multiversallogs | The Arena Riots ( open, gamewide )

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The Arena Riots ( open, gamewide )

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.

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The city government and the Militia know they have to contain the riot before they lose daylight. They can't risk losing visibility and inviting disgruntled night-walking xenians joining the fray. And they must contain it – they cannot level the Arena. That much has been made clear by several extremely disappointed superiors.

They think they've got it, shortly after the bright light slips away and darkness begins to truly take hold. They're in a standoff. There are civilians who haven't been able to get out, and putting them in between the Agents and the rioters is working quite well. But then someone from outside the walls throws a glass sphere up and in – it lands on a stone seat and cracks, exploding into bright flames. Another sails after it. Then another. And then a black, shadowy figure drops down behind the Militia line, and rips an agent's head clean off.

In the dark, it only gets worse.

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.

Edited 2012-10-05 09:42 (UTC)

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

She nods, once, wordlessly—she'd rather not expend energy carrying her voice, no matter how minute that energy strain actually is, not until the hooded agents are all gone, and there aren't that many left. Few enough that she can subtly employ a degree of telekinesis to part the sea of people ahead of them by placing a thin block of energy between feet; if they think something is there, can feel it like a ridge or another person, they'll unconsciously avoid it.

She starts in that direction, steady, not too rapid. It wouldn't do to look like she has such a particular goal, or she'll attract the wrong kind of attention before she can even get through the crowd.

It's an impulsive thing, trusting Jason, but there have been no names used, and he did rather efficiently (in as much as anyone can do something so brutal efficiently) behead a gladiator right in front of her. Sure, it could be a tactic. But Lea doesn't think so, and she trusts her instincts.

When you have a lot of other people at home and elsewhere relying on those instincts, if you don't have faith in yourself, you're kind of fucked. They may well be, anyway, but she's not going to let herself think that bleakly. It's counterproductive to hunting--and there is nothing animalistic about her tactics, how she zig-zags lightly as though she has no real destination in mind, while knowing exactly where they are headed.

Edited 2012-10-06 13:07 (UTC)

He doesn't directly shadow her steps, but he's always within sight, moving around various obstacles, taking out attackers when necessary. As much as he prefers lone wolfing it, a large part of his first life was spent training with a partner, and there are an entire set of leftover instincts he can still use once he starts working with someone else. Plus, he doesn't want to form a two person brigade which would attract attention from those they're approaching. A person with a bird's eye view might be able to track their progress and see that he's following her lead, but at this point of the night, that must be nearly impossible.

Her use of telekinesis increases subtly as they keep moving, as her room for magic builds. Some of the other mages have realized that it's happening and are beginning to cast spells, which means, inevitably, something will be on fire, and God only knows how much damage that will cause. Lea isn't concerned about that, frankly; she's focused on her target, that ceremonies box.

When she finally slips into a stairwell that should ostensibly lead her upwards, its roof shrouding her from any views from above, she finds a blockade in the form of a cluster of young militia agents kettling a group of rioters into one corner. Lea rocks back on her feet and waits a beat for Jason, so that he can get a glimpse of what the hold-up is. She peers around the corner, conscious of the fact that the element of surprise will be fairly important here, even with her arcane power gradually blossoming back into full form.

Her pause tells him a lot already, but he takes a look for the sake of numbers. One of the most annoying things about this city is the difficulty in obtaining and general ineffectiveness of projectile weapons that aren't, like, crossbows. They have their own problems with range, portability, and ease of reloading; Jason's never really been a fan. He doesn't love guns, he only likes what they can do for them, namely killing people both more quickly and from farther away. In this context, magic is the long range weapon, and he waits for her cue — something, he's guessing, like before, that scatters or immobilizes or maims, and then he'll have a better chance of killing people before they can kill him.

She takes a moment to gauge whether or not she's strong enough to do what immediately comes to mind as most effective. It's important to hit the militia agents while avoiding the other rioters, who are not necessarily good people--in a circumstance like this you'll find a lot of individuals simply taking advantage of the chaos--but still not anyone she wants to harm. Although Lea advised the people she brought tonight that some of them would be hurt and possibly die, in the interests of full disclosure, she didn't mean by her.

Maybe eventually she'll become comfortable with collateral damage. But not yet.

Her telekinesis is a precise but invisible weapon that splits the groups into two via a second blockade formed between them. Then it shifts, becomes more precise, razor-sharp, and cuts across the ankles of the militia agents. Several of them quite literally lose their feet, still alive afterwards and prone on the ground, and when those towards the back realize what's happened, they splinter out and flatten back toward the wall, away from the rioters.

Giving Lea and Jason both an opening. She'd prefer to use more hands-on methods as they progress through the stairwell, though, because that prior effort let her know just how many nullifiers there are left. (Too many.)

