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.

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.

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]