The Arena Riots ( open, gamewide )

[civilobedience]

Who: The Militia, the city, and you.
What: The Arena Riots.
Where: The Arena, Griss Twist.
When: Newdi, Eliaderen 1. (Monday Oct 1st)
Notes: Companion post for questions and plotting is here.
Warnings: Violence, police brutality, disturbing content and imagery, graphic death.

It's apparent even before dawn that something out of the ordinary is happening. Canton sheriffs are roused from their sleep or pulled away from their work to be told that on no uncertain terms, today will be a day that they do not leave their neat lines on the map. That their individual offices will be responsible for all crime and unrest within their jurisdictions, with no help; the powers that be offer no details, but the creeping feeling in their presence suggests no questions would be tolerated anyway – the implication that they'll all be watched is a strong one. In Mog Hill, Sheriff Norrington proceeds as he always does under such orders. In Mafaton, leadership is stoic but one deputy laughs, sharp and bitter, while the Emissary of the Council merely checks his watch, unseen underground. Sir Hellsing is pulled away from her dinner in the Guild Hall, a Sobek Croix deputy anxiously relaying the news. The sound of shattered glass disturbs the pre-dawn silence in Flyside, a brick hurled by some faceless figure into the front window of Thames – and nothing else.

From the Spire, hooded Militiamen move quietly and uniformly south, to Griss Twist. They are followed by wagons, full of prisoners.

Comments

[gramarye]

It's the accent that catches his attention. There are enough Arabic speakers in Baedal that, while it's always a pleasant surprise, it's not jarring enough to pull Wolfgang out of wherever he's withdrawn to. Neither is the sound of a scuffle, because there have been plenty of those so far — guard against prisoner, gladiator against prisoner, prisoner against prisoner. The accent is jarring enough; of course he recognises a Palestinian accent. He ends up drifting in that direction, not sure if it's out of curiosity or instinct to be close to anything that reminds him so much of home. He barely has to tip upward — while not the tallest in the room, he's cutting it pretty close — to peer at the face associated with that voice.

His face goes dead white. He staggers backwards.

No. He's not real. It wouldn't be the first time he's imagined a face that wasn't there, projected it onto someone totally unrelated. There was a week — a long, horrible week — where every little girl with black curly hair was her. That he could hallucinate Hassan's face on a stranger...

Wolfgang is learning about checking. It's easy to do in theory: subtly or overtly taking cues from other people to see if they experience the same things he does, if they heard, saw, or felt what he did; sometimes he has to ask, sometimes he can just gauge by their reaction. It's important to establish what is real and what is imagined, although magic complicates things and it doesn't always work. But it helps.

All of that goes right out the window the second he sees that face and he blurts out, too loud, "Hassan?"

The things that are different — he's older, over a head taller, his hair is shorter and several shades lighter, there's a scar on his forehead that is new, and he's gaunt where he was only skinny before and so pale, like a ghost — are outweighed by the things that are the same. The same face — he even has the same moles, crooked teeth, lopsided eyebrows. The same unusual in-between of male and female, neither quite feminine nor exactly masculine. The same way he holds himself slightly back, uncertain, his arms wrapped around himself defensively. Doubting himself even though he'd know that face anywhere, he still expects rejection all the time. And his skin is nearly grey in colour, a deeply unhealthy shade like he's going to be sick or already has been.

No. He shouldn't have said anything. He can't tell if this is really happening or if it's all in his head, some horrible projection his subconscious has made because he's scared and hurt and wants so badly to go home. He can't tell and there's no one here he trusts enough to check for him, no one he could ask without fear. And he could be wrong; there are people here with identical faces but completely unrelated to each other, it happens all the time. He must be wrong.

Amberdrake, misc locations, open: bring out yer dea-- er, wounded!

[amberdrake]

Amberdrake has a knack for finding the worst of the injured, at least within a certain range of himself. He's circling the arena, as closely as he dares despite the way it hammers at his mind and sanity, using his finely-trained Gifts to 'scan' for the most pain. Fear and panic hammers at him from all sides, but he filters it out as much as he can, pausing whenever his hands tremble too hard.

