The Militia. (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
civilobedience) wrote in ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png)
multiversallogs2012-10-01 08:45 pm
civilobedience) wrote in multiversallogs2012-10-01 08:45 pm
Entry tags:
- @ aspic,
- @ griss twist,
- @ griss twist: arena,
- @ syriac well,
- amberdrake,
- ava lockhart,
- benevenuta crispo,
- gemma "gg" giordano,
- hassan farrakhan,
- ilde decima,
- ivan,
- jack benjamin,
- jaime lannister,
- james t. kirk,
- jason todd,
- kalenedral,
- lea bit eshtazin,
- megan gwynn,
- npc,
- rachel conway,
- raylan givens,
- seoraj,
- severus snape α,
- sharon "boomer" valerii,
- spike spiegel,
- wolfgang einhorn,
- { bruce wayne,
- { logan,
- } alan shore
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.
no subject
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?
no subject
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.
no subject
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.