thearena | Where I told you to run so we'd both be free.

Entry tags:

Where I told you to run so we'd both be free.

Who| All those on the liberation mission and all those being made to fight against them.
What| The liberation of District 11.
Where| District 11.
When| This week.
Warnings/Notes| War, violence, death. Please warn for more in headers.

If you were sick of the wet and cold weather, you're in luck. As you arrive to District 11, the weather warms up considerably, but becomes muggy and humid. District 11 is a massive district, both beautiful and hopelessly poor. The contrast within this district is easy to see as you move through the land. Sometimes, the landscape is lush, rolling farms, with fields of wheat swaying in the breeze, or a picturesque orchard with ripe fruit just waiting to be picked. But then you get to the areas where the workers actually live--little wooden cabins, many barely better than huts. The lands here may be rich, but the workers are anything but.

Because of the importance of securing food for the Capitol, District 11 is one of the most tightly controlled districts in Panem. The laws here are strict, and the authorities don't mess around when it comes to punishing anyone who breaks those laws. Public whippings had been common before the rebellion and now it's a daily occurrence, on top of the executions of those who have been found to be rebels.

Despite this, the workers are far from disheartened, and the treatment from the Capitol has only made them all the more eager to aid in the rebellion. The dust lies heavy in the air, and the people are grim, knowing it will be a long and bloody battle. But despite that, they are optimistic, encouraging each other and the rebels they meet. A lot of graffiti can be found here, often spread over the posters of Sigma, Luna, and Wesker asking compliance, all of them marked out with the the words DEFIANCE, THIS IS NOT WHAT'S RIGHT, JUSTICE, and THIS WAR IS OURS. They've been waiting for the opportunity for this for a long time. They just needed the chance.

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

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

The battles will be taking place in the rolling fields and orchards that provide food for the Capitol. Have you ever been in a corn maze? It's kind of like that, but with people shooting at you. Guns won't do a lot of good in fields that are too high for good vision. You'll have to rely on your other senses to try to figure out where the enemies are, and you'll probably have to be willing to get your hands dirty to fight them.

Orchards will give more room to use guns, but they have their own hazards. Keep an eye out--and up. There may be more hiding in those trees besides apples. And of course, there's the bogs, where they harvest cranberries. Try not to get caught in there. Who likes cranberries, anyway.

For the rebels, healing tents have been set up in fields of wheat. The center of the field has been cleared, and little paths lead to and from the outside, giving the wounded a little cover during the battles. The Capitol doesn't feel like being quite as sneaky--They've taken over some of the cabins that once served as houses for the workers of District 11, giving the wounded a cramped but defensible position.

Every night since Punchy didn't come back from battle, Joan had lain alone in bed, awake in the middle of the night, staring into the darkness, unable to sleep and making plans instead. She couldn't leave Punchy in the Capitol, at the mercy of the people who had Avoxed him. She spent hours figuring out how she was going to get into the Capitol, find him, and get him out. She had a couple sources of leverage, a favor from Bucky, a pair of guns that belonged to Wesker. It wasn't much, but it would have to do.

Then she got word that Punchy was seen fighting for the Capitol, and everything, all the pieces of a plan she had been constructing, went out the window. She decided she couldn't wait and sneak into the Capitol. She had to find him on the battlefield.

Joan makes sure the healing tent she's working in is in good hands, then she heads out into the fields. It's a gamble. She's good at moving quietly, at staying out of sight, and she carefully passes by a couple soldiers from both camps. Punchy could be anywhere. It would take some spectacular luck to find him.

And as spectacular luck would have it, she steps into a path between the swaying rows of wheat, and comes face to face with him. She's startled, takes a step back, her heart pounding. She knows he's been brainwashed, that he's been killing members of the rebellion. But she has to believe that she can help him, somehow, even if the chances are small.

"Punchy," she says, her voice quiet and afraid.