He's almost been spotted by militia a few times, and has ducked back around behind buildings and trees and things each time, his heart pounding so hard that it feels like it could burst. It's impossible not to remember his lone, terrified trek across Predain and Tantara in the middle of winter as a child, fevered and dying, dodging Ma'ar's army as he went. His arms are streaked in blood; his set of dark scrubs are blotched in it. None of it is his. Amberdrake doubts these men would leave him in peace with a claim that he's healing the wounded-- and in fact he wonders if that would make them even more likely to arrest him.

Best not to risk it. I can't Heal myself if they decide to shoot me, and then I can't do anyone any good.

A new wave of fear beating at his mind makes him dizzy enough that he has to lean for a moment against a building, sucking in breath through his teeth. Amberdrake doesn't dare raise his shields further; he won't be able to find anyone if he does. He's waiting for the newest source of terrible pain to make it as far away from the arena as he can get near, and has positioned himself in roughly its path. This has been a day full of compound fractures, bullet wounds, the injuries from the rending of claws and teeth, and even the odd bit of shrapnel.

I hope that's the worst it gets.

He doubts he can fuse anyone's limbs back on, today, should he meet any who need it. As it is, he's spreading his Gift as thin as he dares, using it to Heal the most catastrophic parts of injuries and burn out any signs of infection, and splinting and stitching what he can the mundane chirurgeon's way. Get them stable and get them moving, Drake. Worry about fixing people more than that after the dust settles.

There's a small thermos hanging from a belt he's tied around his waist, and a bag full of the medical supplies he'd begun gathering as soon as he'd has his bearings in the city. War-time habits. And just as well...

[lt_boomer]

Sharon knew Seoraj, before today, by face and by reputation. They'd not fought, though she'd seen him fight; she'd also heard of him professionally, as she's studying bladework. They didn't go to the bar together, but they'd exchanged a few words there, and she's followed him back here. She should go home, but she can't stand not knowing.

From the outside, perhaps her refusal was strange - someone who is so clearly careless of her own life in the Arena. Then again, perhaps she's exactly the sort of person who'd risk the repercussions of saying know. She doesn't care who kills her, if someone does. She does care, evidently, who she kills. That choice is one she clings to fiercely. While she can.

She's tense, like a mechanism wound and ready to be released. She feels she should say something, but all she can think to say is, "This is going to get bad." It sounds stupid in its obviousness, but not saying anything at all is becoming oppressive.

[kalenedral]

Kalenedral has been here all morning, doing whatever it is that sadistic 'freed' Scourge might do with an early-morning arena group full of willing combatants. Which probably involves beating on each other, but hey, that's just how the Ebon Blade say hello.

When the militia show their faces (so to speak), and not just to watch, he lets out a soft, disappointed sigh and brackets his rune-blade. "Another time," he murmurs to whomever he'd been crossing weapons with, calmly ducking their last swing as he collects Limbface from the sidelines, and departs.

He remains in the area, albeit not inside the arena grounds, for some time. After all, Kalenedral hasn't been forbidden against sating his curiosity, only from getting involved or interfering. When he sees the wagons full of prisoners being driven into the preparation area, he shakes his head.

Just as well he left; fighting frightened civilians was never his idea of a good time. Even in the Scourge, at least outside of proper battlefields, he'd been known to let the unarmed and unarmored run from him so long as they didn't attack him. Those brave (and foolish) few who had, he'd fed to the ghouls without so much as batting an eye.

...No, had he remained, he knows who his primary targets would have been. The militia are armed and armored, and---

Ah, his thoughts are affecting Limbface too much. The ghoul has begun to sidle toward the arena.

"I am afraid not," Kalenedral's quiet voice is unnecessary, of course; his minions can understand him without words. But it's become a habit, due to dealing with the living, who always seem to find their wordless communication frightening.

Limbface stops mid-step, "No kill?"

"Not today," Kalenedral sounds disappointed even to his own ears, "follow me."

Shadowmane is summoned, and he hauls himself onto her saddle while musing to himself that for all so many people seem disconcerted by his ghoul, none of them have yet to see him in action. How will they react once they know that Limbface is nearly as dangerous to tangle with as his Master? It's all cute legos and chairs and shiny things until it's business time, and then... ah, well, they both change to some degree, do they not? An unsheathed weapon is different than one in its scabbard. Perhaps it's only appropriate.

Well, no one will find out today. Certainly not here, if so. Shadowmane's white-fire hooves bear him away, Limbface running along behind, even as the first screams pierce the air.

[deservesadaisy]

There is a great deal of blood.

