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

[gotbottle]

By the time Bruce hits the floor, so has Rachel; she doesn't fall backwards but her knees refuse to hold her and she just needs to turn away now that she knows for sure what happened. She's seated against the railing, on the floor of the upper level, knees drawn up to her chest, sobbing.

She knew, intellectually, what was most likely to happen from the moment the man she knew as Tom revealed himself. And she'd steeled herself. But the reality was nothing like what she'd envisioned, she had no frame of reference.

And there's more, beyond the obvious horror. She's lost other friends in this city but it's always been that nebulous they probably went home, they're probably all right that accompanies people vanishing.

But this time, there's none of those comforting illusions, no hope of a happy ending somewhere out there. Her friend, someone she genuinely liked, someone she trusted enough to follow down a fire escape and not hide her shadow from, is dead.

She feels like she could sit there and cry forever, gutted, but a wave of noise below--footsteps, shouting voices, the swing and impact of weapons--stills her and then makes her reach up for the railing. She pulls herself up, scrubbing at her face with a sleeve, and looks down at the Arena floor.

Just in time to see that all hell has broken loose. People are flooding the Arena floor again; from what she can tell they're enraged or appalled at what's just happened and they want to make someone pay for it. Prisoners are rushing at Militia members are rushing at gladiators, and even some of Gediron's priests are down there, wading into the fray. She catches just a glimpse of where Bruce's body is before the area is overrun.

Her first thought is for his body--what will happen to him? As bloodthirsty as the Militia's been today, images of making an example by sticking his head on a pike or something equally horrible come to mind, and she won't have that. Once again, she goes pushing through the crowds.

By the time she steps back out onto the Arena floor, hugging the wall, skirting the chaos, she's grabbed a cloak off a fallen combatant somewhere in the ground-floor corridors and made sure her hair is hidden in it. She moves, making sure to stay well out of the way of weapons and fists, but when she reaches the place where she's sure she saw Bruce's body, he's gone.

But his sword still lies on the dirt. She doesn't hesitate, grabbing it and hiding it inside the cloak. She heads for the nearest doorway.

And she stops short. The CiD, the one the militia agent inside handed her, the one she set on the ledge outside a doorway to try to broadcast what was happening here, to the vigilante, still sits where she left it.

Rachel pulls the cloak up over her face, reaching up and snatching the CiD as she passes. Once that's also hidden away, she walks quickly through the ground-floor maze of corridors until she comes to an exterior exit.

And she gets out. And away from this place as fast as she can.