multiversallogs | The Arena Riots ( open, gamewide )

Entry tags:

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 | Top-Level Comments Only

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.

He hadn't done enough. Maybe that's why he's here, stalking up the steps of the Arena as if there's anywhere to go or anything left to be done once he gets there. But on the surface, of course, it's a show of support for the Militia, implicit approval of their power by bearing witness to a demonstration thereof. He doesn't stand with the crowd; he finds a place in the royalty box with the rest of Baedal's rich and powerful, and where so many look viciously eager or just lost, he is one of the few whose cold, pale faces betray almost nothing at all.

Whatever they do, it will be bold and brutal, but the inevitably of it now, the way the air hangs heavy in the Arena, seems almost worse.

(It won't be worse, he knows. Not by a long shot.)

This can't be happening, he thinks suddenly, desperately, as the first man falls to the ground, as the second woman is dragged out into the open in her painfully inadequate armor. The crowd is roaring and reeling and his fingers would crush the rail between them and him if they could, but he can't feel or think anything at all except that he can't be letting this happen. It doesn't matter right now that he has no control over the Militia, that his political position is still precarious at best, his influence negligible in certain circles, and his Militia contacts barely numerous enough to save one soul, let alone all of them. It doesn't matter because he was born and raised a king.

That's the downside side of divine monarchy, he supposes with a half hysterical sort of cynicism. After all that he's been denied his birthright and his crown, he can't rid himself of the belief that he was born with great purpose. Even if all that will be written of him is that he died so a better man could rule, at his core he knows that is only the last of many responsibilities. He's supposed to make people's lives better—not one person, not just his own people, all people, because what limits could there be to his potential but his own courage to realize it? How can a man raised to wield such immeasurable power face any challenge, no matter how impossible, and say, I can't?

Instead he thinks, I failed.

But if he can do nothing else, he will not hide from that fact. Tomorrow he will get up and carry on, build upon the foundations he's protecting today, so that when the moment is right he will have the strength to act instead of this welling-up of helplessness, this maddening, impotent frustration. But today people will die, and he will watch, and he will not look away, because the least he can offer the damned is his attention. Because he couldn't look away if he wanted to. Because he shouldn't be allowed to forget what failure costs.

When given the choice, Seoraj leaves - and with squared shoulders and no backwards glances, he wonders as he does it if someone is going to remember that he did, if there are going to be repercussions. Maybe for the fact that he doesn't go further than a bar a few blocks away, that he keeps an ear to the ground, that when the spectators begin to filter in he filters in with them to find out what exactly it is he couldn't answer any questions about in the bar because he didn't know what he'd declined to participate in, only that he hadn't needed the details to be sure he wanted no part in it. He can feel it, still, can see it in the varying demeanors of those looking down on them.

It's that moment, teetering on the edge-

There's no question here if they fall or if they'll be pushed.

Every other time during his tenure at Hellsing, Sir Integra and the Princess have been able to count on an immediate call from Jim Kirk when a crisis situation breaks out. Without fail, there has been a calm broadcast, the young captain taking time to ask for orders before acting.

Today, there is no call.

He's confident his superiors there will forgive him this.

He knows they must be well aware of what's happening down here; the number of CiD's he's seen held aloft from his seat high in the stands tells him the communication channels are full of live broadcasts. He doesn't call, and it's not just because there's no time once the violence erupts and people begin moving.

He's well aware he must be on the militia's radar somehow. Most likely due to his connection with Hellsing--he's been careful about anything else because of that. But he knows that any Militia member who recognizes him would associate him with the guild; to take out his CiD now and ask for orders could give them a terrible opening through which to come stomping toward the guild. It's clear to him whatever really was going on would be irrelevant, that the Militia, should it suit them, would turn his presence here and a request for orders into whatever propaganda or leverage point they chose.

He can't have that. He can't be the instrument of that.

He doesn't reach for his CiD. He reaches for the person nearest him, shoving them out toward the end of the row. "Come on, go, go, head for the exits if you can," he directs, stepping out of the flow of traffic as best he can to herd people up the aisle. "Keep moving, keep moving..."

