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.

Threaded | Flat

Regular matches and training are canceled without warning in the Arena. Combatants already arrived are given the choice to stay and participate, or leave immediately – soon, the preparation chambers are filled with prisoners, shoved in like animals in cages, while a staccato stream of ex-convicts with glowing brands arrive, prepared to fight their last battle, faces grim. Militia agents and Gediron's own devotees work, lining the Arena, inside and out.

Word on the street is, everyone's in for some real entertainment today. Around noon, spectators are let into the seats of the Arena, and as the hours go by, the stands begin to fill – curious, excited, anxious. The regular vendors begin to take advantage of the mysterious event, and gossip whirls through the growing crowds as political representatives begin to appear in the royalty boxes. Some look pleased, viciously satisfied, while others look confused; one city councilwoman from Raven's Gate won't stop twisting her handkerchief, gaze straight ahead.

Those dragged from Militia custody are separated into two groups – some, branded, are shuffled out and thrown in with the other branded combatants who've arrived on their own. The rest – the majority – are hauled into cramped, barred quarters lining half the Arena floor walls. They aren't told what they've been brought here for, and none of the Militiamen will speak to them; some of them laugh, watching, others merely stand as silent sentries. Hooded agents with black stripes along their shoulders walk slowly back and forth in front of the cells, emanating a great, overpowering nothingness: blocking out the magical and supernatural abilities of the prisoners, if they happen to have any.

In the ready area for the combatants, conscripted convicts are joined by proper gladiators, and they know what they're here for. Sadists, violent animals, and those looking to earn marks with the war-god's clergy swing weapons in lazy preparation, talking amongst themselves here and there, some grinning, some occasionally calling out enticingly to the prisoners across the Arena floor.

When the stands are brimming with citizens, vendors, rubberneckers, spies, gamblers, and enterprising journalists, the Militiamen begin to move with a purpose, hovering around all entrances and exits, the air in the Arena taking on that of a cinema when the feature is about to begin.

A cadre of high-ranking agents file into the master of ceremonies box, unhooded. Their leader is the now-familiar Captain Argo, tall, fair-haired, and strong-jawed. He cuts an imposing figure, easily a head taller than all of his peers. He calls for silence in his booming voice, enhanced by some unseen enchantment.

“People of Baedal. We have fought hard in these past weeks to protect you from those who would tear our city down from within. We have worked even harder to uncover those responsible – and you, our valiant citizens, have aided us. Today is a victory for all of Baedal. Here in this Arena, in the presence of the Twelve, we have brought you the gears of the machine that would see us all broken. These are criminals, who spread propaganda and dissent, who stir violence, who perpetuate the thoughts that corrupt our society, and who hide the living weapons who terrorize our city.

Those vigilantes – those terrorists – that they have kept quiet to defend, have left them now here with us. Abandoned them, despite their supposed radical faith. But we are just, Baedal. All of us are. And though they have been abandoned by their figureheads, we will give them one more chance. A fair chance. To which you will all now bear witness.”

That speech inspires genuine cheers in many, but a surprising portion of the audience only applauds with vigor because it's expected of them, and it certainly can't be a good thing to fail to react properly to something so ominous-sounding. Murmurs of curiosity and foreboding surge through the stands, and people stare down at the Arena floor, transfixed. Some are excited. Some are disbelieving. One woman clings to the edge on the lowest rail, eyes desperately scanning the far-off holding cells, praying she sees no familiar faces.

From within the prisoner cells, a man is dragged out. He's belligerent, argumentative, and refuses to pick up any weapons or armor provided to him in the shoddy ready-room the prisoners are being afforded. The Militiaman escorting him takes an air of suit yourself and shoves him in on his own, before retreating. Across the Arena, a great hulking humanoid carrying a broadsword stalks forth. He bears no brand, but to any regular spectators, he'll be known as a fierce, bloodthirsty combatant. He raises his arms, and the crowd cheers. For many, reality hasn't settled in.

The gladiator goads his unarmed opponent. He waits. A sporting chance, for a moment. And then, with a look from the stern faces above him, he takes a massive swing, and slams his sword down on the prisoner's shoulder and neck, cleaving him clear down to his solar-plexus. The prisoner gurgles, the audience gasps – more than one person shrieks – and the gladiator rips his sword away, blood flowing free. The prisoner, blank-eyed, staggers; the sword comes down again. His head rolls away. His body collapses.

From the far side of the Arena, another prisoner is thrown out onto the floor. A woman this time – Tasia Vinter, CAMB member – and she's taken the liberty of picking up a mace for herself, hastily strapped-on breastplate seeming so small against this enormous opponent. Steel clashes, brief, then the gladiator kicks her, driving her to her knees. He jams his sword into her stomach, then again down directly into her chest, through her clavicle.