There's been a great deal for hours, of course, but it was down in the pit. Ivan stayed in the shadows, eyed by but not harassed by the guards, who had bigger concerns. He'd come in the late afternoon, toward the evening, when it became clear that the event was teetering on the verge of chaos. He had wanted to see how it went.

What he hasn't bargained for was a riot with no way out - he should have, stupid and sloppy, he'll later think. He isn't concerned for his own safety in particular, though it won't do to be careless. He starts looking for a way out, through the mass of screaming panic, picking his way around and through.

But the blood is distracting. He tries as best he can to ignore it.

And then a man full of bullet holes, dying but not dead, is thrown back into him. Ivan catches him around the chest and waist, almost tender, like an embrace. The man is covered in blood, his own, others', and he is struggling, frantic, without having understood anything that's happened.

No one is looking at Ivan when his eyes go black. He steps back into the shadows and sinks his teeth into the man's neck. In the middle of the screams and the fighting and the panic, no one even blinks at them.

He's no longer particularly interested in leaving.

[jericho941]

Even in the erupting chaos, Spike recognized the other man with a quick glance. A glance was all he had time for if he wanted to keep from getting mowed down by the others who multiplied the longer he held his ground. He wasn't making headway here, but so far he had avoided any game-breaking injuries. Even if he expected one way for it to end, he couldn't say it wasn't easy to fall into his old rhythm. Like releasing a deep breath he'd been holding for weeks. One lucky slash of a knife grazing his side, and he almost felt alive again.

When he was close enough, he raised his voice just loud enough to be heard above the crowd. "Is it too late start making bets?"

[serjeant]

“Worse,” he says, grimly, not even glancing away from the arena itself - he stands, watches, aware of the people around him but currently focused on the indrawn breath that is the state of things right now. Something has to give; something is going to give, and soon. Where the dust settles after the exhalation is going to be another story entirely.

“It's going to get worse.”

[gotbottle]

Rachel is here to bear witness. Not that she's been at all conflicted or unclear about what the militia is doing, could do, not at all. But whatever is happening here today, whatever they're going to do, she wants to be absolutely, unflinchingly clear on what it is.

She wants to be able to say I saw it with my own eyes, and mean it.

It's sickening, and it only grows more so with each passing moment. Prisoners. Forced battle. People being cut down as she watches from the stands. All to demand one man stop his defiance. She feels physically ill, the horror of what she witnesses sinking in, feeling as if it soaks through her skin to stain her soul forever.

But she can't turn away.

And she can't show any sign of weakness. Or disapproval. The Militia know who she is, since that surprise interrogation in Coin's End. She can't give them any footing to come back into her life or her business. She balls her hands helplessly on her knees, her face a stoic mask. She won't pretend to feel anything she doesn't, won't pretend this is okay. But she won't show them just how deeply her disgust, anger, frustration, and even fear, run.

She sits there, a still, silent spectator to the building horror. But then--wait. Is it over? Has he come to surrender? Her heart sinks a little; of course it's the noble thing to do, to put a stop to this madness, but she hates that he was forced into this, whoever he is, that lone figure striding across the--

...wait.

Is that...?

It can't be.

Tom?

It's an intrinsic self-absorption that so many human beings share, at heart, the idea that it takes a personal affront to make a terrible thing tangible and immediate. The awful thing that is the Militia should be an apparent problem to everyone in this city, the spectacle they've created today should make everyone's skin crawl and should inspire everyone to want to do something about it. But it's an abstract thing until there's a personal hook, some reason a person can make this about themselves, and then, only then does it have meaning.

So when Rachel realizes she knows the man the Militia has arranged all this as a lure to surrender for, it becomes personal. How dare they at all... but how very fucking dare they now, that's her friend down there.

She barely has time to process that before Argo makes his pronouncement. Kill them all. And the entire Arena goes to hell.

Most people are bailing from the stands, pushing back toward the aisles, toward the exits. But Rachel goes the other way, over seats, pushing her way upstream, trying to reach the edge so she can look down. By the time she gets there the gunfire has started, and she catches a glimpse of Tom dragging people to the wall somewhere below her.

She grasps the railing, trying to track him, mindful of the gunfire and the people still trying to push their way past and around her. What can she even do from up here? She has no idea. But she can't just run and do nothing.

