Are you, are you, coming to the tree?

[etcircenses]

Who| All those on the liberation mission and all those being made to fight against them.
What| The liberation of District 9.
Where| District 9
When| This week.
Warnings/Notes| War, violence, death. Please warn for more in headers.

By now, even the most remote and isolated Districts are well aware of the chaos ravaging Panem. District Nine, golden with wheat and blinding with its expansive blue horizon, is quiet, and yet nothing about it feels safe; the stillness is less like a serene oasis than like tall grass that cannot help but contain lions prowling. An air raid siren was going off an hour ago at the sight of hovercrafts, driving everyone inside. No one is outside working the fields or traveling the dirt roads to the hub of the District, which sits in the center like a spider in its web or the axel of a wheel. Displaced Capitolite and Districter both are hunkered down within the corrugated-metal buildings.

The air is hot, and once outside the hovercrafts one finds that what was previously mistaken for silence is in fact the monotonous hum and whine of insects, too continuous and amorphous to really qualify as actual sound but certainly not the absence of it. The sun glares down from a cloudless sky. The earth was tilled until an hour ago, and many of the fields are only partially plowed. Some still have farm equipment left out. Mills and water towers sit awkwardly at the edge of the fields like sentinels or oversized dominos.

The crops stretch out to the horizon, ranging from waist-height to taller than the average full-grown man, depending on the breed. The sheer variety is astonishing, the quality even moreso; ears of corn are as large as toddlers and the wheat is a flawless golden color, thanks to Capitol technology and genetic modification. There are no pests, as most of the plants have a natural pesticide that is fatal upon ingestion and only removable with sprays available to importers to the Capitol, to prevent theft by the hungry employees.

There are crop circles, many in the Capitol’s logo and a few stamped with the insignias of local Capitol-run businesses. It does not reflect the sentiments of the natives but rather an attempt by those clinging to their echelons to enforce a mindset in vain. The propaganda has largely been repelled from the souls of the people here like bugs to a windshield. Only the rarest bit of graffiti may be spotted saying "All is not lost" and "you are weak" both of which have clear attempts to be scrubbed away.

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

Comments

Battlefield

[etcircenses]

While the crops are immune to pests, there is an obvious and deadly risk to such dense and dry materials in such volume: fire. No one can tell who started it, and its genesis soon becomes a distant concern compared to the more pressing issue of the wildfire. The smoke quickly fills the air, destroying visibility for the hovercrafts on both sides, which are forced to land. They quickly seal up their ventilation systems so they can be converted to sick bays, and healers are encouraged to stay at hand and open the doors only to let the injured and rescued in.

Visibility is difficult for those on the ground, as well, who must reckon not only with the fire but also with the high crops. They can opt for the dirt roads, but that leaves them at a higher risk of being picked off by anyone with a ranged weapon. The fire moves quickly, jumping over pathways and driving each team off their intended paths. Warriors can choose to fight it, but they likely will have better luck moving quickly and trying to complete their missions.

For Albert

[metalicarus]

Above the smoke and the fire is a man. Clad in a white uniform, the emblem of the Capitol emblazoned on the right side of his chest, Jet Link flew high over the burning fields, barely visible against the clear sky with his bright outfit and brighter hair.

To the naked eye, it likely looked like he was simply surveying the chaos, looking for an appropriate target perhaps or a chance to make things worth for the rebel traitors, but anyone with anything better than the naked eye might notice something about Jet's eyes. For how bright he was everywhere else, his eyes were dull and blank, pupils dilated for larger than they should be in the sun. But perhaps that wasn't as noticeable with his full cybernetics active, causing him to dart and weave through the sky with easy grace.

A couple of passes made over the field, Jet turned towards town, his empty gaze fixed on the tallest buildings the district had to offer. As he approached the brick building, he sped up instead of slowed down and with only a small movement to aim his shoulder into it instead of his face, Jet burst into the side of the building. The cyborg crashed all the way through and out the other side, already aiming for his next target even as the last one crumbled under the destruction.

[silberfuchs]

Jet.

Albert looks up from the center of a crop circle crudely formed in the shape of a mocking jay. They'd set up a small aid station there, far enough from the fighting to be relatively safe but still mobile and unlikely to be cut off in retreat.

It's not the sight of his husband that catches Albert's attention at first, it's the sound. Cybernetics, so familiar in the whine of small but powerful engines, specific tones unique to Jet. After so long apart, Albert's heart leaps into his throat at the noise and he's on his feet soon after, leaving off rolling bandages and darting off at a sprint - and then a run - through the fields.