In the span of mere minutes, two political prisoners have been murdered. The crowd is in a frenzy – screaming, in outrage and in bloodlust, sobbing, cheering.

Cohort networks across the city are in turns buzzing with gossip or sitting anxiously unused, depending on the social contexts of each micro-society. The pitch increases as the day goes on and more word gets out – text posts from persons inside the Arena itself, video posts of friends sitting in the stands, or walking outside and taking nervous peeks from afar. Radio stations speculate, journalists snoop, keeping an ear on as many cohorts as they can, waiting for the other shoe to drop.

When it does, even the cautious cohorts give up their silence. Streaming videos of the combat executions – and that's what they are, plain as day – blare onto the network from all angles, all cohorts. No one is merely recording data for later broadcast, everyone is posting live, horrified and fascinated. There's no such thing as a calm report – there's too much screaming, both from the crowd, and the souls on the Arena floor.

Agents loom, shoulders squared, keeping the crowds in the stands in line – in their seats, unable to leave, forced to witness the horror going on in the great circular structure. A woman tries to throw herself over the side onto the floor itself, trying to get to the gladiators – she's shot immediately, and dragged off by a Militiaman. Someone in the stands faints, and is also carried away. In the midst of the violence, the loud, creaking, metal-on-metal grinding sound of the gates to the Arena being closed splits through the air. Outside, a crowd has been gathering - and it is not a peaceful crowd. Atop the barrier overlooking the main entrance, a Militiawoman shouts that they'll be next against the wall if they don't disperse. Someone in the stands is screaming, “Stop, stop!”, being pulled away by two Gediron temple aids, consoling him by saying they've proven themselves to the gods, now. On the Arena floor, a branded gladiator doubles over and vomits, horrified by what she's done. A hooded figure tells her to get up, or to go on the other side.

A uniformed Militiaman falls from the edge of the Arena wall onto the battlefloor, lifeless, crumpled. Gasps and cries of confusion ring through the air, and in the royalty boxes above, people jump to their feet. After the agent, another black-clad figure falls – no, jumps, drops down and lands in a crouch before rising to his feet. It's a human man carrying a strange straight-bladed sword in one hand, covered entirely except his face (which is plain-looking, fair skin, brown hair). Murmurs of recognition ripple through the crowd, but they aren't widespread. He walks to the center of the Arena, throws his sword on the ground, and raises both hands. In surrender.

Captain Argo rises from his seat, standing at the edge of his viewing box. He, and the other Militia agents with him, are stone-faced. For a moment, it seems like this is what they wanted: a vigilante whose head they can take, instead of the lives of everyone else. Silent tension grips the crowd, clinging to the mad hope that now they've gotten their way, and it will be over.

“Your attempt at nobility has come too late. Kill them all.”

(This is, still, what they wanted.)

Screams of terror break out in the holding cells as every gladiator is rushed out onto the Arena floor, Militia agents following them. The vigilante in the center looks grim, even as two prisoners, armed, rush out to his side. Shouting from outside the gates intensifies, accompanied by the sounds of bottles and rocks being thrown at the walls and gates. Panic wells in the stands. The city councilwoman from Raven's Gate shouts, “No!” and reaches forward, as if trying to get the attention of one of the agents in charge, but she's violently pulled away. An unmasked, brown-haired Militiawoman standing next to Captain Argo looks stricken, but then turns away, back to her job.

Suddenly, the crumbling composure of the Arena at large snaps. The main gate is broken open, and like an erupting volcano, a flood of civilian protestors run inside, shouting, screaming, some carrying signs, some carrying weapons. They storm the Arena, clashing with gladiators and Militiamen alike, pitching the situation into chaos. Up above, the politicians are suddenly ushered out, but it's too late – in minutes, this has gone from a horrifying lesson that could have been controlled to a full-blown riot, and they're already coming up the stairs.

The Militia opens fire into the crowds.

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.

Benevenuta follows the coverage on the CiD - it seems that everyone who isn't experiencing it is watching it - enough to know that there's going to be no need to worry about giving herself away by notifying anyone of her availability. She's not going to need to send out messages when she has so many acquainted with her practise, when they'll either guess, know or just come to her doorstep hoping- her name will probably travel, tonight, and afterwards she'll have some evaluating to do. But it doesn't change what she does right now, which is to make sure she's going to have everything she needs at hand and change into flats.