[obscuredvision]

The sudden arrival startles Ava for a moment, but she snaps right back into her usual polite efficiency. "Y'all need a place to stay?" she asks. "Please. Follow me down to the basement, no one will see you there."

No one seems horribly injured, which is a good sign, but... there are children. That's heartbreaking. And horrible, that maybe not even children are safe from the Militia.

Ava gently herds everyone toward the cellar entrance. "My name is Ava. I manage the rooming house here. You all can stay as long as you need to. I don't like the idea of anybody out there with the Militia acting like this."

[goodsoldier]

"If you're here—" Jason says back, and leaves the rest unsaid: you're betting already. He lunges past Spike, launching himself at another agent with the certainty of experience, the reflexive courage of someone who's done this and more for a very long time. If it could be slowed down, the increments by which the agent turns with the gun — the controlled way Jason barrels into her, one hand pushing the gun upward, the other striking with the tonfa, the way they both go down but in an instant, Jason is up again — it's clear that his timing is everything. He's only as fast as a well trained human, and his margin in the chaos of the crowd is extremely small.

He glances urgently at Spike again, because he can't make the other man come with him, but he's asking. About two levels below are a group of Militia who are building a strong position, two shooters able to defend the others while the remainder are free to fire upon the crowd. Jason jerks his head at them. Routing them is necessary, and even if he's not quite sure how to get close yet, they have a better chance than many of the people in the area.

[asklepios]

They could've landed somewhere far less welcoming than the living room - the hard wood floor is unforgiving, but Benevenuta is already approaching them quickly with gloved hands and a brisk expression. The effect is slightly incongruous in a Baedal-familiar way; someone's living room made up as a triage, standardized medical equipment alongside stock from the alchemist, clean blue gloves and a cashmere sweater. She's not used to people dropping in out of no where, but under the circumstances, she's not going to blink.

“Okay- okay, my name is Dr Bernát, can you hear me? I need you to let me see your injury- are you injured, yourself?” This to Megan; she'd prioritized immediately, but that doesn't mean she's not trying to map a few steps out ahead to keep herself moving most effectively. “I need one of you to tell me what you can.”

[gwynn]

"Wh — huh? No." She's not bleeding from her anything, and what little blood there is on her is obviously not hers, but not everyone in various states of injury is necessarily externally bleeding. Still. She's slightly panicked, holding the other woman up and unsure what to do with her, obviously.

"I don't know, I just — she was in the crowd and there were all these people there and I saw someone swing something at her and, I don't know, I grabbed her but she was bleeding and I didn't know what to do." Her voice, lightly Welsh-accented, for once matches her appearance as her desperation and urgency makes her sound a lot higher-pitched and squeaky, like a cartoon. It is probably not as bad as it looks, especially to an untrained eye, but still a fairly serious wound.

[gwynn]

Megan's response to maybe not even children would be a resounding well, duh, and that's not even uncharacteristically jaded for her — maybe a couple years ago before the solar flare it would have been, but she has, since then, been a lot more pragmatic than people assume by looking at her. Like she must be naive because she's small and pink.

But those are her own hangups to deal with later when she gets to think about whether Baedal is actually any better than New York. (The answer is still, depressingly, yes.) The four people Megan brought here gratefully take Ava up on her offer, but not Megan, whose wings keep fluttering anxiously, generating an odd buzzing noise. "I can't stay, but — do you have more room? There's still a lot of people out there, I — it's easier to bring them somewhere else."

Somewhere safe. It's not going to just be rioting in Griss Twist; it's going to spread to the neighbouring cantons, and with political riots occupying Baedal's police force is going to come civil panic and an opening for the city's less savoury elements to take advantage.

[agrat]

It's very difficult for Lea to wait until that nighttime hour occurs, but wait she does, her people a loose connection assembled by codes on CiDs or signs in windows--primarily the latter. Nonverbal, unrecorded communication is much smarter, and she's learned to utilize it in the five years without much technology at home. Most of the people who are a part of her group don't know the name of the woman instigating, or even what she looks like.

Ideas are like a virus. They spread through contact. All you need is a patient zero.

There were many, many people in the stands before, but now it is overflowing, body to body, mostly Xenian. Do not stop, they have been told. There are more of us than there will ever be of them. Through a game of telephone, they have all heard one thing in particular:

A true democracy is owned by its people, not its government.

