multiversallogs | 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.

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

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.

The Arena Riots ( open, gamewide )

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