He breaches the perimeter of the wheat just in time to see Jet careen into a building what looks to be head first.

"Jet!"

But the blond is out again in half a second, the old silo crumbling to pieces after being punctured through and through by a functional missile. Jet doesn't skip a beat, not even a pause, before he goes slamming into the next one several yards away.

Something is very, very wrong.

Open

[revvinguptheharley]

Sometimes Harley is concerned that living in the strict, precisely timed and carefully measured military world of District 13 might have damaged her ability to be impulsive and crazy.

And then she found herself a combine harvester.

Perched atop the large heavy machine she sang out loud as the rows of razor sharp blades sliced into the wheat sucking it up and spitting it into a container in the back.

"Well life on the farm is kinda laid back
Ain't much an old country gal like me can't hack
It's early to rise, early in the sack
I thank God I'm a country Girl!"

She wasn't in fact a country girl, nor had she ever held much love for agriculture, but she loved District 9 and knew they deserved better then what they got. Which was why she was spelling out a message in the wheat. A message to the Capitol and anyone else who happened to be high enough to read it. With a few twists of the steering wheel by the time she got to the final chorus of her song she had already spelled it out.

Don't Fear Yellow Snow

With a gleeful giggle she spun the wheel of her slow moving steed once more circling back around to aim it at the battle. Now that she'd satisfied her inner prankster it was time to set this bladed machine loose on the Peacekeepers.

[sociopathicwolf]

Technically, Derek isn't going out of his way to hunt down rebels anymore. If he's honest, he never really was - he was just single-mindedly focused on his mission, and not afraid to take out anyone who got in the way of that. But he's... less driven now, after a Head Peacekeeper took the side of a offworlder rebel prisoner over two soldiers risking their lives for the Capitol, after the slow realization that playing to the Capitol might not be enough to protect what he really cares about any more.

But that doesn't mean he's thrown himself into the rebellion. He's still a Capitol soldier, he's still here to carry out their mission, to protect the other Peacekeepers. And there's maybe a little bit of a personal motivation, when he sees that the crazy person on the farming equipment is the offworlder who'd done such a ridiculous propaganda film. The one who didn't deserve to be in the same vid as Peggy, an actual Victor, and only showed that the rebellion must have been desperate to pit that against the one that most of District Four had helped make.

Derek nudges Chuck, a bump of his shoulder against his fiance's, pointing out the wayward machine - and who's on it - with a roll of his eyes and a soft growl.

Then he takes a shot, aiming for the wheel to try to destroy the steering mechanism.

For Derek Souza

[inrestlessdreams]

Though James was supposed to sit this one out, he was given a task and if his perilous journey through Silent Hill taught the man anything, it was to follow through...or else bad things happened. He was only out here to deliver the message the Rebellion tasked him to deliver and he wasn't letting something like fire keep him from this. Survivors are notoriously stubborn like that.

He knows Derek's face from the propaganda videos from District 4 and he's well aware that he's taking a risk running into the man like this. Through the endless fields, it reminded him of the sparsely populated silent hell, and how dangerous it could be to be spotted by an enemy.

Sunderland has to run into the man, or drag him somewhere safe, "Are you Derek Souza?"

[sociopathicwolf]

Visibility is shit with the smoke and high crops, so Derek's mostly resorting to his hearing to pick up if anyone's heading his way. And when he does notice someone, he's instantly on guard.

Derek only vaguely recognizes the man. He wasn't a District 4 Tribute, which means Derek hadn't care enough beyond being able to figure out how much of a threat he might have been to Derek's own Tributes. Without the arenas, though, that information is irrelevant, and he only half remembers it.

The fact that the rebel knows his name isn't surprising, but him asking that instead of immediately attacking is. It might be a trap, yeah, but - but it's enough to make Derek want to know, and he gives an affirmative grunt even if he doesn't drop his guard.

"Why?"

For Black Tom

[shiftingurbulls]

cw: violence with Coach's sword, El's mouth

If there was one person Ellis resented the most in the Capitol, it had to be Black Tom Cassidy. The man embodied the Capitol in his ridiculous Spandex and boisterous disregard for human life...seriously, no one needs to see your junk. That's for Molotov's eyes and probably the Internet if the proverbial sex tape is leaked. Being the main culprit in Jeremy's first death and subsequent brainwashing, it was as if the villain broke a harmless rabbit and left behind an empty shell full of Capitol bullshit.

