Shimmer, Glimmer, & Gleam - A Quest of Loss & Gain

Nattie and you need to confront this issue. Marie's delay on giving all of you the list already caused five former Inmates on it to leave along with others who did not wish to join your community; that group had been given supplies, weapons shaped from glass as best you could, and all blessings and well-wishes, and when you think on that compared to the litany of abuses and atrocities on this paper...

In you, at all times, is a rage that never quite goes away. It comes to the fore when your life is in danger, but it's been scratching at the base of your mind since this whole thing began. So it's time. Before you do something you can't undo.

The two of you have not been idle. History students (the professors did not survive, unfortunately) and the divinity course survivors have been tapped for knowledge and ideas. Quiet words have been had with Nattie's officers and with your community leaders, the likes of Diamond and Andrea, Nettleson and Jill and Sasha. You even swallowed your fear and spoke to a criminal law professor who was surprised to hear her expertise drawn on, and increasingly concerned about the nature of the questions.

In the end, you'd invited those same people as witnesses to whatever will happen here. And assistants, in a sense. You and Nattie are the last to arrive, slipping into a warehouse that has been converted into a common area. The tables have been pushed aside, the televisions put away, the things that make this a place of life and vibrancy placed somewhere they'll be safe. There is only the harsh glow of lights that bring the temperature up such that everyone sweats a little.

Not as many people Inside survived as you wanted. Just shy of seventy, all told, are in this room. Many had gone out on Parole before you ever went Inside; more died in the riot, or to the young of the Wasp. There are now eighteen more losses to account for. No one has come armed, not exactly, but there is a thick bracelet of glass around your right wrist, and all here now what that can mean.

"Thank you for coming," you murmur to the silent crowd. "...I am going to say a series of numbers now. Whatever else happens here, whatever you've done, I am truly sorry for this. Marie didn't know your names. This will be the last time any of us are a number; please say your name as you step forward."

Hard faces stare as you recite.

15499, Hannah Carpenter. What she did to her cellmate made him take his own life rather than continue to endure it.

15557, Kellan Voss. Murderer. Even the guards vomited when they found the fifth victim.

16009, Kayleigh Wright. Cannibal. She stares at the ground when you call her number, and scratches at her arm.

16119, Yasmine Lore. Starved and poisoned her cellmate to make the other woman reliant on her.

16200, Jasper Sorrow (no known relation). Five women and three men violated, plus two guards who are now deceased.

16247, Freddie "the Vole" Woods. Amputated prisoners in the infirmary to use their bones as digging implements. Someone's been at him already; his face is bruised.

16388, Hank Baker. Serial snitch, liar, and cheat. Sold out one of his many lovers to avoid Parole, then broke his vow to that he wouldn't let the guards take that man alive.

16565, Lisa Blessings. Mass murderer. Poisoned more than forty inmates to kill one. Ironically, her target survived; nineteen of her victims did not.

16872, Gregory Prior. Incarcerated along with his daughter. Kinslayer.

16888, Bianca Harding. Informed on a population of survivors Outside in exchange for leniency. Every last one of her victims made Parole.

17006, Rick Treble. Murderer. Killed a fellow Inmate after the other man had surrendered. His eyes make you think he knows what's coming.

17105, Hamish Vance. Thief. Single-handedly responsible for the loss of more than forty pounds of painkillers from the infirmary, leading to untold suffering for the three years leading up to the riot.

17182, Ashley Wells. Murderer. Used her phone privileges to dupe survivors Outside into dangerous areas. Kept them on call, begging her for advice, while they died.

17375, Kelly Driver. Torturer. Spent the last two years before the riot as part of the Parole process, lending her oneiromancy in exchange for privileges.

17671, Otto Morris. Torturer. Worked with Kelly. Neither of them will look at you, or at their fellow ex-Inmates, instead staring at the feet of the history students.

17822, Velma Thorne. Kidnapper. At least one of her victims died because it amused the guards not to save him. The survivors still have scars on their wrists.

17946, Thomas Bright. Fascist. You're not certain what this word means, but Marie records that the rest of his associates 'got what they deserved' and Thomas survived by being in solitary confinement.