Stairs are probably going to be out of the question. Before the first one arrives, she's already shoved her living room furniture to the side of that mercifully oversized room and dragged the exam bed and one of the cabinets downstairs from her office. She sets up in here, far enough away from the door that a patient won't be in any danger if someone else opens it, close enough that no one's going to risk worsening an injury to get to her exam room. She focuses on these details and doesn't think about the people whose whereabouts she doesn't need to wonder about.

Right now- this is what she can do. This is what she's going to do. It will matter.

It's another one of those unnerving days when something huge happens and Ava had no forewarning. For a woman who's seen thousands of random pieces of the future, it's an uncomfortable situation.

But one needn't have been psychic to know things were going to go terribly wrong at the Arena. She watches the events unfold via CiD, concern and disgust growing. By the time the rioting breaks out she feels helpless, winds up out on one of Aspic's main streets, waiting.

She can't go down there. It's too large a situation for her to wade into. But Aspic is not horribly far from the Arena, and with the marketplace and temples nearby too, there's lots of foot traffic even on a good day.

But today is not a good day, and Ava is doing what she can to help. When she spies someone injured, scared, someone who might need help, she approaches them, and helps them, if they're willing, back to her rooming house. They go down the entrance in the back yard so they're not in the house, so no one will see them and none of her tenants can tip anyone off.

She does what she can to help people, to hide them and make them comfortable. And when she can, she goes back out to gather some more.

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...

Ilde is no where near the Arena when it begins - she's at home watching a man from the store putting her nursery furniture together, she's made him a cup of tea, they're making the kind of pointless small-talk that gets made when awkwardly hanging around while someone else works. Orion sits in the doorway, alert, and while it's quiet even outside, it's not oppressively so.

He's still there when they both start getting CiD alerts, and then things change; the job isn't finished when he leaves, his face drained of colour, but she doesn't (can't) protest. She sits down on the floor in what's going to be the nursery (it hasn't been painted yet), vaguely aware of Orion trotting into the room and settling himself beside and behind her, and she watches, white-knuckled and huge-eyed. The sense of helplessness settles in like a chokehold around her throat and she can't breathe, can't move, can't go down there and fucking do something. She's still sitting there watching - listening, remembering, flinching when she recognizes a face and reminding herself that Sonja is there, that Sonja saved her, that Sonja can do so much more than she can anyway and putting her faith in that, rewarded for it in a way her namesake never was when she prayed to a dead God - when there's knocking downstairs, purposeful but not threatening.

She'd told Lea about the house, Remy and Wanda's house; how it's been empty, how they left it to her ownership, how she doesn't know what to do with it. Lea has an idea about that - she's going down after dark, with a group of them. They'll need a safe place to go. No one lives in the house yet - Ilde hasn't even got around to finding a property manager, like she knows she should.

Of course she says yes; she only has one set of keys, so she'll go herself, and be there to let them in. There's still power and water and it's still safer than some places, so- it's a good idea. She takes the long way and goes via a series of carriages, just in case, giving the last one Ivan's address - she doesn't expect to find him there, and she doesn't, but she stops anyway and if anyone wonders where she was, someone saw her go in and nobody saw her come out. The face she borrows for a short carriage ride and then a brisk walk the rest of the way through Mafaton and Abrogate Green belongs to her godmother, a Russian English woman who is always laughing, who loves champagne and married men, who jumps at every good and bad idea because she never learned how to be afraid of falling. It might be an unnecessary precaution, but she needs the borrowed braveness, anyway, and she doesn't sink back into her own appearance for a little while once she gets there.

She makes a pot of tea. She waits.

Whether it's unusual for Uri or unusual for Benji, they dream together of Baedal.

Or something like Baedal. The shape of the coast is like the north, and there is fog fuzzying the horizon -- who misses the sharp clean horizons of a normal realm? Benji, sometimes. However, the weather is a little damper and wetter in a way more persistent than the occasional blot of bleak seasonal weather. The coast is more rock than it is sand, grey slabs that are wet nearest the ocean, rock pools in between them, cracks filled with broken stone, dead crab pieces, dried seaweed. The wind is uneasy and restless and slaps the sea against rock so insistent that sharp white spray keeps punctuating the peace at each wave.

A little aways from the water save for when the wind blows finer droplets in her direction, Benji sits comfortably, her clothing practical, hair longer than in reality becoming tangled before she secures it beneath the collar of her jacket. She is at more peace than she has been, as if having forced herself into it. Conway has been missing and Uri, now, too, and she hasn't touched her CiD since that first day things had begun to go wrong again.

But now she has found him, and casually takes over his dreamscape with her own, and waits.

Threaded | Flat

PRELUDE:

HOLDING CELLS:

THE MAIN EVENT:

CiD STREAMING:

THE RIOTS BEGIN:

NIGHTFALL:

dr bernát @ syriac well; open;