The mechanic knew that he was in for a fight when he spotted Cassidy doing his rounds in the endless fields and feeling those borrowed powers come back to him. With Coach's katana sheathed on his back and his homebound handgun, he was ready to fight.

"'EY SHAMROCK!" he called out without shame, "Ain't it outta yer comfort zone to be out in the field?"

Some things never change, as El's firm belief in his immortality persisted.

[pimpcanes]

Tom knows better than to prairie-dog his head up above the grain, but he's tempted. It's not the lazy nickname that bothers him so much as that chafing implication that he hasn't been on the ground, in the heat of the melee. It's not by choice that he spends most of his time cooped up in Peacekeeper Headquarters, and if anything it boils his blood to be kept out of the action as much as he has been.

He cut and burned and fought his way through three Arenas and has been hungry, even salivating for the thrill of the chase ever since. Ellis should be ashamed. Ellis should be terrified, in Tom's mind. He doesn't know who this young lad is, but he'll regret giving guff to Black Tom Cassidy.

"You're in my territory, bucko," Tom says, feeling every sheath of wheat like an electrical wire he's in control of. He stretches his hand and then clenches it, and the wheat around Ellis' ankles whips up to trap his ankles.

[glowygreendeath]

A: Locked to Joan Watson
Ermac sits cross-legged on the floor of one of the Capitol's hovercrafts, meditating before the battle. He looks completely calm, almost serene. And indeed, he is calm. He'd made his decision, and merely had to find an opportunity to return to District 13.

B: Open
Even the literal one-man-army wasn't immune to the effects of smoke, so Ermac was forced to glide low to the ground. He'd managed to lose his unit from the Capitol, but now he had to find some of the Rebels among the crops, smoke, and fire so he could return to District 13.

B - after Black Tom's death

[shiftingurbulls]

Having executed Black Tom, Ellis felt most of his revenge melt away and he found himself not really worried for having murdered someone in what was basically cold blood. He didn't even try to rationalize it as survival or justify himself: he was there to deal a blow to the Capitol and avenge for what they did to Jeremy and that was that. Of course it was personal, he was very clear on that and in someway, it gave him peace.

The mechanic spotted the telltale movements and lack of sounds Ermac made and he grinned. True to his words and code, he kept his weapons holstered as he asked, "Didn't expect t' see ya around...headed my way?"

Headed back to the Rebellion and away from the Capitol's grip.

[formersurgeon]

Ermac's com sputters to life, the transmission crackly. A female voice cuts in and out for a moment, snippets of words between bursts of static. The words become closer and closer to intelligible, until finally he can make them out, albeit under a fuzz of static.

"...ssion for Ermac. Ermac do you copy? Transmission for Ermac. Ermac do you copy?"

OTA [attn: Firo, Altair]

[atouchofka]

Alain has fought through fire before, but that doesn't make it easy. The visibility is terrible, the smoke burning his eyes and the back of his throat. He shoots rarely, and only when he can see his target clearly; there's no sense wasting bullets on unclear figures and possibly taking the wrong person out.

Besides, he has a job to do. The last time he had a mission like this - a vital message to pass on, while the time pressed in and the stakes rose - he failed. He's determined not to fail again.

He moves fast, darting through the smoke, his heavy revolver at the ready. He doesn't shoot at once, even when he's faced with someone in Capitol uniform: he waits to see their face, to be sure they're not who he's after, before blowing their head off their shoulders.

And he hopes, gods he hopes, that he won't have to face Roland again this time.

[foundafamily]

Firo's running too, but stops short and sinks down low when he spots a figure not too far off. He doesn't recognize this guy, and even through the smoke he's pretty sure that he isn't wearing a Capitol uniform. So there are only a few ways this can go, and none of them are ways he likes. Firo's never been very murderous (at least for a gangster); having to kill for the Capitol adds an element of shame to the disgust he already feels about the whole business.

And, of course, he doesn't much like being killed himself.

In a split second, the words Roland had so urgently shouted at him after his last death fly to the forefront of his mind--the commands and requests alike to think and be safe above all. With a sting of regret he knows that he can't heed them, because like hell is he going to turn tail and run when he's sure this guy's already seen him. But he'll concede to caution, turning to his side to present a smaller target, and primed to dive if it comes to it.

Maybe this next move will be a mistake, but he risks calling out, in a flat voice, "Where're you off to, pal?"

[theflyingone]

He thought he tasted death when he was wounded in the battle for District 1, but here he was, as if reborn. He had been hidden away like a secret weapon, but any member of the Assassins was used to that sort of thing. Surprise was supposed to be one of his tools. He did miss his rooftop jaunts, though.

