Simon Monroe (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
irishrotter) wrote2015-04-19 08:15 pm
irishrotter) wrote2015-04-19 08:15 pm
Ninth Rising
[Friends filter, after the port]
[This broadcast is a little bit delayed compared to most of the others, like there's something Simon needed to do prior to checking in. Still, he looks as worried and relieved as everyone else when he does reach out to his friends.
No one will be surprised to know that neither Arthas nor Sylvanas remain on this list.]
Tell me you're all okay.
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[Simon's communicator remains quiet after that. He answers his messages in a generally timely fashion, but there are no further broadcasts. The lack of sermons from the pulpit continues as it did after the sha took him over; he has no sermons to give. He's not suffering from the aches and pains of those who death tolled on the Barge, but he feels an echo of their weary faces in his own soul. He feels exhausted, too, even if it's a different kind of exhaustion.
On the surface, nothing has changed except that he has an emergency supply of neurotriptyline on him at all times now -- and thank Christ, only a few people know about that, anyway. Beyond that, though, he feels almost as lost and aimless as he was out in the desert. He shuffles along his daily routine. He takes his shot obediently when he wakes up, spends his mornings in the chapel and his afternoons in the library and doesn't really seem to bother with anything else, though he does still sometime turns up on the deck in the evenings to watch the stars go by.]
[This broadcast is a little bit delayed compared to most of the others, like there's something Simon needed to do prior to checking in. Still, he looks as worried and relieved as everyone else when he does reach out to his friends.
No one will be surprised to know that neither Arthas nor Sylvanas remain on this list.]
Tell me you're all okay.
[Spam, open]
[Simon's communicator remains quiet after that. He answers his messages in a generally timely fashion, but there are no further broadcasts. The lack of sermons from the pulpit continues as it did after the sha took him over; he has no sermons to give. He's not suffering from the aches and pains of those who death tolled on the Barge, but he feels an echo of their weary faces in his own soul. He feels exhausted, too, even if it's a different kind of exhaustion.
On the surface, nothing has changed except that he has an emergency supply of neurotriptyline on him at all times now -- and thank Christ, only a few people know about that, anyway. Beyond that, though, he feels almost as lost and aimless as he was out in the desert. He shuffles along his daily routine. He takes his shot obediently when he wakes up, spends his mornings in the chapel and his afternoons in the library and doesn't really seem to bother with anything else, though he does still sometime turns up on the deck in the evenings to watch the stars go by.]
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I'm...really good, maybe.
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What happened?
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Barbara asked, but I could have said no.
It was like a mission that belonged to me.
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[She is least generally aware it was really rough on everyone with a normal reaction hordes of deadly monsters. Budding empathy get!]
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But she does still need to take breaks for herself, because it was pretty touch and go there for a while, and she did some things she's not terribly proud of. Not ashamed of, either, but she's still sorting it out in her head along with the complication of everything else with being here: Lloyd and his file, the fact that most of her friends are in the infirmary because they died, if her deal is worth staying here if it means she might get killed and stay dead or get left behind on some planet she doesn't know the name of and where no one she loves will ever find her.
She hasn't been back to the chapel since the day she and Simon spoke, but she's drawn there now, her morning coffee in her hands and just wanting a few moments of peace and quiet before she figures out where she's needed most today. She sighs when she sees the splintered damage to the door where an infernal tried to force its way in, but she's here to escape that and so steps inside anyway, hesitating when she realizes she's not alone, but not by much.]
Hey.
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His promise -- to take care of the chapel -- has stayed with him even after the sha was gone, but his animosity towards Letty has long since faded. He doesn't welcome her with open arms, but when he looks up and sees her, he does nothing to discourage her from coming inside the way he might have before. He turns towards the pew again and wipes his hand across his brow reflexively, though there's not a bead of sweat on him and never will be.]
Aren't we supposed to have people here who can do magic?
[His tone is... strange, sort of artificially light. He's forcing it.]
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[She's glancing around, eying the damage with a touch of annoyance that apparently no place is sacred. The entire damn Barge looks like this. They did their best and it still looks like this. Her judgment certainly isn't on Simon, or on anyone, really; a multiple day siege between Barge and another dimension seems to have shuffled her priorities and any lingering animosity from her is gone, too. She's just worn down.
But she answers his question with blunt honesty, taking it as an invitation even with its blatant forced quality to come further in anyway. She glances at the pew he's working on, the tools beside him, and watches for a moment.]
They're just more concerned with putting people together first, I think, if that's what you mean. They're tired, too.
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Yeah. I didn't want this place to wait around.
[Although from the look of his efforts so far, it might not make much of a difference.]
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[She's not a carpenter. Her passion - and the vast majority of her skill - lies with engines, with grease and metal and belts and rubber. But she understands the need to do something when the things that a person loves have been destroyed.
She glances around one more time, sips her coffee, and then reaches to put it down on the nearest intact pew.]
A lot of this we don't need magic for. Want some help?
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You were down there?
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I'm ready to catch a fucking break already.
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[spam] cw: discussion of mental illness
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She doesn't see Simon at first, but when she does, she hesitates. Does he still want to be alone?
If he does, she thinks, he can just tell her so. There's no harm in asking.]
... Simon.
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He came up here to get some peace, some breathing room, but it seems like that's going to be as elusive tonight as it has been every moment since he came back to himself. It's not her fault, not really; he'd be just as jumbled up if he were alone all night.
He's staring up at the most distant stars when he hears her voice, though, and it takes him a moment to pull himself back down to the deck. He draws in a deep breath, lets it out slowly, and glances over at her, tracing his fingers lightly over the rail.]
Hey.
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[She gestures with her thumb at the door leading back inside.]
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I saw what happened on the network. What you said about Arthas. And... to Arthas.
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[Though she's obviously calmer now.]
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He only notices Simon the second after he's already sat down heavily. Ricki nods a quick 'hello,' and then sips from his cup.]
Morning.
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Silent and small, he turns his head to watch Ricki at the sound of footsteps, raising a brow at both the cup of coffee and the discarded rubber gloves.]
Morning.
[He casts his eyes back towards the garbage, cocking his head.
...can I ask?
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[Ricki explains, with a little grimace. There's a lot of scrubbing up after rotten and bloody eviscerated monsters.]
Most of it is done now, but there was a bit of a fetid pool in one of the bottom back corners, is all.
[And he's fine around dead bodies, so he'd taken it on. Afterwards, though, he'd decided he'd earned a break; thus, the coffee.]
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[Simon is, of course, perfectly adept with dead bodies, but not with disposing of them. Even with the monsters, the idea makes him vaguely uncomfortable. Besides, he doesn't love being so face-to-face, literally, with the lingering evidence of Arthas' betrayal. He's mostly focused his attentions elsewhere. On fixing what he can, where he can, and trying to make that be enough.
He has been cleaning in here, though, that much is clear. Or it's clear that someone has, anyway.]
Thank you for the help, then. What brings you in here?
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[He admits, glancing around the place. The destruction has obviously touched it this time around, but he can usually count on the place to be hushed.]
I make it in when I can. What about you?
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