On the battlefield, they direct Punchy with a headset, a little clip fixed to his ear which gives him commands. Some of them are direct, pointing him towards locations, making his feet move as if they are attached by strings to someone else's fingers. Others are more general, more toxic radiation and indoctrination. His controller listens in to a microphone attached to him and follows his tracked coordinates, but the body cameras have been saved for more untrustworthy Tributes.

Former Avoxes are easy, the party line goes. They default to programming. Just give them directions and they'll play along, so long as it's not anything too complicated. Punchy resists when they try to get him to kill, and since efforts have shifted from breaking the Tributes to utilizing them, that just means he's mostly been put onto non-lethal missions.

He comes face to face with Joan and he feels his heart bottom out. He can see his future taking two split paths here, one where she rescues him, where they're together again and supported if not happy, one where they both return to District Thirteen -- and he sees another where his controller issues him a command to shoot Joan, and the last strength he has to resist the Capitol bleeds out before him.

So he doesn't make any sound that could betray what he's seeing to his controller, but quickly reaches forward and puts his hand over Joan's mouth. He hopes he doesn't scare her. He hopes moving forward doesn't set her into the wrong impression of what his movement is for.

He points at the clip on his ear, like a cross between a bluetooth and the type of tag they'd use to keep track of a wild animal.

When he moves toward her she sucks in a startled breath, pulling back, not knowing if he means to hurt her. But she manages to not make a sound, to not pull back so far that he can't get his hand over her mouth. She looks at him, wary, wide-eyed, looks for some sign that he's him, that they haven't wrung what makes him Punchy out again, like they had when they tore out his tongue and crushed his spirit.

Then he points at the clip, and it's sign enough. He can probably feel her relax a little in relief. She nods, then looks at the clip, wondering if it's attached to his ear like a radio tag.

He wants to tell her to rip it out, that he doesn't care if she has to take his ear and his scalp too to do it. He can't do it himself. He's tried giving himself the command to do it and it's as if that option is sealed away, locked up when he was given the order to not touch the damn thing.

He knows it's only a matter of time before his controller gets intel about what's happening, that if he tells her what to do they'll know all the faster, and he doesn't trust his ability to disobey a direct order with his programming so recently refreshed.

So he nods and closes his eyes, silently begging her to rip it out.

Oh God.

She doesn't want to do this, but she has to, and she can't afford to hesitate. She has a knife that she carries on her as a matter of course. She wishes it was a scalpel. Or even a straight razor. It's not, but it will have to do.

She takes the knife out of her pocket, flips it open, grabs Punchy's ear, and saws at the cartilage, paying no attention to the blood. It's quick, and dirty, and she doesn't get all the way through, but it's enough that with one hard yank the earpiece rips free.

He doesn't make a sound as she hacks through him, knowing full well that any sound could alert the Capitol what she's doing, could give them impetus to change him from a compliant soldier working non-lethal tasks to a killing machine. He wants to believe he has the will to fight against them, to fight for Joan, but he doesn't know. That sliver of doubt is enough to fill him with terror.

He tries to look at Joan as if that didn't hurt at all, although his upper lip twitches involuntarily, jerking around his teeth, and his eyes are watery. Blood spurts from the place where there's a chunk of his ear missing. A little tinny voice comes from the earpiece.

"Device tamper, soldier, report in-"

He feels his throat tighten with words, and for a milisecond he tries to report in, but somehow stops himself. It feels titanic, to not follow that order. It feels like he shouldn't have been able to do it.

But sometimes it's the easiest thing in the world not to speak at all.

She sees the pain in his face, and it makes her wince. There's a reason why doctors avoid treating their family members; their relationship affects the impartiality that's so important in medicine. But there's nothing to do about it now. She just has to power through.

The voice squawks from the earpiece, and for a second Joan is tempted to crush it. But no, that would register differently from if she just dropped it to the ground. Maybe that way they'll assume Punchy was killed.

Once the earpiece is on the ground Joan takes a piece of cloth from her pocket and folds it over his ear. With her other hand she lifts Punchy's hand to his ear, a silent order to hold the cloth and press hard.