Edited 2012-10-02 06:12 (UTC)

Wolfgang keeps going between scared and sick and numb. Mostly he keeps his head down, seated on the floor, his head between his knees to keep from throwing up, his mouth moving but no sound coming out as he prays and he's not even sure why. For serenity, maybe; it keeps him calm, even if he's pretty sure God is not listening.

There are a lot of faces here he recognises, a disturbingly high number of them. He can tell the ones who have done gladiator combat from the ones who haven't, because the ones who haven't look as sick as he feels.

His head has this muddled, cobwebby feeling from whatever they're using to dampen their captives' supernatual abilities; it's strange to experience the world again without the senses he's become accustomed to being there, leaving him disoriented and confused.

Which might also have to do with how he hasn't had any medication in about two days.

Whatever comments are being made, whoever else is there — and he sees, out of the corner of his eye, the volunteer combatants showing off, scaring the shit out of everyone who is here against their will — he ignores it all, withdrawn deeply, trying not to be afraid of dying. He's had months to prepare for the idea, the certainty that he's going to die in this city sometime within the year.

It hasn't helped, clearly.

He stands up after a while, arms wrapped around himself, staring across to the volunteers while they warm up and practise, trying to understand how people can get like that, and wishing he didn't.

In the stands (he'd come late, held up by the crowds and the desire to pass beneath the notice of the Militia agents everywhere), Jason has no real plan of action: there are civilians everywhere, more than even he can have on whatever serves as his conscience when it comes to explosives, incendiaries, and other large scale attacks. It's not like he could smuggle a rocket launcher in, even assuming he had one. And there's a certain terrible inertia to what Argo set in motion. Later, he'll think that maybe he was waiting. He may not feel anything personally for this Bruce, certainly no special loyalty and nothing of the kind of connection that made them efficient on the same side of a fight back home, but it could have been that, nonetheless, he was waiting for exactly what happens. He's different, yes. He's still Bruce.

Argo's pronouncement sets off that electricity hidden to those above them, the chaotic art of crowd dynamics — Jason knows what's going to happen, that things have come precisely to a boil. Seconds before the protesters break in, he's fighting his way toward the rail, he's shrugging the extendable tonfa out of his sleeves, weapons he loathes but they're concealable and have a much longer reach than a knife, and it doesn't matter. He'll never make it to Bruce. There are so many people, so many Militia agents. That's okay. He'll just fight.

GG is holding her shape. It's a full-time occupation.

She is braced human-shaped against the bars, head hanging down as her bones try to break and reshape themselves and she forces them back into place. She doesn't know what it is. Perhaps it's that she's hurt and hungry, perhaps it's whatever they're using to block magical abilities, perhaps it's that she's caged, perhaps it's just that she's so angry--

She has to stay like this, she reminds herself, breathing hard with the wrong lungs. She has to at least surprise them when they come for her. It will give her an edge- a few more minutes. The idea that she might survive this, after all, is stupid- but she'll cling on to every last second God grants her.

She remembers the smell of the Militiaman she got her teeth into, that one good, bad, necessary night; he must be here, somewhere, and for some reason she thinks that if she can rip him to pieces before the same happens to her, it will be enough. It's not a plan- it's the fantasy of a dead woman walking- but it helps her stay in her skin.

Jack ducks—because of course he ducks at the sound of gunfire, he has instincts and training and he's watched his entire company die in staccato, so it only belatedly occurs to him that of course they're not firing at him. Even as chaos erupts around them, money and power buy all the safety in the world. They're trying to get the politicians out first.

And that's what he brought Jaime for, isn't it? To get him to safety. So he can live (again), while dozens of others die (again), like his life is worth so much. He shouldn't be laughing, it isn't funny, but it is to him, in his way, that the people who least deserve it should escape unscathed. There are men and women in this box who have done terrible things, who by willful negligence or outright support have caused this terrible thing, and the repercussions will barely glance off them. The sound he makes is incredulous, a little sick and half muffled in sudden the crush of bodies making for the exit, even as a wave of rioters rises to greet them.

