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

[pimpcanes]

"Aye. If that's what it takes." He trusts Albert to be a man of his word; maybe there are those who get far in the business of villainy by assuming the worst of everyone, but Tom tends to try and peg some of his foes as virtuous and thus, in his opinion, foolish. God knows if the roles were reversed he wouldn't let Albret take two breaths without the grenade in his hand.

"Perhaps if we're swift with it we'll be a featured story on Panem Nightly News, eh?"

He has a knife hidden in his boot. He takes the grenade, holds it out, and then sets it on the ground before taking a step sideways, just far enough away that he can't pick up the grenade without making a lunge.

[silberfuchs]

There's a pregnant pause as Tom steps aside, tension vibrating in the air as if it's a tangible thing, something that can be grasped and wrestled with physically. It rears its head for a long moment in the gap between the two men, claws flexed and jaws distended in an ugly snarl, wanting to be fed with violence.

The next moment, Albert's pulled the trigger and aimed a shot neatly between Black Tom's eyebrows.

He may be a man of his word, but he's also practical, and he doesn't have time to play with a self-styled super villain when there's a war on.

[pimpcanes]

Tom doesn't even see it coming. He has no moment to ponder death or the mistake he's made; he just drops like a sack of bricks, a neat hole at the bridge of his nose and hair wetting with blood at the back of his head. His eyes don't even roll up, just stay fixed into oblivion before the sky above.

All things said, it's a much kinder death than he's ever deserved.