His only human contact were strangers he was told were rebels. They gave him enough necessary information about his missions to assuage any suspicions he might have. Regular doses of mild drugs did the rest. He only saw what the Capitol wanted him to see.

Sending him into battle disguised as a civilian was a risky business, but he had been too tempting a card not to play. That, and one of the Capitol's important allies had been in danger. Of course, he hadn't known the businessman was allied with the Capitol.... Altaïr did his best to avoid anyone else as he made his way back to his "rebels." Despite his best efforts, he found Alain pointing a gun at him. He was less angry and more exasperated.

"Alain. We are not doing this again."

Closed to Psiioniic

[furgood]

The fire is approaching before Meulin even really knows what's happening. She doesn't hear the roar and pop of the fire. Her first clue is the smell of smoke but that's normal for a District. They cook with fire, what's even to worry about. But it becomes all she can smell soon enough and when she steps out from behind the building, it's a rushing wall of flames in the distance with smoke starting to settle into a dark haze above the crops. There's no time to text or call for help. It's too close.

So she turns on her heel and dashes through the high crops. Leaves slap her face as she pushes through them, regretting the softness to her now, regretting not swimming or running more in the Capitol. She's shorter than most and with the smoke above, it's become a strange little world unto itself under the swaying corn. Smoke's starting to get into her lung now, an awful rattling cough that tries to force her to slow. She can't, she can't slow. Running is her only hope now.

In the break between fields, she hops a ditch and tries to catch her breath. Her eyes flick up to the sky, a misty black and grey, and back behind her. The fire is moving faster than her now. There's not much she can do. She pushes her hair back from her face and starts moving once more.

She only stops when she sees familiar grey and black through the corn. It takes her precious seconds to remember nearly every troll is a rebel. No help, probably a hindrance. She narrows her eyes, takes another rattling breath and turns to run the other way.

For Wyatt

[marcato]

Mania would be one way to describe Aunamee's mood. Murderous would be another.

With his abilities singing in his ears, the battle is almost too easy. When he looks out into the unending fields of wheat, he hears the quiet, unmistakable murmur of panicked thoughts. He drinks it in like absinthe, and then he steps forward with his sword (he hates guns, they're so distant, so impersonal) and makes the thoughts stop.

This goes on for most of the battle. He keeps his distance, he listens for the thoughts of the other soldiers, and then he strikes. There's a nice, predictable rhythm to it. Like a concerto. He is the violin, and the orchestra cries out around him.

The dark visor of the Peacekeeper uniform obscures his wild eyes.

OTA, For Jeremy

[futilecycle]

He may not have sparked the fire, but Dr. Klim was prepared to feed it. Though his masters considered him more useful at the drafting table than on the field, the resurrection of his powers could not be ignored - when he volunteered to help the effort at the front, his request was granted without argument. Sigma has brought with him a batch of Gamemaker toys, ready to play with living specimens for the first time.

He releases a cage writhing with rats from the sidelines, safe from the heat of the battle but still at the mercy of a ranged weapon. With the protection of his prophetic abilities, his keepers have decided it is worth the risk. Half mutt and machine, the fruits of his labors are trained to seek out moving targets that could not be identified as the Capitol's own. One by one they scurry through the wheat and attach themselves to vehicles, to turrets, to legs - and deliver whatever explosive cargo they bore. If their prey were densely packed, they formed ranks and exploded around them, sealing them in a cloak of flame or acid or gas. Mice who caught men in a trap.

He watches his creations slip one by one into the field and stays still until fire blooms in the horizon. Was it a rebel who burned, or merely the grain going up in smoke? Though he choked out a people either way, it soothed him not to know.

[For Jeremy]

There is one other toy the Gamemakers have taken off the shelf.

When Rebel kidnapping and indoctrination became a real threat, the Capitol began to research ways to 'mark' their own, to keep a soldier loyal. Motivation to fight was enough only when one side was bold to use it, and it became apparent that even the Rebellion could say something to make a trustworthy man turn his gun on his keepers. Most of the time it turned out to be an expensive venture, sacrificing sanity and reliability for assurance. Today, it might save Sigma's life.

It was only a matter of time before the Rebels learned who was behind the planting of traps, and Sigma had expected resistance. But when this particular soldier enters his line of sight, he almost smiles. He is not afraid.

for Quintus

[theflyingone]

He was seething with the knowledge that the Capitol had fooled him. He had been living under their control, thinking that the agents he spoke to were from Thirteen. No longer would he avoid everyone and return to what he had thought was a secret rebel hideout in the Capitol. He would travel across the battlefield to District Thirteen's front lines and truly join them. He was already in civilian clothing as part of his cover; as long as he was vigilant, he wouldn't be shot at.