Edited 2016-03-17 19:03 (UTC)

He holds the cloth to his head, looking lightheaded at the pain and bloodloss - somehow worse than when he was stabbed, or when he lost an eye, somehow so much more immediate than those memories when he had a deeper well of strength to draw from - and nods at her.

He'll go where she directs him. He has no plan, nothing but faith in her and that somehow things will end up alright. In spite of everything, he's never lost that kernel of hope.

They don't have any time for an elaborate plan. Who knows when the Capitol will send someone out to investigate what happened to Punchy's earpiece? And with Punchy bleeding like that, hey don't have the time to go sneaking through the grain.

Joan looks around, gets her bearings. Then she grabs Punchy's free hand. A look and a tug, and then she's off, pulling him toward the infirmary.

It shouldn't be that easy. If it were anyone else, it wouldn't be. But the Capitol underestimates the Avoxes and the ones who were once among them. They don't think they would ever disobey, and they don't imagine anyone would value one enough to steal them.

"Report back, report back! Soldier, report in!" the little headpiece on the ground continues to bark, but there's no alarm, no one tracking them for the moment.

Punchy squeezes Joan's hand and comes with her. "Spit it at me, shawty," he whispers, wanting her to tell him what to do to make it easier. It's more practical to use his programming than fight it now.

Joan is happy that Punchy is actually able to speak. She pauses to pull him close and wrap her arms around him, hugging him tightly as she murmurs in his ear.

"I'm bringing you back to the rebellion infirmary. It's not far."

She pulls back and takes his hand in hers again.

"Okay?"

"Tell me to come with you," he says, a little firmer, because following a command is so much easier than a suggestion. The blood loss is starting to make him woozy, but he'll stay on his feet as long as he physically can for her.

He grips her hand as if she's about to be ripped away.

His words put the earpiece and its barking orders in context, and she understands what the Capitol has been doing with and to Punchy. How they've been using him. And she's silently furious at them, for everything they've done to him, pretty much from the instant they dragged him from his world to this hellish place.

"Come with me." She says it firmly, giving him an order, not a suggestion. She hates doing it, hates triggering his Avox conditioning, but if she has to do it, she's going to do it right.

And he does. He doesn't even have to think about it; it's as if his feet just move robotically, automatically, entirely inevitably. He couldn't refuse if he wanted to, and right now he doesn't. He's relieved to let the programming take over.

He pushes like a terminator behind her.

Joan moves quickly through the grain, sacrificing stealth for speed. Punchy is bleeding. And who knows if or when someone will track down his earpiece and follow their trail? Their best bet is to get back to the field hospital, and fast.

She feels it before she hears it, a sudden hot ripping pain in her gut, her breath torn from her, and as she stumbles and falls she hears the gunshot, impossibly loud, reverberating in her head, her lungs, her heart.

She tries to push herself back up, to make herself go on, but she can't. Her strength is flowing out with the bright red blood spilling over the fingers she's pressed to her abdomen.

There's no indication where it's come from. It wouldn't matter even if there were, because revenge is the last thing on Punchy's mind. When he sees Joan crumple, he throws himself over her to try and protect her, too horribly late. Too late in vain.

"Joan!" he says, not caring about if anyone knows he's missing anymore. He presses his hand to the bloody wound on her back. "Shawty, tell me where to go, I can get you to the craft..."

But, of course, she's probably the only medic they sent. He'll just be carrying her to a safe place to die.

It's a through-and-through, and it's hit something vital, judging by the quantity and color of the blood. Joan is gasping, and knows she doesn't have much time. She lies down, on her back, and reaches up with her bloodied hand to touch Punchy's cheek.

"The field hospital," she says, her voice little more than a whisper. "To the northwest from here. You have to get there."

She closes her eyes, so tired, so cold, and makes herself open them again.

"You have to know," she whispers. "I have to tell you."

"I got you, I got you, shawty, you just gotta bump it a little more..." Punchy quickly glances at the sky to determine Northwest, then picks Joan up, ignoring his own injury, and starts running. He tries to hold her as carefully as he can as he does, so she doesn't jostle, isn't further hurt.

