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

[agrat]

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.

[goodsoldier]

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.

[agrat]

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.

[goodsoldier]

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.

[agrat]

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.

[goodsoldier]

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.

[agrat]

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.

[goodsoldier]

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.

[agrat]

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.)

[goodsoldier]

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.