18593, Sylvia North. Murderer. Talked five Inmates into suicide and then kept trophies from their corpses. She's wearing one right now, a little charm braided into her long, thin pigtails.

Some of the former Inmates turn their eyes away from the list assembled before you; a few cry, and have to be comforted. As you cite the crimes of the accused, the crying becomes more common, but in the end your call for witnesses or victims to step forward and confirm or deny the allegations is met.

"The standard of evidence could be better," mutters Bettie Hall, the criminal law professor.

"This is the evidence we've got," Nattie murmurs back. She clears her throat. "So. If anyone is confused as to why we have a problem here, now is the time to speak and be heard. I want to point out we're not doing this in front of the gods and everybody right now. This is a matter for people Inside; these others are here to witness what happens so the community can know justice has been done."

"J-justice?" Kelly. One of the accused torturers. She won't stop shaking. "W-we were Inside, I-I d-did what I had to, I c-couldn't say no, I couldn't - f-fucksake I need a smoke, c-can I...n-nevermind..."

You toss her a pack, which she catches after surprised fumbling. She won't look at you.

"This is a matter for people who were Inside," you stress, emphasizing Nattie's point. "...Marie wanted all of you dead, and the other five besides. She's gonna yell at me for not dragging you to the docks and doing for you. I'm still not quite sure why I didn't, but Professor Hall seems to think it's important that we don't just do that to people."

"Mob justice isn't much better," Bettie mutters, again.

"I am trying my best here!" you snap; you walk a distance away, angrily muttering, opening your spare pack of smokes so you can light up and suck down nicotine like it wronged you personally. "...We're not putting them in a cage, Hall. No one's going in cages."

"The point of a prison is to rehabilitate -" Professor Hall trails off as she is suddenly, keenly aware of the number of eyes on her. "...Okay. Fine. Non-starter. But I want you all to seriously consider this: a hundred years down the line, when someone manifests their nightmare of justice gone wrong, what's it going to look like?"

Rick Treble, currently in the process of accepting a smoke and a light from Kelly, looks up with the most tired expression you've seen on a living thing. "Ma'am...maybe talk about how I'm the test case after I'm fucking dead, will you?"

"D-do they have to die?" Your eyes flick to a young man who's still wearing his jumpsuit underneath new clothes; he can't be more than what, twenty? "I-I mean, they did such...I...but..."

It is at this point that Prior, the kinslayer, simply walks to the side of the room and sits with his back against the wall. He closes his eyes, takes a deep breath, and says: "I know I have to. I choose execution. Just...try not to make it hurt."

You scan your fellows from Inside. They scan the students and trainee priests and Hall. Nattie looks at you. And you finally say, "...Alright. We can't well keep you alive against your will. Um. Your cooperation is noted but we're gonna have to. Probably. Kill you later. Like. When everyone is awake."

"Fair," Prior says, with a shrug. "...I'm going back to sleep."

You try to remember the killing rage you'd started this process with but it seems to have checked out for a smoke break and gotten lost on the way back. Now your emotional companion is the ever-familiar and ever-frustrating sense of confusion. People are talking. Muttering. In a few cases, arguing. You see Velma going for something inside her coat and snap your fingers at her, pointing at the ground. She sighs and drops the still-sheathed knife, kicking it across the floor to you, and she shrugs at you. And you shrug at her. That's what it's like sometimes, Inside.

Which is sort of by way of being the problem.

You clear your throat real loud. "...Marie's not here right now," you say. "She went out into chaos, like she promised. But I know she kept this list because she can't feel safe in her own home knowing people who betrayed their own like this are around. My thoughts were exile and execution, but...I got talked around. This isn't just my shot to call."

"Exile?" someone asks, from the midst of the crowd.

"Old law," Nattie answers, her voice hard. "Old-old. Javelins-and-tower-shields old. You brand the criminal on their hands and forehead, spread the word of their crimes, and cast them out. No manhunt, no jails, no shackles. Just a life as something cast out of human society, with only the gods for aid and succor. If they can stand the sight of you."