"I don't gotta know shit. I'm ignorant A.F. and that's good."

She reaches up and puts her arms around his neck. The intention was to help take some of her weight, but she barely has the strength to leave them there. As careful as Punchy is, every footstep is agony, and soon she's gasping in pain.

"Punchy...no...stop. Stop. I have...have to tell you."

She knows she's going to die, that getting to the field hospital won't help, and she needs to tell Punchy about Wesker, before she dies and no one on the rebellion side knows that he's been feeding her information.

"I don't want to..."

But he does stop. Even though it screams against all his instincts, all his hope to believe that she'll be okay, that he'll bring her back to District Thirteen, he stops and understands that she's dying here in his arms. And it weighs deep on him, dragging all of him down, his flesh and bone and then each synapse in his brain, into this drain at which the bottom only exists grief.

"Joanie, hold on, please."

She can't. She can feel her consciousness ebbing away, and it won't be long before the last of her life drains out. She can't stop it, and neither can Punchy. So she doesn't waste time.

"Wesker," she whispers. "He's been feeding me information, for the rebellion. No one knows. Just me. If he...if he gets in trouble...if the Capitol falls...the rebellion needs to know he's on our side."

"A'ight. A'ight." Punchy finally stops and kneels down, her in his arms like some ersatz Pieta. He used to fight these moments, to believe that if he just fought it hard enough nothing was inevitable. He knows better now.

He's held too many people as they've died not to.

He holds her close, tears running down the side of his nose. "I'm going to come save you, shawty. Won't nothing hold me 'til I do."

"There are guns," she whispers, her strength almost gone. "Under my bed. They're his. Use them. To get..." She blinks slowly, her train of thought gone. She can only hope he understands.

She reaches up, her hand shaking at the effort, and touches his cheek with her trembling fingers. There are tears in her own eyes, blurring her already fading vision. She wants to believe, has to believe, that they'll see each other again. But she can't be sure. Nothing is certain.

"I know," she whispers, softer still. "I know you will." Her hand sinks down, finding rest on the ground beside her. There are two more things she needs to say, vital things, and she takes a couple labored breaths to try to keep herself conscious, just for another minute.

"I love you."

It hurts him when she says that, because he already knows. He already knows and he wants her to save her breath so it doesn't hurt, so she doesn't exert herself on his behalf.

But there's no going back, and so while she dies he only holds her, cradling her head now, knowing there's no way to make her comfortable while her body's got a bullethole in it but trying anyway.

"I love you too, Joanie."

She knows that he knows. But if something goes wrong, if he dies, or she's never brought back, if all of Panem is firebombed out of existence, she wants those words to be part of his last memory of her.

She also hopes that it will help him forgive her for what she's about to do next.

"Field hospital. Northwest." She swallows, the words to come painful but necessary.

I'm sorry.

"Leave me." She's pushing the words above whisper, to make them as imperative as possible. "And RUN."

He wants to fight that command so badly, but it's undeniable. It's stronger than the call of God Himself, and it's as if he's standing outside himself, watching his body respond.

"I'll find you, shawty," he yells at her dying form, hating himself for running away to the field hospital, hating himself for abandoning her. He couldn't hate himself more. It's as if the logic of the situation, the reality that he can't refuse a direct order, has completely left him. So he just makes a promise, and leaves her to die.

She watches him as he disappears into the swaying grain. She wishes she didn't have to do that, but she had to make sure he will be safe. As sure as she can be, anyway. Nothing is certain.

"I know you will," she whispers, so softly that she can't be sure she even said them at all. And perhaps there is something certain after all. He will search for her. She knows that. And if she can be found, he'll find her.

All her strength is gone, and everything is fading. It doesn't hurt anymore. It doesn't feel like anything anymore. Her last thought before she slips away is of Punchy, hoping he gets to safety.

He can't decide which weighs heavier, the gun or the pretty like knife Derek gave him, gold and indigo and made all with skull and fin alike. He thinks maybe between the two, it's the taser what seems to drag him most significantly. But it's not enough to stop him.