But first, he would take down as many ranking officers as he could on the way.

The low-level grunts did not interest him so much as their captains. Remove the head, and the entire beast will fall. He was armed to the teeth with his favorite tools, from a sword down to the throwing knives in his boots. At the rate he was traveling over rooftops, he could easily see preparations being made and guards being posted. Something or someone important was passing through. There were already hovercrafts parked nearby.

The view from a good vantage point revealed the Head Peacekeeper on his way towards a building. Altaïr couldn't have asked for a better opportunity to tick one off his list. He avoided most of the guards. No need to take unnecessary life, and they were sparse to begin with. He slipped behind one or two who were directly in his path. A flick unsheathed the hidden blade in his bracer, which he drove into their backs. A hand over their mouths ensured silence.

With no more eyes around nearby corners to spot him, Altaïr was free to simply walk up to Quintus Falxvale and the guard trailing just behind him. He flicked his hidden blade open again. He was well-versed in shoving it between plates of armor. The Peacekeeper seized in surprise. Before he could crumple to the ground, Altaïr was already aiming for a similar spot between Quintus's ribs.

There Kids Are On Fire

[etcircenses]

The mission for both sides is clear, but there is a second goal which may quickly overtake any who have a sense of basic decency - or pragmatism. A building at the edge of one of the fields is burning, and it is filled with children, who pollute the air with their piteous cries for help. Either side could attempt to rescue them, and either side would benefit from bringing these children in. It would be a feather in the cap of either media team, who could portray the other side as callous enough to let kids burn instead of gallantly rescuing them.

Hurry, though; the building is collapsing by the time you get there, and you might not be the only one brave enough to face the flames.

ota

[foundafamily]

Firo tries very hard not to stop and think about the ramifications of what he’s trying to do. What’ll happen to these kids if the Capitol gets them? Probably nothing good, but, damn it, nothing good’s going to happen if they’re left in there. So, with a mental apology to both Phil and Roland, Firo decides to turn off his brain just a bit. Just for now. Looking to the future is only going to be a distraction.

The door gives easily when he kicks it—no surprise given the state of the building.

“Hey, where are—?” He breaks off into coughing as he sucks in a lungful of smoke. Shouting probably isn’t the best idea. Not just because of the danger of smoke inhalation, but also because of the possibility of running into an “enemy.”

I Got a Body Like a Weapon (And It Goes Bang Bang Bang Bang Bang)

[etcircenses]

The Rebel mission in this case is an unsavory one: an assassination. The target is one of the suppliers of grain to the Capitol, a business man from the city who uses Districters as slave labor to make his fortune and who also moonlights as a security analyst. He lives in one of the grander buildings in the center of the District, one which clearly belongs to a displaced Capitolite and not to anyone with the misfortune to be born out here.

The mansion sits at the center of that network of roads, and looks like a plantation out of the Old South, only better kept. Columns raise up a second story, in which his entire very large family is huddled and pressed against the windows, watching to see if help or death will reach them first. The Rebels will have to get to the mansion first and break in and make it to the second floor to accomplish their goal, all the while avoiding potshots from the very armed residents of the building, who are eager to use guns, hot oil and hurled bricks to protect themselves.

The Capitol mission, naturally, is to rescue this respectable and enterprising man and hustle him back to one of the hovercrafts, so he may be kept safe from harm. Unfortunately, the people in the building are a bit indiscriminate about who they lash out against, and even the most peaceful rescuer may end up mistaken for an enemy and shot.

(frozen comment) Results

[etcircenses]

(frozen comment) These Kids Are On Fire

[etcircenses]

The children, all of them, are rescued by the Capitol team, who hurry them back to a hovercraft and quickly give them first aid and oxygen. Despite their cries for their families, they are told that they require more intensive medical care, and are soon whisked back to the Capitol to undergo experimental brainwashing procedures. Footage is taken of the rescue, which will soon be disseminated as part of a comprehensive propaganda campaign.

(frozen comment) I Got a Body Like a Weapon

[etcircenses]

The business man lies dead on the floor of his opulent master bedroom. The Capitol team, with their mission effectively aborted, immediately falls back and retreats to the hovercrafts. The man’s family shrieks and fights, but without their head of household their spirit is broken, and their fighting is only lip service to the idea of independence.

The rebels leave with a victory to the sounds of a widow’s weeping.