Ownership is one of those things that will stir endless amounts of persistence. She knows what buttons to hit. And Lea, dressed in black, wearing sensible boots, moves through the crowd, is among them. Like the others in her group, she is masked, though she might lose hers eventually to separate herself from the other rioters in her group. They've brought even more of the silver fox masks, tucked into jackets and bags; they share them with members of the pre-existing rioting group, acquiring new strangers for their number.

Lea is keeping an eye on militia agents that are visible, gladiators--if one of the higher ranking ones is near, she is not above taking a hostage. Not just for the visibility factor, either; she knows how to question, now. Lucas taught her how to be a monster when she has to be.

That ruthlessness is not one of her favorite things about herself, but it is necessary. So is this. Some of these kids will die tonight, and in the future; she's told them so, they've told each other. But they won't die in vain, and they'll kill their oppressors, too.

Anyone who takes your rights away, his life is forfeit to you. He owes you. It's a law of nature, of blood. Not the other way around.

Beneath her fox mask, she keeps hunting.

[gramarye]

While the protestors are rushing in and everyone else is trying to get out, the two major groups inside — spectators, further divided by class, and prisoners — end up mixing together, with Strangers running alongside politicians, both elbowing their way through the press of bodies trying to beat each other to the exits. Immediately outside the Arena, it has erupted into complete chaos with Militia agents opening fire on crowds of people with zero regard for whether they're combatants or not.

There are some people who are guiding others out of the chaos and into the quieter streets further away from the Arena, and others who leap in to fight, and Wolfgang is currently somewhere in between. He's not fighting for the sake of it, nor is he necessarily completely selflessly trying to rescue others; he's mostly reacting to what's going on around him and trying not to get killed. And looking for Hassan, who he lost somewhere in the chaos back there, and how do you lose someone that fucking tall, anyway? If he had a moment to think he could come up with a plan to actually help, but...

He's not a brawler, he has zero chance of disabling a Militia agent, but outside of the Arena whatever they'd been using to dampen supernatural powers is less potent and magic is returning to him. It's easy to add an extra bit of force to his fist, to extend his reach to throw a punch without actually connecting his hand with anything because that would absolutely break it. He ends up knocking a Militia agent off his feet and to the ground and has less than a second to be pleased with himself before his buddy hits Wolfgang in the side with a baton, which thankfully misses his ribs, which it would have broken, but it does knock the air right out of him. He has just enough time to lunge to the left and dodge another hit while someone else, a protestor with makeshift riot gear, leaps in to engage the same agent while Wolfgang retreats against the wall of the Arena, clutching his side and wheezing, trying to catch his breath.

Shit, fuck. He can't see a clear path out of the worst of it here. For now, the Militia aren't looking at him, are focused on the people actively engaging them in a fight, but if he moves he's going to make himself a target. He scans the crowd, looking for a way out — a clear path to a less-crowded side street or an opening in a skirmish he can insert himself into.

[gramarye]

A few meters ahead, there's a group of Militia agents who are moving together like they've been synchronized, deadly in tandem, except all of a sudden they stagger or freeze up and their eyes, when they're visible, take on a fuzzy, confused quality. One of them, the one with the gun, starts firing at the wall, where there's nothing but stone. It's just long enough for the prisoner-cum-gladiator they've cornered to lurch to his feet and flee, not questioning what caused them to stumble.

The cause is behind them, but immediately ducks behind the still corpse of a gladiator enormous enough to function as a temporary shield against bullets, trying to stay out of the way. Humanoid bodies actually make really terrible cover from bullets, but there's nothing else close enough to him.

Wolfgang's not a fighter and he's not really trying to be, he's just trying to get out, waiting for an opening because he is not running out there and just hoping for the best, but he might have to. It's not safe here either but he's not that big a target or a threat. At least, not until they figure out he's the one projecting his psychosis on any Militia agent who gets close enough to his makeshift cover, making them fight ghosts instead of real people or lose their grip on reality, unsure how to proceed.

He is not actually doing it on purpose, but...

[goodsoldier]

Night has yet to register with Jason, who is by now exhausted. He's lost sight of Spike and the few people he managed to coordinate with earlier throughout the riot (never mind Bruce) and he's been shot a few times. Body armor has its limitations; three bullets are punched deep in his vest with accompanying bruises, he got winged in the head some hours ago, the arm he hurt during the excursion with Bruce is fractured again, and he's been fighting an endless amount of opponents virtually without cease for hours, which means broken fingers, a few stab wounds, and an obvious limp. He's never actually fought until his weapons broke before.