Not anymore anyway.

With racing heart and breath, he moves across the battlefield. His mind strains both to remember all he's ever been taught and to keep from recalling too much and falling to pieces in the worst of moments. The gunfire flies and it occurs several times, he could die, he could very well mother fuckin die out here.

But maybe so too can the ones who touched Meulin. And wouldn't that be a righteous act, to deliver such vengeance just short of divine? Surely it must be. Surely he's out here, training his gun on the figure ahead and pulling the trigger with purpose.

There is a limit to how much gunfire even magical armor can withstand, apparently. It comes as a surprise to Haruto, but then again, he hadn't had a lot of chances to take that much gunfire up until now. He'd volunteered to wade right into the thick of it, thinking that he'd be more or less invincible... but who'd have guessed that a guy in fancy armor with a magical singing belt would attract attention? (Also he's not entirely sure but he may have been hit with some sort of miniaturized missile...?)

So he's untransformed as he retreats through the tall grass, ducked low, sword gun in hand, too exhausted to be as alert as he ought to be. But he's figured that they know to look for a flashy red-and-silver-or-something wizard, not some guy in rebel combat gear. A head shot might be hard to make, but other parts of him? It might be worth a go.

After seeing the capture of those District children in District 9 to then become lobotomized abominations of the Capitolite ideas, Leo had enough. He would've switched to the Rebellion had Jet not been wiped by Snow's hand. He was stuck in the Capitol and had to work with the system put in place. That didn't mean he had to like it. The Capitol-revering Career was gone and buried haphazardly in the same shallow grave as the nameless Peacekeepers were. In his place is the weathered shell barely covering the pissed-off Districter with the dangerous knowledge of murder.

Closed Prompt

When he spotted one of the younger rebels, one of the longest lasting Tributes in the old arenas, Cora hatched a plan. Should the girl, Sandy was her name, be taken by the Peacekeepers, she too would join the empty children in their soulless trek to the end of the war. But if he captured her, he could make sure the girl wouldn't be dozed to hell and back with Tracker Jacker venom, and the reindoctrination could be easier on his word. He had good standing in the Capitol, he was from one of the favored Districts...now he had to make sure he could manage it.

A river runs through that of District 11. The water is deep and the things that grow from it make it difficult to swim without getting caught on something. Not to mention, there are many creatures living within, some of which are aggressive enough to bite and have teeth enough to do some real damage. Boats have been left, dirtied and weather worn, some with engines on their ends and others with just a paddle.

Earlier that day, District 11 children were evacuated along this river to an unknown destination. Orders from the Capitol have come in to rescue this children and take them to safety (as hostages, as the case may very well be). The rebellion has also caught these orders. They will be looking to intercept the Capitol on their way and reach the children first, acting as support.

It’s a race to the boats and a race to the river that forks part way. Of course, you’ve been given information about which direction is the right one, haven’t you?

The golden light shines in streams that make the air sparkle, cut through by the tall looming trees that drape their growths like curtains. Where greenery has not reached the surface of the water, it reflects like a perfect mirror. Trying to see past the rippling reflection offers only murkiness and darkness. Be careful, it is said. One never knows what waits in the bayou.

Fields of wheat, orchards, cotton. They don't leave quite the impression on a war effort that guns and armor do. But food is just as important to keeping soldiers fighting as any weapon. An army without food is an army that can't fight for long. So when the rebel forces learn about a gap in guard rotations for a portion of farmland, they decide to take the chance to strike a decisive blow against the Capitol. The mission for this is simple: Destroy as much produce on the farmland as possible.

Soldiers will be sent in, some armed with torches, some with grenades, others will be given guns to defend them. With the gap in the guard rotation, it won't be hard to slip into the farmland, but once the soldiers in d11 see smoke rising? Fire is sure to follow.

If requested, rebel soldiers can bring with them bags to store some of the food that they're sabotaging, instead of burning it all to the ground. But it will slow you down, and might make you a target for any of the Capitol soldiers trying to save what food they can.

