Panem Events (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
etcircenses) wrote in ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png)
thearena2016-01-25 04:03 pm
etcircenses) wrote in thearena2016-01-25 04:03 pm
Are you, are you, coming to the tree?
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.
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.
no subject
"Y'all insult me as a tribute an' a survivor," he spat out and drew the handgun to aim it at Black Tom's knees. With the experimental sight, the mechanic fired two shots per cap, he wanted the supervillain to be in pain before he put Coach's legacy to good use. Because at the end of the day, if Black Tom's away from the battlefield, it means more rebels and civilians won't get slaughtered.
[let me know if you want me to change anything!]
no subject
Tom really needs to stop assuming that just because someone's on the side of the angels, they won't take a cheap shot at him. Tom drops to the ground as the bullet spits its way through his knee, missing the other only by chance. His vision goes black for a moment, blurred out entirely by pain.
He clenches his fist and the plants around Ellis' knees tighten. Tom wants it to be tight enough to break Ellis' kneecaps, to give him twice the pain Tom's feeling now.
no subject
Shit, shit shit shiiiiiiiiiiiiit, this fucker's got tricks up his sleeve, the mechanic hissed and immediately got to slashing as many spindles as he could. If the Peacekeeper reached his weapon, he was done.
I've come this far to die now. Them's your words, eh Nick? he smiled towards himself, his right knee wobbling free from the greenery. This was Black Tom's playing field all right, but El liked a challenge.
"FALL BACK! EVERYONE FALL BACK!" he shouted to no one, but he'd hoped his opponent fell for the lie that there were more rebels in the grass. Anything to get him vulnerable and cut off the monster's head.
no subject
His primary goal in the moment is to make Ellis suffer, to rip a scream up out of Ellis' throat and throw it out into the air.
Tom reaches for his own gun, clumsy because his focus is torn between his firearm and the plants.
no subject
"OH NO YOU DON'T!" Black Tom wanted a scream, he got one as Ellis slashed his way through the plants and charged at full speed. It was as if the thundering rage of a Witch infected course through his veins, and his sword was the stand-in for those formidable claws.
He swung his blade clear along the villain's neck, as his eyes connected with his target's.
[ooc: let me know if you want me to change anything!
no subject
By the time he does, he's looking at the world upside down, because his head is hanging from his neck by a ravaged bit of cord in his spine. Propped up by the plants that have just lost their master, he stares in confusion for the split second before he brain shuts down entirely, finger convulsing on the butt of the gun instead of the trigger. His body collapses less than a second afterwards.