Not that he's so torn up over the tonfa. Good fucking riddance, except they were useful for hitting people really hard in the head, and now he just has someone else's weapon, a slightly dull machete. Which, you know, great. Thanks. And now someone is trying to give him a weird mask, which he is about to refuse on principle (he has some of those, sort of), but he's concerned that refusing is the 'wrong answer', so to speak. So he accepts it and goes with the others for a while, wary. Things are on fire, people are dying, he would like to get to the Militia and eventually get out, and if the people in masks are going to accomplish that, fine. He's with them for now.

[agrat]

The people in the hoods, the magic-killers, those are the ones they're veering for first. It's practical, but once they've opened up magic in the arena, it'll get a lot bloodier on both sides. Lea can feel a little spark of her own power returning to her in a bright electric jolt with the first death (between the shoulder blades, a blitz attack: do not be honorable, do not fight fair, be cunning and quick). One of the Xenian boys with her is not magical, but monstrous, with an improbably hulking physique and six clawed fingers; he probably looks cartoonishly over-muscled, in his daily life, with clothes that don't fit him correctly and a goofy lopsided haircut.

In here, though, with blood on his hands and all of that massive brutal strength applied to cutting through hooded militia-members, he's terrifyingly efficient. Lea thinks she's pretty glad he's on their side.

One of the gladiators still campaigning for militia approval--or maybe he's just a psychopath who likes bloodshed--comes barreling through the crowd, toward herself and Jason, whom she identifies mentally as a very recent acquisition (one who looks like he's a bit roughed up, as is to be expected, and she's glad this second wave has come in now). She tenses, waiting for it; being relatively small in frame means she has to time her attacks, although she's still faster and better in reflexes than most humans her size would be.

She likes to clip the tendons in the calf, mostly. Disable, then destroy. Her eyes behind the mask reflect some irritation; obstacles aren't surprising, but she's a hunter, by design, and she doesn't really take the same grim satisfaction in handling those obstacles as she does in actually seeking her targets.

[goodsoldier]

Though he has no innate sense of it himself, the reasoning behind their first targets becomes clear to him immediately, and as much as he personally has no love for magic, this isn't personal. It's survival. And it seems like a lot of the people who came in the masks, as opposed to the people who have them now, are varying shades of xenian. It's one thing to dislike people in his own world throwing magic in his face in the middle of a city with clueless civilians, and another thing entirely to dislike people for whom this is simply life.

The woman nearby moves first to meet their attacker, and would have even if he were at one hundred percent. The gladiator jerks and stumbles to the ground as the tendons in his leg give out, carried forward by his momentum but out of control now. Jason concentrates and, not for the first time, but definitely the first time in a very long time, beheads someone with one strike. This genuinely astonishes him given the state of the machete. But the moment of concentration had been to aim correctly and make that strike count, whereas if he had been one hundred percent, he would've struck sooner and maybe he'd have a face full of arterial spray right now. As it is, most of the blood is on his clothes and the ground.

[gramarye]

In movies, people shrug off bullet wounds all the time. A little (or a lot) of blood if it's R-rated, but mostly a sound effect and a grunt and a pause, then they keep moving, grim-faced and pale and gritting their teeth.

Wolfgang would rather be in a movie right now. The bullet hits him in the upper abdomen, roughly around the liver, spraying an impressive amount of blood and knocking him immediately on his ass. All of a sudden he can't breathe and a searing pain bursts from his abdomen and radiates all over his torso. Shit, is his first thought when he's capable of thinking again — which is several seconds later. The second is: "Fuck!" Followed by: I need to take cover, but he's having a hard time focusing on anything but how his entire torso is on fire. Also, it's about thirty seconds before he realises he's on the ground. When did he fall?

But thank God, someone sympathetic sees it and comes to help, because he's not going anywhere, not on his own power, anyway. He might be able to drag himself a few feet, but not much more.

The important thing is not to panic. He knows gunshot wounds. He's never had one, but he knows about them. It must have missed his spine, he thinks, because he still has feeling everywhere, although right now he would really like to not have feeling anywhere. If it didn't hit any vital organs... and he's in Baedal, not Earth. They can reattach dead people's limbs, bring people back from the dead. A bullet wound should be child's play up against magic.