The Capitol soldiers, will, meanwhile, have to dodge gunfire, real fire, and explosives as they fight for their food. Rebel soldiers need to be careful with ammo, however, because if you use it all up fighting the soldiers, then there won't be much left to complete the actual mission.

Emily had slipped away while the Peacekeeper assigned to protect her was occupied with a District woman who'd hurled herself at him, unarmed, in a last desperate protest against the tyranny of the Capitol. The lingering pain in her ribs and side from where her house in the Victor's Village had exploded around her back in Seven aches and gnaws at her as she disappears into the field, feeling the stalks of wheat crunch underfoot. She remembers seeing these fields before at Stephen Reagan's party, thinking them beautiful and idyllic, the grain waving in the wind like an ocean that stretched on forever - how she'd longed to stay there forever, and escape the crowded artificiality of the Capitol for something simple and completely solitary. She couldn't help but be darkly amused that her wish was to come true in the worst possible way.

She walks slowly and calmly, fingertips outstretched over the soft heads of wheat, heading to where the fighting is thickest, thinking of Beck, of her family, of Calder, of all her Tributes who'd died so brutally under her care, and how the burden she'd carried for so long, not just for them but for the entirety of her District, had grown far too much for her to keep carrying. It was Quintus Falxvale that had made her finally buckle, the one person she'd thought understood, the one high representative of the Capitol that she'd seen as caught between a rock and a hard place but still genuinely wanting to do good, but had turned out to be more rotten than the rest of them combined; he'd reduced her once more to a terrified girl watching, helpless, as he wreaked the same torture and brutality he'd demonstrated over the network to the starving men of her own District. And she was so, so tired of being terrified and helpless. She didn't see a way forward any more.

Stephen's Reagan's party might as well as been a lifetime ago, for how completely things have changed in Panem for Capitolites and Districters alike. Linden's changed as well, nearly unrecognizable for those who knew him as the narrow, brittle specter of a man who haunted District 6's suite and got all his calories from liquor. He's stronger, stands straighter, and though he's earned some acclaim as a hacker in his adopted District 13, he's also a pretty decent shot. That means that shorthanded as they are, he's in the fields tonight, one of those holding a rifle. He's accurate enough that those organizing and shuffling the troops trust him not to waste bullets. He's far enough from the burning crops that he can hear the breeze in the wheat that remains around him.

He stands guard, alert to his surroundings, on tenterhooks because every rustle of wheat or underfoot crunch could be an ambush. His safety is still on. No rash moves, no reflexive reactions out of panic or haste. He swallows, half-raising the rifle.

Definitely footsteps. Definitely not one of theirs. He raises, aims, unlatches the safety, and his eyes widen when the rifle's sight reveals a jarringly familiar face. She moves like one in a dream, seemingly caring little for what happens to her from this point forward, and Linden would be lying if he said he had no idea what that is like.

He knows how to move quietly. He has to be close enough to get her attention and incapacitate her quickly if she screams. From behind her, he whispers just loudly enough for her to hear, hoping that the use of force will be completely unnecessary.

"Emily..."

Edited 2016-03-08 01:28 (UTC)

The whisper breaks her from her reverie with a jolt, and suddenly she isn't just drifting along looking for death, but her senses and emotions flood back into her and she can hear the explosions and smell the gunpowder and blood in the air. She's almost shaking as she turns around, fully expecting to get a knife in her belly the instant she does, regretting everything and wanting the earth to swallow her up.

She stares unblinking at Linden, unsure if she's hallucinating at first, ascribing a familiar face to an otherwise nameless rebel, needing to ascribe some meaning to the man who's going to kill her, and it's only when she reflects how odd it is that her brain would choose him of all people that she realises it really must be him, and feels both the terror and relief of being grounded in this situation again.

"What are you doing here? You should get away before you're caught in the crossfire."

She seems so out of it that he wonders, initially, if she is drugged. Sadly, it wouldn't really surprise him, based on what he knows of the Capitol and Snow and what he's done in the past to keep errant Victors in check.

