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

[gramarye]

If Wolfgang had it in him he would say something meaningful right now. Something inspiring or uplifting or just anything that would make this be okay for even a second. He doesn't; the closest he'll ever come is anonymously posting some other people's poetry on the network. He wishes he could even remember any of that. Maybe Bialik —

If Justice there be, let it now shine forth!
But if it wait till I’m killed from under the sky
To shine, let Justice die
And its throne be thrown to the earth
And heaven rot with eternal wrong.
Ye wicked, go forth in this your brute force,
And live in your blood, a cleansed throng.

But that's not comforting, and the context is different, even if it's about what he's thinking, right now. He's trying to veer away from anger.

He laughs anyway at the joke, low and joyless. "Yes. Our cohort has mixed luck, I guess." One day rubbing elbows with Baedal's wealthy elite, the next day rounded up like cows for the slaughter in a dirty holding cell. "And they won't let me fight in a dress."

Ha, ha.

[lupa]

"Bastards," GG mutters, running dirty fingers through dirty hair -- maybe that's meaningful, the power to say bastards and not be scared of being overheard, because what worse can they do now?

She keeps it quiet, though. She might feel the freedom that comes of freefall, but there's no guarantee he agrees. She doesn't want to hurt him, however indirectly. That's a joke.

She watches him for a moment, and then decides that sitting down is a good idea; she lowers herself to the ground, folding herself up slowly like she has to force every movement to happen with intense concentration. Yes, she reminds herself, you do bend that way, though right now you think they shouldn't. She puts her back to the bars and stretches her long legs out in front of her, one hand still white-knuckled on the bars, up above her. "I don't know what to say. I'll probably--" She smiles; it crumbles quickly, but for a moment it's fine. "When I'm out there, it'll probably come to me. L'esprit d'escalier just- not. I'll yell it at you."

[gramarye]

"I hope it's a good one. And... someday someone writes it down in a history book or, or repeats it in an inspirational movie or something. Only I guess it would be more one of those tragedies that are like three hours long and everyone dies or wishes they'd died."

Pause, then he realises what he said somewhere in the midst of that nervous babbling and winces. "Um, sorry." You know, for reminding them about their almost certain imminent death. It's a little hard to get off that topic, though, and how do you make small talk with near-strangers at a moment like this when you've spent twenty-two years being abysmal at it before? He gnaws on his thumbnail while he wrestles with exactly that dilemma.