Treble, who evidently is feeling quite cavalier about his own prospects, speaks up again: "Big fan of public executions are you?"

"I wanted to kill you all in your beds and never explain why," Nattie admits. "But I got talked around."

Orchid and Nattie are but two former Inmates; both favor Marie's request, and will push for it. The victims and peers of the accused may have other perspectives. I am opening this thread for the next six hours for the following:

[ ] Short, like 4 paragraphs max here, SHORT, perspective from the perspective of a former Inmate. Feel free to name your Inmate. Your submission may be edited by me if/when it makes it into the update.

"Let's just take a couple minutes here," Sasha suggests, strongly. "And I might suggest that anyone else who came with a knife pretend you fuckin' didn't?"

By your guess that's nine other people just in direct eye-line, but they do seem to already be on board with that plan. So you smoke, and the pack you gave to Kelly gets passed around. Y'all are gonna have to bust out some of the candles that are supposed to destroy tobacco scent after this...probably quite a few. But it's not like you're fucking lacking for them.

Isn't it amazing the thoughtlines a person will go down to avoid other, worse thoughts?

It's a thin little thing that breaks the silence; Amelia Thornhill, a name you've had reason to learn. She'd come from Inside thin and poisoned, ragged from, it turns out, her cellmate's treatment of her. She's only had eyes for Yasmine since the accused stepped forward, and she whispers her hate in a voice that cannot get any louder than it is: "Fuck you." Yasmine turns, sees her victim and the fellow ex-inmate holding Amelia's wheelchair, but Amelia preempts her. "No, fuck you, don't open your mouth," Amelia hisses. She's breathing hard, but she finds it in herself to spit on the floor before eye contact just gets to be too much. Still, she's looking at Yasmine. ""I told myself when everything went to shit, that if I lived, I'd get away from you. I'd never see your face again. I hoped you die."

Yasmine looks away. She's an odd little thing, barely taller than you, who favors long dresses and elbow-length sleeves that cover her wrists. She won't stop rubbing them.

But Amelia isn't done: "I wanted you dead. I want you dead." She takes a deep breath. "But I don't want to be the one to kill you." Amelia wrenches her gaze away from her abuser, to you, and there is a deep well of rage there, yes, but also a fear. A cringing terror. "She doesn't stay. I don't care where she goes. Just that I never see her face again. And that's...that's all I have to say. I'm going. We're going."

You drop your smoke as Amelia is wheeled out, grind the butt beneath your boot. Light another, without comment, while you quietly look at Yasmine.

When the doors shut again, Yasmine whispers: "I just...needed someone to need me...I. I can be useful, I can. I know doses and things, I could - I could be a nurse, I..."

She trails off into the quiet. And you say: "You got to the part of that thought that ends in forced labor, didn't you? Like we had Inside."

"Yeah," Yasmine says miserably. "...I did. But...a good nurse is worth a lot, I could...someone could use me, right?"

Someone clears its throat. It takes you a moment to place the gender and then the person; that's Lucky, a wiry young man who was Inside before the world changed on him, doing what was supposed to be eight years for grand theft auto ("See: joyridin'.") and ended up being eleven before everyone got out. He's sharing a smoke with three of his friends, each one carefully husbanding the cigarette; old habits, much like the smirk he perpetually wears. There'd been a bit of advice, eight, ten months into your own incarceration, a moment of mentorship from an old hand to the young blood, where he'd told you: never let 'em see you sweat. Everyone knows in their head that you can't be king of big dick mountain all the time, but if you make their heart doubt it, they won't fuck with you.

He's putting that advice into action with his best sleazy voice as he says, "Far as I'm concerned, that pack's basically the Warden, or maybe guards. They fucked us just as hard as any of the pigs, and harder 'n' some. Those lot, " and here he points at the likes of Bianca, Hank, Kelly, and waves dismissively, brushing them off, "did that shit for what, softer beds? A TV in their cell? C'mon. I kicked the shit out of people Inside, sure, my hands ain't clean, but I had standards. They betrayed us. They can burn."