He keeps his voice down, aware that she could be bugged, even rigged with explosives, maybe sent to wander into their camp and detonate and sear the skin from their faces and limbs, leaving only their armor sheathing their bones in a steaming shell.

"I'm supposed to be here," he says, furrowing his brow, on guard in spite of the familiar face. "But you aren't supposed to be. I have orders to shoot on sight."

His body language says that he has no plans to, the safety is still latched. But that could change in a second, probably quicker than anything but a sniper could stop. And there could absolutely be one... but another Victor took a risk for him, once. Maybe it's time for him to pay it forward.

"You don't look like you want to be here. If someone's followed you here you have to tell me... but if they didn't, and you managed to get away, let me take you prisoner. You can come back with me."

There's a part of her internally screaming for him to just shoot, to get it over with. Instead she hesitates, looking confused and taking a moment to place just where he means when he says she can come back with him. "To Thirteen? I'm pretty sure I'd be as good as dead anyway." If they treat their prisoners anything like she suspects the Capitol does, at least.

Linden loathes shooting living targets, especially if they're former colleagues and friends. He's always considered Emily that, even if they weren't as close as he was with Peggy or Temple.

"To Thirteen," he confirms quietly. "That's where I've been. That's the place that saved me. They'll save you too, if you let them... if you let me take you back as a prisoner I will vouch for you. I've been there long enough that my word means something."

He seems earnest enough. Though Linden's always had a distance about him, eyes that seem painted with a glassy lacquer, it's clear that he's as sober and sharp as he was before he went into the arena for the first time. Whatever they've done to him in Thirteen does appear to have done him some good.

Emily doesn't say anything for a long moment, her gaze flitting from Linden's face to the rifle in his hands and the battle raging around them. Then she feels her expression crumple as whatever had been keeping her going finally snaps, and as she nods assent she whispers words she'd never thought she'd allow herself to voice. "Please." She sounds desperate, the last plea of someone who's teetering on the edge of the precipice. "Save me."

The moments stretch on, feeling much longer. Though there are sounds of violence in the distance and too close for comfort, the two of them are in a strange, insular standoff that's separate from all of it.

As desperate as her words are when she finally voices them, they're an immense relief to Linden. They've all witnessed enough loss during this war; it's a small but significant blessing that he can offer salvation to someone he's known for years.

"Thanks for letting me," he murmurs, offering a hand. "We'll have to move fast. Be prepared to put your hands up and make your surrender explicitly clear. 13 might be better than what Snow runs, but it's not trusting."

The food is secured, the rebel forces driven back. They suffer heavy losses, some even captured. While the rebels did manage to make a small dent in the Capitol food production, it's not enough to effect the war efforts.

In addition, the Capitol takes film snippets of the rebel's efforts and uses them in a new propo. Some of the workers of d11 that had originally sided with the rebels see this as an attack on the entire district, themselves included. They end up defecting back to the Capitol side, and food production actually increases as a result.

The rebellion is unable to hold the Capitol forces back and they streak on ahead leaving wreckage of the rebels they left behind watching in despair if there’s anyone left to do so. Victorious, Capitol soldiers boat their way down the river, choosing the fork-side they were directed to go down. It’s eerily quiet down this way but there, up ahead, is what appears to be a child-made clubhouse of sorts. It is either ill-fitting or the best-fitting place for a child to hide, depending on perspective, but the Capitol’s forgotten one thing.

The children of District 11, just as they are early to go work in the fields with their parents, are more than ready for a fight.

With a fierce battle cry, the juveniles collected here unleash their arsenal, appearing from the bushes with slingshots, stolen Peacekeeper guns, handmade spears, and even more unconventional weaponry like bags filled with fire ants. Even if a child or two is met with injury, the ambush is nevertheless a success.

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Where I told you to run so we'd both be free.

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For Haruto | For Shep & later Derek

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OTA with a closed prompt for Sandy and Ermac

Bangarang

Take Me To The Riot

Emily | For Linden

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(frozen comment) Results

(frozen comment) Take Me To The Riot

(frozen comment) Bangarang