thearena | If we met at midnight

Entry tags:

If we met at midnight

Who| All those on the liberation mission and all those being made to fight against them.
What| The liberation of District 2.
Where| District 2.
When| This week.
Warnings/Notes| War, violence, death. Please warn for more in headers.

The hovercrafts fly in over the tall mountains of the Rockies, dwarfing the towering trees. From the sky, the scene is beautiful, all glittering snow, blue water, and green that never fades. The planes stretch on into the east, seeming never to end. Nestled in the mountains is a city that doesn't appear to have ever seen better days. It's worn and patched, and were the temperature a little warmer, one's first thought might be of the old west. The trains only add to this image, going all over into the various mining mountains.

Propaganda can be seen everywhere here in the city; posters of Snow, of Capitol supporting Tributes, things seeking to inspire District unity. If it seems to rebels like they're the bad guys here, that's because they are. District two doesn't want liberation. A District home to people loyal to the Capitol, to their District and the Peacekeepers, fans of the Games, and full of indoctrination, rebels are not only unwelcome, they're considered threats. Loyalty means everything to them and rebels are disruptions to this loyalty. There will be no help from the people here unless you're a soldier for the Capitol, in which case, housing and bed are offered, as well as munitions. Poster of Albert, Anna, and Felicity have been placed up, saying "The Courage Of Sacrifice!", "The Light Of Victory Shines Ahead!, and "To A Bright And Protected Future!", respectively.

If you serve the rebellion, however, it's off to the mountains with you. It's not exactly safe, but it's the best that can be managed until a takeover is made. The hovercraft lands upon a wider ledge of the snowy mountainside, sitting there rather precariously. There's no cave, and only barely enough room in the hovercraft. Resources are heavily rationed. Camp fires will need to be made outside the plane, and food hunted. Simply pulling in breath in the high altitudes may be difficult. Fight off frostbite may be more so. The moaning winds inspire all kinds of paranoia. Best stick close to one another.

Although everyone is lucky to find the sun shines during the day, allowing for some warmth, as the night falls, the temperature drops. The District shuts down all power, putting it all into heating and leaving the city in total darkness. This provides an advantage of cover for everyone, but if you're not a Districter used to the dark, seeing what you're doing may very well be a problem.

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

It doesn't take them long to figure out. With the hovercraft going back and forth, District two figures out the location of the rebel camp, their hiding place. They know those mountains. They know them far better than these people of the rebellion do.

They also know that, by getting themselves out of sight of the District, the rebellion has put themselves in a dangerous position. There's no threat of avalanche on the city's side of the Mountains, but that's not the case for the rebels. One wrong move and they could swept entirely away within minutes.

Munitions experts can set the bomb to go off at the top. It will be the job of Capitol-soldiers to keep the rebellion distracted. After that, they will have seconds to get out of their, grab their own and grab any hostages, get into the Capitol's hovercraft, and get out.

The rebellion's only chance is to overpower that of the Capitol-soldiers and take out the munitions expert before the bomb can be set.

Jet was dressed in only the thin Capitol-issued uniform. If he felt the cold, he didn't show it. His cybernetics kept him from feeling the cold in the tips of his fingers and the warmth of his torso kept the rest of him functioning, allowing him to focus on other things. Like the tight-rope walk he had to perform here.

Bombs, bombs that were meant to blow and send tons of snow crashing down on people he considered his friends. He couldn't let it happen, but he couldn't just take out the munitions officer he was sent to protect either.

He had to find a way to sabotage these bombs without getting caught while also keeping an eye out for Rebel soldiers who found their way up to them to stop them themselves. He'd have to pretend to fight them convincingly before throwing the fight too. If he slipped up at any point, his loyalties might get called into question and reign down judgement on himself or Albert.

At this point, he almost didn't care. It certainly wasn't enough anymore to stop him from trying.

