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.
no subject
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.