Edited 2012-10-20 22:04 (UTC)

The blockade goes up, invisible in itself but not in its effects, and then it cuts low across their legs, at which point Jason is already moving. He's still pretty fast considering his size and the sustained level of activity, but as before, he's more concerned about proper timing and strategy, both of which can compensate or prepare him for combatants that are physically faster. Some of the agents are almost certainly like that, but they aren't ready for him even if they didn't lose their feet.

Closing the distance between them is what takes the most time. Once he's there, it's one-two-three-four strikes to as many agents in just under two seconds. Those agents go down, one with a cut throat, one with a crushed throat, one kicked into the still standing group, the last stabbed under the armpit where the armor doesn't cover. Jason wrenches the machete back out, ready to deal with the others who only got knocked over.

Long day. Not over yet.

There's a point where he's slipped, he thinks. Maybe it was months ago or right now, but he's killing more than he's rescuing, and now as the riots are being smothered by night time and a deadline, there is the question of what he's been doing this entire time. Doubt is one of those enemies that are effective against immortals with unbreakable skeletons, but Logan executes it as easily as a sick kitten's neck being snapped. He's pretty sure he saw Tom fall. He makes sure not to follow suit.

Not until he can do more.

It's dark. Skirmishes continue still. Hidden, Logan watches, sees six civilians lined up as fleshy shields before someone manages to get an elbow into the face of their captors -- three make a run for it, one of them makes it, disappearing into the protesters. He is not much of a hero and all these masked, darkly clad Agents are so alike that it's difficult to see which one might mean something.

Then he hears something. Through the chaos and the screams and the curses sworn and flung as feverish as fists, Logan hears a voice, and his gaze snaps towards one figure standing with authority as he tries to bring order to his own men and grapple with what his superiors are telling him over communication line.

He can't be as stealthy as Tom, but he is quick and quiet all the same as he starts over, building to a run that shoulders people out of the way as if they were made of so much cardboard. His claws extend without him needing to think about, tunnel vision in his progression.

In a few seconds, Captain Argo will have six feet worth of adamantium-solid pissed off Wolverine leaping for him claws first.

Logan is quick and efficient, but not with flawless stealth - as people go flying, and the furious blur zooms closer, an agent notices. But this agent was present in Flag Hill not long ago, and he remembers the healing factor. It isn't the most noble of reactions by far, but the hooded man just stands there, staring, something akin to Welp drifting through his head.

(Maybe, he'll think later, he should have at least yelled 'Head's up.')

Argo is no mere human, it turns out. On impact with Logan, Argo reacts, whirling to slam his elbow into Wolverine's face - not expecting anything but bone, this does not go well, but he doesn't give up. Another agent, less resigned than the first, goes at Logan's back to try and get him off. Around them, rioters take advantage of the sudden break in attentiveness of their opponents, and fighting breaks out anew.

A hit to the face is, like so much blunt force, something Logan can take even if his head snaps back a fraction beneath the jarring blow. No squelch of breaking cheekbone and any broken skin is gone in the time it takes to blink a few times, and he has enough streaks and smears of blood from ex-wounds for measure of damage to be mostly indistinguishable.

Logan's arm comes up like he intends to bring three claws down hard enough to find something critical between neck and shoulder, but he staggers forward at attack from behind. He turns, swift, keeping a semblance of more martial trajectories in his movements as opposed to wildly animal. He wants them to second guess coming at him.

But it's hard to intimidate the Militia. Even Wolverine.

The agent who gets him from behind jams a foot-long blade into Logan's abdomen as he turns, and at the same moment Argo wrenches his away out of his grasp. The captain is not whole, presently, injured from the day's fighting (his arm is the worst of it, perhaps courtesy of another vigilante) and he roars an order at the waiting soldiers behind him as he yanks part of his hood up. Logan's current combatant begins to scramble to follow suit, but he's in too close with the mutant-- why is he--

An ear-splitting, brain-mashing blast of sound and vibration suddenly rips through them both.

Healing factor doesn't negate pain. Logan roars when blade knifes through his stomach, a deep sort of damage that he can't simply roll with. All the same, he locks his arm against the Agent's, keeping him twisted up and close, claws finding a place to push through armour and bone and--

His whole body seems to seize up when sound pummels through him, raking over his nerves and scrambling, for a second, his ability to think as super senses are flooded with noise. He didn't want to show weakness, but a knee buckles, tugging Agent after him, before he laboriously buries claws where they had begun to sink and shove him away and off, the man sloughing off adamantium claws as Logan wrenches out the weapon left buried.

He can barely feel the healing gut wound for the pain in his head, but he forces himself to check where Argo last was -- behind him, still. He turns to face him, uneasy, slower, maybe an easier foe suddenly than the man who'd run reckless into danger.