As the munitions officer laid down the bombs, Jet followed behind, making a show of checking how secure they were before tugging just the right wire to render it ineffective or, at least (hopefully) less effective based on what he could see with his enhanced and low-level x-ray vision; he couldn't see like Frannie could (and boy could he use her ability to hack anything with a touch right now) but he had something similar and less powerful, the perks of being a recon cyborg.

It was better than nothing. It would have to be enough.

Edited 2016-05-02 23:41 (UTC)

Roland sits, watching the bustle that comes before a battle - any battle, no matter where you go - and thinking. Feeling the wrong gun sitting at his hip and adjusting the straps of its matching gunbelt, absently. He knows the plan, aye, no one'd been secretive about that. It wouldn't have done any good even if they'd tried. There are rebels at the base of that mountain, and he thinks about that. Being trapped in the Tribute Tower like a dancing bear, trapped in the arenas, trapped in their gaol, their Detainment Center, Roland thinks about that, too.

It could be anyone down there - Signless, Alain, the Psiionic. None of them, or all. Maybe it isn't too curious that that's what drives him to it finally, all those thoughts, rather than plain duty. The Capitol is rotten, corrupted, but so are all civilizations who live long enough to see themselves become it. Gilead never had, even though there'd been many who'd said so. Gilead's rot was hastened, pushed along, but Roland recognizes what is happening to Panem as natural, nonetheless. Their world is falling into corruption and darkness, and what business is it of his? It has never been his business, and certainly not his duty, to either help or hinder.

He doesn't think too much on it beyond that. The truest decisions never have been made in a man's mind, anyway. He straightens. There's a crowd gathering, awaiting transport to the place where they'll distract the rebellion and keep them in place, and he moves through them with only half a mind to whether he bumps into anyone getting past. Roland was meant to be waiting with this crowd, but that is not where he is going to stay.

There may be guards with him, and there may not. Roland does not think on that. It does not occur to him that anyone else is there at all. 'There', too, that's a trick, or maybe it isn't. Something's niggling at him, telling him these ought to be cool, clean white halls, that he shouldn't feel hot, shouldn't smell the dry air of the desert, but why shouldn't he? Of course he does. He always does.

"And time," he might mutter,

"And time," or maybe he shouts it

"And time," or mayhap something in between, he can not hear his own voice, wonders where it's gone and forgets that he wondered, of course it's gone. Where else would it go?

"Have pity," he says, because it's what he always says, "have mercy," he says, because there is none, "or was there a time? Was there?" and he sags and stumbles with no idea he's being led toward his cell, and with no idea of the people who see along the way. He isn't here. There are swollen marks on one of his hands, stings, and something's telling Roland these ought to be cool, clean white halls, that he shouldn't feel hot, shouldn't smell the dry air of the desert, but why shouldn't he? Of course he does.

Roland's gone. Firo shouldn't be surprised considering what the man did. What would surprise him would be if he saw his friend any time soon.

From his own experience sabatoging their gracious hosts, Firo knows there's a chance Roland won't be killed--he and Eowyn were only tortured. But maybe the Capitol's stricter now that they're reeling from losses. Maybe Roland's already gotten two right in the back of his head.

Firo spends most of the time after the battle trying not to think of what could be happening to his friend right now.

So when he's walking the halls in their free time, he doesn't expect to see him right there, almost within reach.

Firo stops and blinks a few times to make sure it's real. He clears his throat and calls out to the guards, "Hey--I can take him from here."

People back home have always hated the way he speaks to others as equals, thinking of him as nothing more than a presumptuous brat. Guards and cops especially. And he knows the rules for talking to guards--namely to not--but he's too worried here to bother with them. Roland. He needs to get to him and talk to him. It looks too much like before, and he needs to make it stop.

These guards, regardless of Firo's urge toward caution, always have been - well, not kind. Roland, when he was in the condition to think on such things, thought it might be their Capitol upbringing showing through. A guard in any other land in any other world might do any number of things to his prisoners, enjoying his power over them. But these, they watched the arenas with the rest of the people of this land. They watched the arenas and the tributes and there is no respect there, not a bit of it, but perhaps are a few crumbs of something, the smallest leftovers of hero worship. Not enough to keep them from doing great evils, because they are of Panem, after all. Evil, to the men and women of Panem, is just another word, and one which does not apply to them, and never would.

