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.
now i'm late so it balances out? ;u;
The bowstring doesn't have enough tension to it when Jeremy slumps down onto his knees, so the arrow doesn't get further than a few feet before clattering against the ground beneath them. He's dizzy and disoriented for a long moment, his head in a thick fog and it feels like hours before he finally crawls his way out of it. His hands feel like ice, his head feels like there's a drill boring through the top of his skull, but - gratefully - it's over quick. Once his vision clears, he looks up, and the familiar face he's greeted with doesn't immediately strike him with the urge to get his weapon back up.
"... sir?"
Jeremy looks around, as if he suddenly doesn't recognize his surroundings, or why he's there in the first place. He rubs his scarred forehead for a moment, trying to remember. Wasn't he just in a rebel prison cell? "What-- ... uh, what happened?"
we can be slow together yaaaay (also let me know at any time if I need to change stuff)
This entire scheme is a work in progress and Sigma knew he put himself at risk by handling it. There is no hiding the fact that he has already tied the figurative noose around this man once before, and he wonders if his time in the rebellion will allow him to see through his disguise. But when Jeremy does not clamor for his bow, Sigma decides he is safe. "I came to retrieve you. You were confused," Sigma lies gently, casting a sideways glance at the arrow nearby before re-establishing eye contact. His smile is strained, and he steps in front of the arrow a second too late to hide it. The Gamemaker's weapons have all been used up and as far as this man would know, he was an unarmed old man. "Are you feeling alright, now?"
slow buddies! \o/ (and no worries!)
"... I think so," Jeremy answers, his head still foggy but just clear enough to get a grip on himself for the time being. He knows he'll probably need to go back for further reprogramming, to make sure whatever the rebels did to him was erased, and while he isn't fond of the process he does know it's for the better. He'd rather not attack his commanding officers again. Why he has the bow and arrows in his possession does puzzle him, when he already has the only ability he'll ever need in battle, so the discarded arrow he catches a brief glimpse of doesn't seem worth retrieving.
"I-I'm sorry," he adds as he pushes himself up to his feet, legs a little shaky but he knows he needs to put up a formal, respective front for Sigma. He owes him so much, after all. "For ... inconveniencing you. I shouldn't have let my guard down."