Logan meets a haymaker from Argo. One of his arms is still fine.

The LRAD is effectively keeping everyone else away, now, and that one Agent who'd done such a good job of keeping Logan distracted now lays dead on the ground, sacrificed like so many other civilians.

"Give up," booms Argo's voice. "Your head will be taken and used as an example whether or not you fight. You cannot win."

It's doing damage, in the sort of inscrutable way where Logan can't really tellhow except that he can smell fresh blood, somehow. He's punched in the face and almost lands on his ass, but manages not to. Manages to stay on his feet. He shakes his head to clear it, which doesn't work, but he still hears Argo's words. Snorting once, Logan takes a moment to rebalance himself while he says;

"Funny, thinking the same about you. My money's on me."

The instinct to run has never been strong. It's why, for all that the animal motif gets bantered around a lot, Logan doesn't make a good one. Pain and the 'or flight' response are things shoved aside and, for as long as he can retain some motor function--

He attacks again, efficient in driving in on that one angle that does not favour Argo's better arm, claws hunting for an opening. No amount of disorientation can negate the worth of his impact and momentum.

Having apparently figured out Logan's durability, Argo's tactic is now trying to get the claws to break off - attempting to shove his own blade between the Wolverine's, twisting, pressing, slipping, aiming blows to his head to disorient him in between. Behind them, the hum of the LRAD preparing for another blast sounds, though it waits. Lurking - maybe they don't want to blast their commander, even if certain lower ranking agents are expendable.

He's getting sloppy, though. Tired. He should have gone down against the other vigilante, the one he really wanted and is still furious about having to give up (where did his damn body go?), and his rage and lack of focus is beginning to trip him up. An agent steps forward but Argo yells at her not to. He wants this.

He wants this and thus gets it.

Tangling blades keep Argo alive, but they are not successful in much else as metal does not snap or even bend. Logan shows his teeth in a grimace as he surges his strength into this clash, and there's a piercing, metallic sound as something does break. Argo's blade goes pinwheeling off in a sudden release of pressure, before Wolverine brings his claws up in a backhanded cut upwards that lays open mask in three tears, an errant cut to Argo's jaw that slices to the bone.

Fall back encouraged as Logan surges forward, a knee buried in Argo's stomach and three claws finding a home in his ribcage. They extract a split second later and bury deep into his previously uninjured shoulder, through muscle and bone and the ground beneath.

Argo may know some satisfaction should his gaze stray to where blood is still damp, drying in the curl of Logan's ear, trickled as far as his neck, and that had been only one blast of assaulting noise.

Logan twists his fist in the only last word he has time for, pain and splintering bones. His other hand comes around with the kind of slashing blow designed to take head off shoulders.

If Argo sees evidence of Logan's eardrums bursting, it's nothing he ever reacts to. His expression - even as pieces of it are carved off - is shocked. Maybe he really, honestly didn't believe this could happen. The other one went down after enough effort, just some man. Even if that man pulled the brick out from under the wall holding so much of this society's structure up. He thought--

What he thought doesn't matter. Argo will never think again. Not with the way his head's no longer on his body.

In the wake of blood, a distorted voice says something behind them - the agent told to back off. It's a woman, ever-masked. Her head tilts as she observes the corpse of her commanding officer, and orders the next launch of the LRAD, with no pause in the action to collect Argo's fallen pieces.

She's fine with this. Captain Argo won't be there to tell her not to take the sides off of buildings, anymore. What will come off of Logan?

Half-hooded head goes rolling as Argo, his leadership and command, his threats on the network as well as the leash he holds on the Militia, are severed just as efficiently and he is reduced to meat.

Logan's back is curled, hunched over his kill as defensive as something guarding it, but really he's anticipating the inevitable attack. He looks up first towards where that blank face of the LRAD is angled towards him, and escape methods are thought of -- simple bolting, maybe stealing a hood, living to fight another day no matter what it might cost. And fighting and fighting.

They'd always agreed that killing them isn't the solution. Like a hydra, when one head is severed--

Soundwaves 'silently' engulf Logan before he can even rise out of his crouch, and he is overwhelmed. It feels like needles drilling and steel wool scraping through his adamantium frame and a certain kind of madness that comes when he is again deafened. Clumsy, suddenly, his initial turn of retreat ending in him collapsing again, hands and knees.

A great, invisible hand reaches out to grab him, squeezing, crushing, and cold eyes observe the healing factor. Until a decision is made - and in Logan's weakness, his fate is that of his last victim's.

She leaves him there. Let the priests take him, like the other one. She doesn't care.

The night goes on, creeping ever-closer to daybreak. And the end.

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The Arena Riots ( open, gamewide )

NIGHTFALL:

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