Signless always had loved these people, tried to sympathize with them. Roland has never tried to understand why. It's just Signless' way, and not one Roland has to agree with, himself. He doesn't.

Signless. "Loves, and lost loves," he says in that voice he can't hear, a voice rough from screaming. "Have I called their names yet? Of course I have. I hear it now. Have I added yours, Firo, to my list of loved dead? Perhaps beside Eddie's. You are so like him. He might appreciate the company."

Roland's guards send looks at each other overtop Roland's bowed head. While he rambles on beneath them, their expressions share one, identical thought: done with this shit.

"You'll have to drag him," one of them says. "You wouldn't think such a skinny fucker would be so damn heavy."

Firo feels ice crawl up his spine when Roland puts his name with those dead. By now, he's learned that there are a lot of them, so perhaps Roland can be excused for just assuming his friends are all gone. But he's right here! Is Roland really that lost?

It's lucky that the guards don't offer much resistance, but Firo doesn't even think to thank them for it. The only thing that occurs to him is that the logical response is a barb about how weak they must be to find his weight too much. Firo could take it just fine when they were sparring.

It's a little different when he's all crumpled like this, though, as Firo soon finds when he tries to slip under one of Roland's arms to support him. Never mind. He's got this. He redoubles his grip and tries to take a step toward Roland's cell.

He tries to find Roland’s eyes with his own and mumbles. “I’m alive. I’m right here. You are too.”

"Aye. You are. You were. You will be again. Like the others." While most of Roland's body has decided to go on leave and not support his weight at all, his feet haven't quite got the message because they keep making motions as if to walk, forward, ever forward. "And the others. I think I feel them in the walls of this place-"

And in this state of course he forgets, he forgets his tongue and that tongue tries to use the words of the high speech, and the way he simply keeps on going rather than stopping at one word must confuse the machine in his brain, because after a line of fruitless stuttering it all comes out at once: "soul-fate-spirit-essence-echo-ghosts," the second-rate translations rushing out practically on top of each other. Roland continues on, of course, words rasping out regardless, because he'll get another chance to say it. He'll get every chance, whether he wants them or not.

"My son. The poorer one, poor of spirit, poor of love, poor Mordred, he of the soured heart. I can feel him here, I always could, every time I walked these rooms for the first time. Not my other son, though, my first, I could never feel him, not here. But he is, he was, he will be again. Like you. Odd, meeting you here. I don't recall... Were you here some of those other times? I'll never feel you here. I don't remember that. Why are you here this time?" Roland's attention condenses all at once, pushing together into something narrow and sharp which he aims at the boy, as if trying to see inside him. "One more boy of mine. Why here, this time? There will never be anyone with me, at the end-not-end-not-end, no company at the wheel-top, before it swings down again. There never is-was-will be. Won't be. You're not new, are you? Can't be. Never is-was-will be. Won't be."

If Firo were more familiar with technology, he'd think those chains of stuttery words sounded like Roland was some kind of glitched program. If he were superstitious, he'd think Roland sounded possessed. Firo is neither of those things, but it unsettles him deeply all the same.

"I didn't know you had kids." It's good, though. Firo may not have known many fathers in his time, but Roland seems suited to the role.

How did they get him out of this last time? Talking, explaining, even arguing. Good. He can do all of that. Firo thinks over Roland's words, seizes on something he thinks he can target, and starts moving his mouth.

"It's just us here, me and you. Together. What about that, huh? You can't tell me I'm wrong." The sternness in his voice falters a moment, and he tries to disguise it by giving another big heave as he coaxes Roland along. "Where do you think you are?"