He doesn't resist the motion, though. (Not yet.)

Wolfgang screams. A lot of them are screaming, in fear and anger and horror; for many of them that's the first death they've ever seen up close, let alone one so violent, and while Wolfgang has seen worse, done worse, his gorge rises anyway and he thinks he's going to be sick. A few people are. That's not the worst way to go, not by far, and at least their lives ended within thirty seconds, but he's still left shaking and sweating, stomach rolling, because the difference between exploding a few dozen Nephandi from the inside out and seeing political prisoners so brutally executed in front of them is obvious: he knows them. Knew them. One more than the other, but he recognises both faces. He knew those people. And now they're not — not people, anyway, just sacks of meat and bone, bleeding out onto the ground of the Arena, lifeless.

After that, it's all chaos back here, prisoners being grouped, some having to be restrained — there's a young man with the recently arrested who, sick and pale, digs his own claws into his wrists and opens them top to bottom, and has to be dragged off for medical attention as if he's not going to die five minutes after they patch him back together, but it's the message they have to send, that no one here gets to decide when and how they die except the Militia. Wolfgang forgets where he is for a second, and then someone grabs his shoulder and says Let's go.

And he says No.

They have to physically drag him, kicking and screaming, from Hassan, and he's skinny and sick but unexpectedly strong when he's actively fighting against being taken somewhere he doesn't want to go. And he doesn't want to go. He's going to die out there and it's not fair. None of this is fair, it's not right on such a fundamental level that he resents having to exist in the same universe where something like this could happen.

The next thing he knows he's with a group of them, some trying to practise, shaking and obviously terrified, others being lined up to go out there next and someone keeps shoving a knife in his hand and is yelling at him, giving him a set of instructions with terse urgency, but he barely hears it. He keeps dropping the knife, flinging it to the ground and shaking his head, crying, refusing it, refusing this. He's not the only one who is outright refusing to participate, but after that display out there, there are less than there would have been otherwise. He's angry right now, but later he'll be more forgiving, because these people are scared and none of them want to die and when you corner people, they fight back, but right now all he can think about is how betrayed he feels that these people will dance on the Militia's puppet strings. How quickly people fall apart when their lives are threatened.

He shakes his head more emphatically, head down, he won't look at them, he's not here, he's somewhere else, he can smell the ocean, hear people calling his name, a chorus of voices not quite strong enough to pull him entirely from where he is, the awareness of what will happen if he looks up. Eyes down, he sees instead out of the corner of his eye the corpses being dragged out of the Arena, dumped in a pile to be taken care of later, leaving long trails of blood behind them, their heads tossed callously next to them.

This is never going to end. If he doesn't die here, he'll die later, and God knows how long that will take; days or weeks or months of this, over and over, fighting an immoveable force. But he could end this, all of this. There's a way out. During the last couple of seconds of their lives, the pain must have been excruciating... but it only lasted less than thirty seconds. A thought keeps coming back to him: Was it easy?

Edited 2012-10-03 14:38 (UTC)

There is no way Megan is going to wake up by noon, and considering she was out last night until six in the morning, she's still not up by the time the matches ("matches") begin. But her phone keeps going off, a constant buzz of incoming text messages and missed calls. By five, she finally gets up and starts checking her messages and is horrified by what she sees. Her blood turns to ice and she drops her phone. What?

She keeps watching, crying and rapidly becoming hysterical, texting people back an endless variation on what the fuck. By the time the rioters storm the Arena, her mind isn't made up; it's when she sees a video of a kid being sprayed in the face with mace that she decides to get dressed and go. She can help; she has to.

Spike was in the crowd for the same morbid curiosity as anyone else, only with less of an idea of how regular these demonstrations were. From the buzz, it had to be a special occasion, and wouldn't he happen to arrive in the city at a turning point? Even without knowing until the executions started (which he watched, seemingly unfazed, with a kind of dreamlike attachment), the streets had been full of whispers ever since the militia made their announcement. He'd had a feeling.

