Seventh Rising

[irishrotter]

[Video]

[Simon usually broadcasts from his living room, but today the pulpit has moved. He's standing, the camera far back enough to show him from the knees up -- and more importantly the fluffy, spotlessly white wings that have sprouted from his back. The only thing visible behind him is a full-length mirror just off-centered enough to show the other side off to the camera. He's still fully clothed, his shirt slit to accommodate for the wings.

The broadcast comes late in the day, and the reason for this will become clear soon enough: he practiced with the wings before appearing on screen. His words are punctuated with grand sweeps and righteous trembling of feathers. Kieren would be embarrassed, maybe even horrified, but. Well. Kieren's not here, is he?

Simon is. He flutters a wing and smirks sardonically.]

Well, I don't think I'm ready to ascend just yet...

[But that's not why he's here. Today, he is an angel of fury. His expression fades into iciness, growing increasingly dark and increasingly intent as he goes on.]

There is a sickness on this ship. I've been watching it spread for weeks, now, and I'm tired of standing idly by while the source becomes clearer and clearer.

Wardens eschewing inmates. Wardens rubbing inmates' noses in the profits gained off their sweat and blood. Wardens forcing death tolls on inmates! Even those of you who should know better! Those who know what it is to die, to be imprisoned, to strive for a better life.

That's why we're all here, isn't it? Some voluntarily, some not, but we're all here for a chance at something better. Only everywhere I look, I see the same thing: the living, new and old, doing everything they can to get in the way of the dead achieving anything. Crushing them beneath their feet like so much dust.

You that I'm speaking to -- you all know who you are. There is a sickness destroying this ship, and it starts with you. You ought to be ashamed of yourselves.

[He sneers and signs off with a final flare of his wings.]

((Note: Simon is going to be very selectively replying, partly to save my inbox and partly because he doesn't give a damn right now what most people are going to have to say to this. WHOOPS, HIS BAD, DOUCHEBAGS.))

Comments

[audio]

[tucky]

Who did the death toll thing?

[audio]

[irishrotter]

A warden. Zane Venture.

[audio]

[tucky]

Oh. Zane. He's been... kinda crazy this week.

But there are wardens you like, right?

[audio]

[irishrotter]

Crazy is just an excuse, Tiffany -- don't let him use it.

[Wardens he likes? He's quiet for a moment, maybe out of respect to the fact that the one he liked the most is gone.]

Not all of us have forgotten why we're here.

[routemistress]

...Simon, you might not 'ave noticed but there 'as been an actual sickness going round. I'm not talking your figurative moral turpitude 'ere, some of us've been possessed.

Nor it wasn't just wardens, so far as I know.

[irishrotter]

Possession -- madness. Is that the excuse we're going to use every time one of the dead on this ship is mistreated? Do you think I'm talking about something new, Iris? You really think this just started now?

[routemistress]

No, lovey, only when possession by an outside entity's what actually 'appened.

I felt it in my 'ead. I saw it come out and watched it killed, Simon. You need to accept that things like that do actually 'appen here.

[irishrotter]

[He snorts softly.]

And before that? And before that? I'm not only talking about Zane Venture. I'm not only talking about this week. There are a dozen inmates on board that will tell you this started for them the moment they arrived. Enough is enough.

[And he's not interested in arguing the point with her; he only engaged in the first place because she's one of Tiffany's pet wardens. He hangs up there.]

[tucky]

Iris, do you have my best interests at heart?

[routemistress]

Aye, and I think Simon does too. I don't much like 'ow 'e's insisting 'e's the only one, mind. I 'ear tell pride's considered a sin in your faith.

[tucky]

I don't think he's committing a sin, Iris.

private, very deliberately audio

[darknessb4me]

Reconsidering my proposal?

private, very deliberately audio

[irishrotter]

No. Absolutely not. I'm needed here, Arthas -- you can see that with your own eyes.

private

[darknessb4me]

[The phrasing makes him burst out laughing, abruptly - not that it's a particularly happy sound. It's more like an engine that won't turn over.]

I don't have eyes at the moment. What I meant was - an uprising.

private

[irishrotter]

Here?

...What do you mean, you don't have eyes? Do I want to know what you have instead?

[broughtwhiskey]

And what are the dead going to achieve exactly?

[Because he fails to see it being anything great, worthwhile, or desirable.]

[irishrotter]

[Simon hasn't seen much of Phillip since that day in the library, but he remembers him perfectly well -- remembers the hatred coming off him in waves, practically tangible. He's learned, since, that he's an inmate, but he's also learned that not all inmates are there to be his. Not yet, anyway.

Simon flashes Phillip a razor-thin smile and flares his wings slightly, thinking, now we'll see.]

Things that can only be achieved by a people freed from fear and shame.

[broughtwhiskey]

[Philip doesn't display any sort of grandiose emotional reaction to Simon's subtle display. He remains cool, but not indifferent. His hatred is no secret, but it's also carefully contained and controlled. To the untrained eye, it would almost go unnoticed entirely.]

The dead don't have fear or shame because they aren't people anymore, not because they've obtained some form of enlightenment.

[irishrotter]

[The words alone tell Simon all he needs to know. His nostrils flare with anger, all pretense of a smile vanishing into a righteous, disdainful sneer.]

As much a person as someone who clings desperately to their own mortality. If not moreso.

[thelastbullet]

[He's not sure how to react to everything that Simon just said. It's intense, like the first time they'd met, and the honest-to-god zeal that Simon radiates is not something he's had to grapple with very often. Besides the fact that he doesn't agree with everything (even if that's mostly because he doesn't have an opinion either way) he's not sure how to react to something like this.

His own little physical alteration isn't visible on video, but the sling around his neck is. He looks calm, vaguely disinterested in what Simon's saying. He wants to go into this conversation with a little more lightness than what Simon's been saying, hoping Simon's calmed down a little since the post.]

Wings, huh? That's more convenient than what I got, at least.

[irishrotter]

[Simon's got no beef with Jimmy, not since that first encounter at the pub. He's not necessarily calmed down in general, but he's calm enough to talk with a friend.]

I don't know if I'd call it convenient, but-- what have you got?

cw: a pic of some gnarly scars

[thelastbullet]

[He puts the cigarette that was in his good hand in his mouth, and picks up the communicator instead. He pans it down to show Simon his legs-- only briefly, since even he thinks it's not a great sight. There are ridges of bone, curved and jagged, coming out of his legs at odd angles. There are scars around some of them, but not all of them. It's not clear if they were already there beforehand. He's not wearing any trousers, or socks, so he's quick to pan back up to his face.]

I got that. Pretty fucking useless, you ask me.

Voice

[chlorophylliac]

Well. There's the cynicism.

...it's a day ending in a Y. This isn't anything new.

Voice

[irishrotter]

So all the people calling this some kind of after-effect from the port, an anomaly...

[Yes, his voice is pretty much dripping with the cynicism at this point.]

I take it that's not the excuse as they'd like it to be.

Voice

[chlorophylliac]

I don't doubt they're right. Souvenirs from port have caused problems before now. It's easier than most would like to believe, for a person to lose control over their own mind.

But it's a reason. Whether it's an excuse is subjective.