, ducking and to and fro, trying to be anywhere but where they were. The Peacekeepers moved in the streets of Twelve like a white flood, firelight shining in the black masks of their helmets.

Moving behind them, moving as if he did this every day - head high, gate steady - was Albert Wesker.

He might have been out in the Capitol, for the impassive expression of his face. But his fine, tailored suit had been replaced with shrapnel deflecting leather and there, tucked under his arms, the gleaming grips of twin pistols. (Not his. The Desert Eagles still tucked away in one of the Captiol's many hideaways. But more than enough to get the job done.)

Truth be told, he wouldn't have even needed them. ...But it did expedite things.

Stop them, so the order had been. And so he did.

A single bullet down an alley, a body streaking toward them, and one weapon was out, jerking against his palm seemingly before he'd even moved. Then the man was down, screaming on the ground, clutching his now useless legs.

Wesker tapped his sunglasses with his other hand, the bomb locations flashing before his eyes, and he directed the team on.

"The next right. Through the first building."

Ahead the time moved. Wesker's head swiveled, a quick surveillance -- and something flashed. Soft and pink. The hem of a dress disappearing back around the corner of a building across the street.

The gun twitched, started to raise. Color bloomed behind his glasses, a bitter, poisonous red... then both receded. The team moved down the designated street unaware, and Wesker could afford to be merciful.

For the moment.

Quickly, quickly, little bird. I wouldn't stay there, if I were you.

Re: Open to Those Who Want to Witness Wesker's Benevolence

[theflyingone]

Altaïr only got so close because he had stealthily, methodically eliminated rooftop guards along the way. His feet never touched the street. Too many people there, too many chances of being seen.

The man in the sunglasses (what on earth? wasn't it winter here?) was obviously a leader. The fastest way to stop the hurting of innocents would be to kill this man and take advantage of the confusion it would cause. Altaïr's tactics were always to strike a pivotal person and fade back into the shadows.

Then the man's glasses glowed—no, his eyes—and Altaïr paused. By now, he was familiar with the concept of mechanized or magical abilities. He never engaged an enemy without learning about them first. He'd learned the hard way what that might cost back home. He waited. And watched as the man deliberately allowed someone to escape. Someone this on point could not have possibly missed the civilian rounding the corner. Altaïr, from his better vantage point, could see her as she successfully made her escape.

Maybe it was a fluke. Maybe it was someone Wesker knew. Would he show the same mercy again? Altaïr hesitated.

[president_evil]

The team had moved on, as instructed, entering the target building ahead. Wesker followed up, striding with purpose toward the door they'd blown open. As he neared, a figure came barreling out - a young man, pale and terrorized - that didn't see Wesker waiting until he was slamming into him and Wesker's vice like arms were banding around him, a gloved hand digging into his chin.

It would be simple. A little twist, barely any effort.

But neither did it cost him anything to toss the boy aside.

He lay in the dirt, too startled and afraid to do anything more than pant.

"Leave," Wesker told him.

Then he moved on, stepping over the boy without a backward glance.

oh my god i lost this

[theflyingone]

Altaïr still waited for his opportunity, creeping ever closer. On edge from the chaos of the battle, he had even been fingering his knife. He gripped its handle more firmly when he saw a civilian crash into Wesker. He thought the young man was as good as dead, too late to save, but there he was, rising after being thrown harmlessly aside.

Altaïr, like the rest of his Brotherhood back home, did not choose any side in a war. Their aim was to eliminate cruel men on all sides, key players who would enslave and mass murder innocents. Altaïr saw none of that here. He could not kill a man on suspicion or hearsay. He had to see facts for themselves.

He circled his roof, eyeing the best route to slip away unnoticed.