But like most of his life, Spike never fit well into a spectator role -- that or he had the kind of trusting face that people liked to take a swing at. The riot was written on the walls from the moment he'd set foot in the stadium, and once it broke out, one shove in the wrong direction had made his presence a little less anonymous. Instead of backing away from whoever he'd offended enough to get a punch thrown in his direction, Spike was flipping a man over his back into more of the aggressively panicked audience and screaming protestors. (That's what happens when they pack them too tight.) That wasn't the end of it, and of course he didn't wait to consider the consequences of starting a scene when the brawls were erupting everywhere.

Apparently he liked the attention.

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.

"You were at Penelope Lane's show, weren't you?"

Wolfgang sits down close enough to be heard, far enough away to not be in her space at all — he likes having his personal space invaded even less than most people do, and tends to make the same assumption about others. And she doesn't have to talk to him, either, he just couldn't stand being so near the line of Militia guards, hearing them talking; he can't gauge the sincerity of half the things they're saying, it's equally likely they're just talking shit to put everyone here on edge or else just to humiliate them, make them angrier and more desperate.

After hearing the same slur used in speculation about his gender for the third time in an hour, though, he doesn't really care whether they mean it or not and just wants to not hear it anymore.

His eyes have the same glassy, far-away look a lot of other people's do here — fear and shock colliding to create a strange numbness, an artificial calm. But his hands are shaking, so he puts them on his knees which he bends and tucks against his chest. That could be fear or fatigue or withdrawal; who knows.

Bruce isn't himself all day - not that this is unusual lately, with the way he's been slipping into some other identity he doesn't recognize - but it's even more pronounced. He barely sleeps, but he moves as if in a dream. He's at the river in the morning when the news reaches him, and finally, he's awake. It's an easy decision to make.

When the rushing wall of half-mindless gladiators rush at him, he wishes he could be surprised. He hadn't had faith or trust, but he'd hoped and - not like it matters, now. He kicks up the handle of his sword and grabs it, glancing to his side to see who's come out alongside him. For a split-second, he considers telling them go just go, but there's no point. They were already out here - if they're going to die, it'll either be fighting head-on or being slaughtered as soon as their opponents advance.

The first gladiator to meet him goes down so fast that the one behind it skids to almost a halt and swerves, apparently deciding to let the Militia handle this one, if they're so keen on him. The rest aren't so pragmatic, but it doesn't matter to him. Bruce with his blinders off, without pulling punches, with bladed edges instead of bare hands and threads of broken bones, is an entirely different monster than the one he is in Gotham (than the one he really is). There's something soulless in the way he does this, but it's effective - a woman next to him, a powered xenian, flinches away from him after a time. She's a prisoner.

Bruce drops another gladiator - one of the few who hadn't switched sides the second chaos broke out - and then a hooded agent, and then has to switch tactics and move when the shooting starts. He grabs the prisoners nearest him and hauls them close to the wall, though he doesn't stay still for more than a moment.

Megan's not a brawler, so she doesn't even try. She knows a little bit of how to fight, sure, like how to throw a proper punch without breaking her hand, and where the best places are to hit to get away from someone who is bigger than she is (which is everyone), and she's been in her fair share of riots, but... they've never been on this scale. There just aren't as many mutants in as small an area as there are people in Baedal, and flatscans don't stick up for mutants; it's always just been them.

She flies above the chaos for a while until the Militia spot her and start shooting at her — she barely manages to teleport away before taking a bullet to the chest, which probably would have killed her even if it was just rubber. So no more flying. She keeps her wings tucked tight to her back to avoid them being torn or broken and stays on the outskirts of the violence, and when she sees an opening, she lunges in, grabs someone by whatever's closest, and teleports them out. Out of the way of a fist or knife, out of Militia custody, right out of handcuffs, sometimes.

Not always quick enough, sometimes they're hurt by the time she gets to them, and sometimes it's bad. She's freaking out about all the blood when someone — a protestor, judging by what he's wearing — grabs her and says, "Vanessza Bernat, go!" No time to question it, and she can get out quick if they're being misdirected.