"Here." His foot catches on something, maybe just the floor, maybe a step because up, up, always up toward the top of that place, the highest room of the tallest tower - "In the desert. And on the train. In New York. In Lud. In the Calla. I remember. I am, and I was, and I will be again. I'm making my way to the top of the wheel, so it can swing me down again." He shudders once, and then again, and when he looks up there's fear bare on his face.

"Is that where we are? The top. The end. The beginning." The fear starts to tremble in his voice now and he tries harder to stand, wobbles, pulls himself halfway upright. "I don't want to. Please. Please."

Edited (icon) 2016-05-18 02:17 (UTC)

It sounds like some sort of fucked up Ferris wheel--that's really all Firo's getting from this so far.

And then Roland's voice changes to something more distressing. “No!” Firo stops in his tracks right there. He'd hoped that they could get in Roland's cell and away from prying eyes before anything really bad happened. But he can't listen to his friend sounding so scared without doing anything.

He twists to try and meet Roland's eyes. “You’re here in Panem. You don't have to--to whatever the hell it is. Got it? They'll have to get by me first and I don't plan on makin' it easy for anybody."

He doesn't make such promises lightly, and he briefly feels a flash of anger that he can't simply promise that he won't let it happen. The problem is that he doesn't know what it is and he won't make a promise he can't keep.

"No. No." Roland shakes his head and the words are made half of fear, half need to negate a statement with so much wrong in it. "Don't you see? Don't you feel it? The boy, the tongueless boy, he never felt it but I always have. There's no resisting. Not for long. Do you hear the king screaming? He wouldn't scream if he knew. He'd laugh. He'd laugh if he knew what's - what was - what will be - what was in store for me."

Roland moves forward, his steps clumsy, half-dragging, but he moves. "There wasn't any escaping it. There isn't any escaping it. There won't be any escaping it. I remember. I remember what will be, and will be, and will be again."

It is entirely coincidental that Roland sense of almost being there, almost, of being in the last moments Before is almost accurate. His cell isn't far. Panting, wide eyed, stumbles ahead, moving steadily toward it.

"Not you. You never were. I remember. I will remember. I know. Oh, a man's mind was never meant for such, I remembered, and I didn't remember, I didn't find you waiting there. Did I? Did you become a part of this now, too? Oh, Firo, I'm sorry. I'm so sorry."

Is this thing Roland seems to think of as an inconsistency--Firo's presence--something he can seize on to wake him up? He's not hopeful, but maybe it's one method to try. "I'm here now, I'm tellin' you." He doesn't know what it is he's a part of. Roland's life? Seems an awfully dramatic reaction just for that.

Firo steps back next to Roland, trying to at least hold his arm to support him. He both wants to slap the man awake and to hold onto him to keep any further harm away. Instead, he aims to steer him to the bed and tugs on his arm to try to make him sit. It's safer if he's not moving--fewer people can see him; a ranting and raving man would look like easy pickings to anyone who wanted to rob or beat on someone.

As he tries to steer his friend, his mind's moving a mile a minute. Normally it'd be his mouth, but this is a more delicate situation than he's used to. "Don't say you're sorry. There's nothing--Look, whatever happened, you gotta tell me more than this. Or listen to me--let me tell you where we are. It's Panem, remember? You're in the prison or whatever the hell they call it. There's no--" He grimaces at the image, "--no guy without a tongue and no king. It's just you and me right now."

"Not now. But there was. Will be. There is, I remember it. Firo." Roland's gait's turning strange now, walking and trying not to, leaning back, pulling against Firo but still moving forward, trying to slow. "One mind - mortal minds - weren't made for this. I see it all at once. Every time, and time, and time. And look - there it is! There it always is. The door. The first door. The last door."

All a sudden Roland throws himself back with a yell, feels his back hit something, tries to fling the hands on him away. "Have pity," he mutters, to himself and to an empty space in the middle of the room. His eyes are wide, horrified. "Mercy. No."

Bringing It All Down

Open to Capitol or Rebellion forces

closed to Firo

also closed to firo. cw hallucinationy funtimes

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tell me if this is too much babble i can try to cut it down next time

It's a perfect amount of babble

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