Assuming anyone's around.

This is what he tries to remember, but it's hard to keep panic at bay when he's bleeding at a rate he never has before and is unable to sit up and good God the pain is pretty fucking incredible, a burning line from one side of his body to the other. He's aware of someone next to him shouting, "Help! Medic!" but only in a very vague way.

[agrat]

Well, her eyes say, under her mask, that was nicely done.

She can't actually take the head. But having ("having", as though she can spontaneously acquire people by their usefulness--but maybe she thinks she can) someone accompany her that is efficient with a bladed instrument would be a good idea, since while she's certainly capable of physical self-defense and, indeed, offense, she knows she'll be stronger when she can use her magic to its utmost.

There are a few of those hooded agents left. Not enough to kill her power completely, but she remains mindful of their presence.

"Do you think you can do that a few more times tonight?" Her voice carries to only Jason specifically, somehow, despite the not inconsiderable din. That might be--is likely--a glint of magic, as much as she can muster in these conditions, but maybe being piercingly French-Canadian just equips one for that particular talent. "Because I want Argo."

That big fucking Teutonic bastard. He's practically a poster boy, with those cheekbones and that haircut.

She doesn't say 'you in?', but it's implied.

[goodsoldier]

It's the change in his shoulders, the look in his eyes that's the real answer, and his answer is more muted by the crowd than hers was, but it is most definitely yes. He forgets he's tired and hurting, again — how many times now? Surely he can't do this much longer — because as long as dangerous, competent people are asking him to do the only thing he does well, something in him responds. Maybe their long term goals aren't compatible, and god knows he doesn't love everything that's going on here, but in this moment, it all works. Jason joins Lea without hesitation.

He'd like to see what she'd do to Argo. And maybe that's not fair, and not a full, nuanced grasp of everything a Militia leader has to do to keep order in this city, the tough decisions leaders have to make; but above and beyond policy, the many things the Militia have done wrong and the some they've done right, people have been dying for hours on his sufferance. He's not going to stand here and pretend that the slaughter doesn't affect him. He's going to see as much of this through as he can.

[lt_boomer]

"Yeah, okay, fair." Sharon's gripping the rail where she's standing next to him, and she doesn't seem to notice or care that her knuckles are white. She's been in a war, she's seen violence, but this is different. This feels like it's about to turn ugly in a way she isn't sure she can handle.

(Or, an insidious part of her suggests, that she's afraid she can.)

They should probably go, but she doesn't suggest it. The damage of refusing is done, and if she'd been able to ignore what's happening, she'd have stayed in the bar.

She abruptly, absurdly, wishes someone were here to give her orders. Orders that she can take without feeling ill.

Re: THE RIOTS BEGIN:

[toooldforlosing]

Raylan made it into the Arena a bit after it had begun. He'd gone to investigate the brick through the window of Thames - telling Dr. Bernát he was going to check it out, god, what must she think of him never coming back - and been swept up with the crowd, only half of his own volition.

And then he'd had no choice. He'd never seen anything quite so... but he couldn't figure out where to place the bullet he'd wanted so much to fire. All he could do was watch, ignoring the texts that were probably from Norrington.

But when all hell broke loose, it was like he'd been shaken out of a trance. He starts trying to herd people, move them toward the exits. So many people here aren't equipped or prepared for a fight, and a mob was an ugly thing. (Not quite as ugly as public slaughter, he thinks, but even so.) He bumps into another man doing the same thing, and calls over the roar of the crowd: "I think this way's blocked, we're gonna have to find them another way out."

Anyone who keeps his head is, for the moment, an ally. He'll sort it out later.

[amberdrake]

And with Amberdrake in the city, there's ways to reattach the limbs of the living, as well. Although if he had to try it now, it would surely send him into over-extension shock, which... could easily kill him. So it's just as well.

Drake's 'radar' registers the gunshot wound happening within his range, almost as fast as his ears pick up the sound of it, and he tears off toward it at a run. Even without the shouting, pin-pointing the source of burning burning heat injury pain sharp is easy enough, and he drops to his knees beside the fallen young man.

"I am a Healer," he says, both to the sympathetic bystander and to the victim, should he even hear him. More gunfire in their immediate area has Drake scooping the other man up and lunging back to his feet, running for cover around the corner of that building over there. At least he's familiar enough with guns, thanks to his time in Haven.