Megan does not need to know where she is going to get there, only has to have a vague idea, but not knowing where she's porting into presents some problems. Namely, that she tends to instinctively teleport away from solid objects, meaning she tends to show up abruptly several inches or feet above the floor, like she does in the middle of Benny's living room, holding on to the arm of someone who is bleeding badly from the sternum — then they both fall, she squeaks, they disappear, and reappear properly on the floor. One of them, pale, bleeding profusely, collapses in on herself, groaning.

Somewhere in the middle of all that, there's the guy from that night at the ring. He's better than he was that night, no showmanship, no drama — none of Spike's grace, honestly, but he's getting the job done. The flow of the crowd and the fighting eventually pushes them together, and Jason tries to make eye contact to enforce mutual recognition. Doing this alone sucks. It would be nice if he and more people who could handle themselves could make a coordinated effort on the agents shooting. (Especially the ones shooting at Bruce, but they're not going to be able to get to just those.)

Edited (i accidentally a word) 2012-10-04 10:23 (UTC)

Not everyone in the riots winds up grievously injured, especially as they keep going on and on and people start being spread out, chased off, or kettled into smaller groups in areas where the Militia can move in, subdue, and arrest them without bloodshed. Most have minor injuries. A lot of the people Megan is pulling out of harm's way weren't even here to pick a fight, they just got swept up into this, and for a lot of them all she does is take them home.

For others, there's nowhere safe to go. Megan winds up with a group of rioters hiding in a back alley in Griss Twist, talking hurriedly, and one of them checks her CiD and says abruptly, "Wait, there might be a place." There are three of them plus four civilians, two with minor injuries, a sprained wrist and a bad welt from catching the edge of someone's blunt weapon. Two are kids, maybe twelve or thirteen. Megan takes the lot of them with her to Aspic, to the safehouse the other girl received the tip for, all five of them just appearing out of nowhere. "'Lo?" Megan calls.

Somewhere in the over crowded holding area, Hassan is slumped against the wall, long legs splayed out and arms folded. This has been a fucker of a week. He didn't know if someone had remembered his face from his arrival, or if it was just his usual ability to attract trouble, or if it was simply because he was new and would go unnoticed. But there he was, sporting a black eye that he was hoping wouldn't swell up and affect his sight when things kicked off.

And they would. He didn't know much about the Gods other than what the pamphlet had mentioned, or what personal shrines he'd seen in stalls and the less polished shops around the city, and he knew less about the arena. But he knew what happened in arenas, thanks to vague memories of history lessons and action films.

The gladiators remind him of fighting dogs. And the non-fighters --of which there were many-- made him think of the small dogs used for the fighters to chew on. One of them is doing so right now, looming by the gate and telling a thin, crouching, man how giving his life to Gediron will be the most worthwhile thing he can ever do, because he is a worthless, Spatter dwelling, stranger--

Hassan laughs. Because the man is ridiculous, because this is ridiculous, because everything in his life is fucking ridiculous. Everything -- everything -- is so absurd. A couple of people nearby whisper that he's cracked and maybe it's true. The gladiator takes it as insolence and gestures for him to come over, while Hassan straightens, hands behind his back. Who do you think you are-- and on it goes, in a tirade of legacy and the dihonour he will visit upon him.

Hassan rolls his eyes, pushing himself off the wall, before grandly announcing to the room at large, "I am Maximus Decimus Meridius, commander of the Armies of Rome. Father to a murdered son, husband to a murdered wife. And I will have my vengeance, in this life or the next."

And then --quick as a dart-- spits at the gladiator behind the gate. The Militia are already dragging him to the other side of the room and slamming him down while he yells ruuh fi sittiin alf dahya. Everything is more tense afterwards, but he doesn't care. He has nothing left to live for and he'll take down as many of you fuckers as he can.

Edited 2012-10-04 17:47 (UTC)

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The Arena Riots ( open, gamewide )

PRELUDE:

HOLDING CELLS:

THE MAIN EVENT:

CiD STREAMING:

THE RIOTS BEGIN:

NIGHTFALL:

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Re: THE RIOTS BEGIN:

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tw: suicide

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dr bernát @ syriac well; open;

ava; aspic; open

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