One of his friends, a dark-haired older...mmmmaaaan...you're not getting his name in your head, makes a wordless sound of agreement as he(?) passes the cigarette. "I'd sleep easier at night," he mutters, in a pleasant bass voice. "You'd know all about sleepin' easy, eh Hamish?"

Hamish is not looking so good, and you connect dots you should have connected already; he's going through withdrawals. How many of those meds were for him, and how many were passed out to who he deemed fit? There's that rage again -

"Lay off him." Hannah Carpenter; the top of your list, which had been ordered by number. Originally convicted for blasphemy and destruction of property and sentenced to 9 years; it served 14 by the time the riot happened. And now it's angry in a way you don't think you've ever seen it angry, melodious voice shot through with outrage and self-defense, a sharp contrast to the quiet giant who rarely made eye contact. It points two fingers at Lucky. "We did what we had to do to avoid getting Paroled, or to die another day -"

You feel the heat rising in your face. "There's a fucking limit, Hannah -"

And Hannah whirls on you. "Is there? You wouldn't even say what I did to Joshua, and yeah, I went and found the records on what's left of the internet 'cause I give a shit. Do you? Do you really? If you're gonna make me your godsdamned whipping girl you get to live with knowing what you're doing to me the way I've gotta live with what I did to Josh. We're not monstrosities, we're people, fuck you -"

There's a sharp whistle, and all eyes are very suddenly on Diamond, who is twirling a lasso of glass that's still attached to her spinnerets. Your arachnid friend does not comment. Does not threaten. She just twirls her lasso until, by unspoken but very mutual agreement, you and Hannah back slowly away from one another.

("Weirdest trial I've ever been to," Hall bitches, and also moans.

The divinity student next to her goes, "Top ten but we did a mock excommunication of a cat once.")

Glad someone's having fun. Prick.

A mousy little thing is raising its hand and stepping out of the crowd. "Um. Sunset Graine, been clean for..." It trails off, a little awkwardly. "S-sorry, wrong um. Anyway. Isn't the important bit whether or not they'll do it again? We all did stuff Inside we're not um. Proud of. And I know when I did it I said, hey, at least I'm not, y'know, that guy over there, but..." it bites its lip. "We were all someone's that guy. So. I think maybe we need to figure out why they did it and if that's not gonna happen again...we just...we let it go."

There is a rising chorus to the effect of 'fuck that' -

And the mousy little thing with its glass hair and glass eye shrieks, this high-pitched sound that makes people flinch back away from it and a couple of them cover their backs with their hands, where their kidneys are. "I have the speaking pillow!" it yells, and then it shrinks back in on itself. Waits, to see if it's going to be interrupted again. "...Justice and closure and all that were never on the table in here," Sunset continues, after that long moment. "This's about if people can be here with the others who never went Inside. What happens when one of us snaps and does something because we're scared again? You -" it points at you, and at Nattie, "- invited us here. Said it's gonna be different. But if we do stuff to people because of how we're feeling and not because of what they're doing...then we're still Inside. With the Warden."

And Sunset clears its throat, and says, "Thank you for your time," and steps back into the crowd.

There were grandpas inside, old men with hard eyes and harder bones, and you know the one that starts speaking now, leaning on a cane he'd been denied Inside. "Ain't that the thing of it, though?" he rasps. "There's a feeling here we don't get to ignore: trust. Rare, Inside, trust is. There's people in this room I bled for, and hit for. Shared my meals. Held up when they were down. 'cause I trusted them, you see." He gestures with his cane, a vague, circling motion. "And now I can't. Maybe we all shoulda got mulched under with the prison, but we didn't, and it's all comin' out, and what's comin' out is that I'm real aware how for sale my hide can be. We can all be any kinda freak we want, we can sleep with whoever we want, hell, I don't give a shit. World's dead. New world now. But it all goes back to trust. We gonna trust rats and cowards?" Someone murmurs in the old man's ear, and he makes a little 'ah' sound. "Excuse me, my apologies to the fine young man with the rat head."

The fine young man in question squeaks something and flashes, "Don't worry about it," in sign language. You still do not know what (his, evidently?) deal is.

