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thearena2015-11-30 05:03 pm
etcircenses) wrote in thearena2015-11-30 05:03 pm
Entry tags:
Deep in the meadow, under the willow...
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.
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.
Open to Sam Wilson
Steve had told her once, her Steve of course, that in transit she was as vulnerable as anyone, but on the ground, invincible. She'd laughed at the time, given him the smile he was looking for, but the shadow of a half-million dead batarians had loomed, dark and silent, over every word.
Torfan. Aratoht. Pinnacle Station. Sanctuary.
A quieter voice whispered names, the names of ships, of people, little snippets. Had to be me, she told herself, when she accepted the job. Shepard didn't mind a little blood on her hands. Hell, she welcomed it. Anything, anything to break out of the monotony; Commander Shepard wasn't built for peace. She was a goddess of war. She had killed five people to get here, the foundation of a warehouse. It was built to house coal, four storeys; not the tallest building in town, but it had a squat, toad-like footprint. It was saturated with coal-dust, like cleanliness was only a patina put over a black-crack core. It would burn like a match and blow chunks of charcoal all over the surrounding neighborhood, igniting the town. Shepard had killed five people, unarmed civilians, to get here.
The door guard had seen her, and reacted too slow; she'd crushed his throat with the heel of her hand then brought him down the access ramp. The next four had been waiting for her, unconcerned, waiting to offload their orders, complaining about the hour of the day. She was early, after all.
They weren't ready.
She shot them all, calm, methodical, pop-pop-pop, and when the last one came around the corner to see what had happened, pop. Easy, too easy. Messy. She closed the loading-bay doors, dragged the bodies out of the casual line of sight, noted the locations of the antique security cameras, and went to work.
Simple principle: find the support beam. Where is the floor weakest? Set the charge, don't look up. Focus. Wire the explosives. Check the timer. Hope you weren't followed.
(Know, that you were.)
no subject
Take out the bombs, take out the Capitol soldiers setting and protecting the bombs, quick and quiet, in and out with being seen, not letting anything stop you. It's special ops all over again, and maybe it's a different world, different people, a different war, but it's still shockingly the same.
They move quick and quiet, taking out the Capitol soldiers around the warehouse, and Sam splinters off when he sees one duck inside, following after them with a gun at the ready.
His weapon doesn't waver when he sees who it is. He likes Shepard, despite the fact that their relationship has altered between flirting and sharing drinks while in the Capitol and fighting while in the arena, and he knows that she had been working with the rebellion - but the Capitol has ways of changing that.
"Shepard. I need you to step back from the bomb."
no subject
She's calm, unhurried hands working methodically over the explosive; Shepard isn't going to turn around of course. She doesn't even reach for her gun, though she's confident that she could kill him. Easiest thing in the world, with the right timing-- turn, gun up, shoot, the movements almost thoughtless, if she had wanted to kill him. She doesn't want to.
"They feeding you well enough in the Rebellion? Rations are tough, but if you don't burn any coal you can't cook the meat," She hesitates at that one. Well, that was awkward, "Bad metaphor, sorry. Nice to see they're using you on the field, though. I hate seeing good soldiers wasted."
no subject
He should shoot her while she's talking, take her out before she can finish the bomb instead of giving her the option to walk away. It's what he's done before, and it's what he'd do right now if it was a Peacekeeper or one of the people he knew was pro-Capitol. But it's an ally of the rebellion - it's Shepard, and he respects her too much to shoot her in the back of the head without acknowledging that.
"Yeah, so do I. How're things in the Capitol, they still got you in a gilded cage or have they given up the pretense?" But he doesn't really wait for an answer before moving on to the next question. "How's this gonna end, sister?"
no subject
"Alright, since you're asking. In about...oh, two minutes, I'm going finish up here, and this thing will be ready go. Remote detonator," Surely he understood that that as likely as anything meant a short fuse-- the Capitol had never had any trouble wasting lives for the sake of expedience, after all, "When I'm done, I am going to have to turn around, and the body-cam on my vest is going to make your presence here undeniable. I will at that time be obligated to kill you."
All she had to do was talk; and that much, she was good at. She could talk a pyjack out of a tree. She could talk the krogan out of a war, and a good man into a bullet in the skull.
She hoped.
"...and in about two minutes after that, this building will become a fireball that'll burn all week, unless..." Shepard clipped a wire and the snap of her pliers was loud in the tense silence, drawing out the seconds, ramping up the tension. Strange; she'd never felt more free in her life, than this moment, "...You put a bullet in my head, and cut the orange wire. So what I'm saying here is, you need to make it a clean shot, Sam. You can do that for me, right?"
no subject
No matter who it might hurt.
Still, he sees what she's doing, and there's a twist in his stomach that's both respect and grief. There's no way they can both make it out of this, and they both know it. There's no way Shepard can make it out of this, not without a ton of civilians being sacrificed for it, and she's choosing them over herself. She is a fucking hero, and Sam doesn't want to be the one to take her out of this fight.
But he will.
"Yeah, Shep, I can do that for you." His gun is trained on her head, finger curled around the trigger, already squeezing gently. Just in case, just in case the Capitol got to her and this is a trick - if she moves, he can still have a bullet in her head. "Thirty seconds, you got anything you want me to tell anyone?"
no subject
She thinks about it for a moment, for the moment her brain has left in which to think, though her hands never still. Sure and methodical; competence has a rhythm and you can fake it if you know how.
What can she say? So many people, so little time, so little to say when all the words don't add up to anything. Come back alive? What's the point of that. No one wants to hear Alliance maxims and even if they did nobody would understand them the way she means it. Kaidan's gone. Garrus is gone. The rest of them?
"Everyone else... They already know. Now, Sam."
no subject
It's almost a relief, that Shepard doesn't have anything she needs to say to anyone. Sam doesn't know if it's really because Shepard has no regrets there, that she's already told everyone in her life the things she needs them to know - or if it's something darker, if it's that there's no one left to tell - but he's choosing to believe the first.
"You're more than just a good soldier, Shepard, I wish I'd gotten the chance to know that."
But he doesn't wait for an answer before he shoots, aim deadly accurate through the back of her head.