Simon Monroe (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
irishrotter) wrote2015-03-23 06:43 pm
irishrotter) wrote2015-03-23 06:43 pm
Seventh Rising
[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.))
[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.))
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[Maybe a statue. More permanent.]
Inmates don't have the numbers to take the ship that way, but at the moment we might have the power. Or the sympathy.
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And then what? I'm still not interested in overthrowing the Admiral. It's just these other wardens...
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That's not what I thought you were going to say.
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My point was, though, that if either of us were drowning the Admiral wouldn't bother to throw us a line.
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[He says this gently, even kindly, like he's cushioning the insult it could be.]
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[He does anyway, usually, but that's force of habit.]