This is gonna be another one of those awkward silences, isn't -

Slow, sarcastic clapping from the other side of the room. It takes you a moment to place the ex-Inmate; they'd called it Firebug, but it introduces itself with high contempt in its voice. "Jan Pyre, not clean at all for many years," it drawls, its accent weirdly like Jill's. "I see which way the wind is blowing. "Got our Wardens, got our victims, now we're picking out the Guards from the pack, right? We weren't a community in there. We were a bag of rats drowning in the bay. So now we gotta line up the rats and kill the ten worst biters and the rest'll magically be people again. It's bullshit. You didn't have to get us all in a mob, you coulda done it quietly, not made everyone put their bite marks on display. This meeting's nothing but another bag, and I am getting out of it -"

Someone a head shorter than Jan decks it across the face and lays it out flat. The witnesses go to rush in, and you and Nattie both bark at them to stay where you fucking are. You know the one who just punched Jan; that's Threes, the cellmate of one of the Vole's victims. Captured after Impact, a few weeks before you, which translated into two more years than you were Inside. Time is strange, in dreams. Threes stares down at Jan, and Jan rubs its jaw, and after a long moment where nobody moves, Threes takes a ragged breath and starts talking:

"I can't say what to do about anyone but Woods," it spits, venom in every word.. "Him? I'm not letting him back into any community I'm a part of. Not if I have to look him in the eye and 'make peace' with what he's done, while he gets off with a 'don't do that again'. That's not justice, that's playing defense. Exile him, and make it clear what he's done. If that kills him... so be it."

Woods giggles, but it's not a happy giggle. It's a sound of soul-wrenching fear escaping any way it can. "I-I coulda, I was gonna dig us out -"

"Woods," you snap. "For once in your fucking life, stop digging. It is so severely in your interest to let people think while you very carefully do not talk."

Gods but this is a fucking mess. Nettleson, bless him, announces that he's going to go get food and tobacco for everyone, and everyone cools their heels for awhile while he, you know, does that. Those who can sit on the floor, glaring and talking real quiet to others. Threes seems to be trying to apologize to Jan; next to the two of them, its one-armed cellmate is all but catatonic, checked out from proceedings entirely. Still, the warehouse carries sound like a dream; you catch people pointing out that two of the accused didn't do anything to people Inside, so is that even Inside business? Conversely, even the people arguing to give peace a chance seem to be quietly pretending that Jasper Sorrow isn't there; that one sits by itself, staring at nothing...

When Nettleson and the line cooks come back with a great fucking deal of Eternal Soup and packs of cigarettes (your attempts to grow something like tobacco have borne some fruit, but the stuff in the packs needs to get used - it does have an expiration date, it turns out), eating turns people real quiet.

"...Gods but this is fucked," Nattie murmurs to you, her soup sitting untouched in her lap. "Prior volunteering to die is a whole thing but I don't think anyone else is gonna - aaaaaaaand fuck me." The two of you watch as Voss and Baker quietly go over to sit next to Prior, and they eat in silence, without any further comment. "Well. That's three."

"...An hour ago I probably would have been okay with you treating them like a problem to be solved," you admit, uncomfortably.

"...I woulda been okay with it too," Nattie murmurs. "I ain't the Captain, y'know? Look at Kelly. She's a wreck. What can we do to her that's worse than what she did to herself?"

"Is worse the point?"

"I don't even fucking know..." Nattie hangs her head, heedless of the way the tips of her locks drag in her soup bowl. "...We're gonna be here all godsdamned night...you know this crowd isn't gonna want to hear a litany of sob stories. And that's if the accused even wanna give 'em if we corner them like that. They gotta be scared outta their minds, they're not gonna be thinking straight."

You chew the inside of your cheek...

Choose 1
[ ] This slate can be wiped clean, maybe. Ask each of the accused not volunteering to die or leave for their oath to not repeat their crimes and support their new community; exile those who refuse.
[ ] Stay the course. Marie asked you to kill them, and you're already on a thin limb there. What would she think?
[ ] ...You do know a massive bitch who might be persuaded to make this not your problem. Could the Captain adopt these problems...?