[ The second day of protests comes to a crest, threatening to spill over into insurrection as a bottleneck of civilians forms at the centre of Old Town where vendors would canvas their wares, where Scarback Monks would offer their blessings, and where the hollers and shouts of rambunctious children met with the shuffle of the increasing numbers of the destitute and homeless. Habitual, the cacophony of congested streets, budding with the sound of life in all its forms, but today the resurgence of Old Town's spirit is manifest in burgeoning cries for justice, for reparation and for aid, the clamor carried to the ears of Company Enforcers, officers who held a line in riot gear. Shields are employed to to push back the crowd in the square as many desultory groups coalesce into one—
—their voices edged with desperation, frustrated with hours of demonstration to no avail. Unwilling to be cordoned off for any longer, they surge forward and together as one, swelling against the line held by the Company, fueled by anger which rises and expands like thunder until a single civilian breaks through. Company officers immediately move to subdue the man who lashes out, made fierce by his purpose, but in the instant before the Enforcers are able to bring the protestor to heel, a barrier forged of solidified light separates both parties, the gleaming construct keeping civilians safe from harm even as it bolsters the Company's uniformed barricade. ]
We hear your voices, but this cannot continue! [ In the lull momentarily borne of surprise and of awe, in the collective gasp of the protestors and the continued silence of the Company, Sion's own voice rings out, resonant and clear as a bell: ] There will be difficult days ahead, and many questions about Westerley's future remain unanswered, but--
[ But Sion forgets he wears the Company uniform, bearing the crest of his rank upon his shoulders. So focused on parting civilians from Company officers, he forgets to guard himself, the Director who stands as an outlier; who is the obvious cause for the strange partition used to keep the people of Old Town from fighting for the justice they are so deserving of.
(And almost, he forgets to cover the entrance-wound of the bullet after he hears, staggers back from, but does not feel the shot. Where had it originated from? The Director seems undeterred, reassuming his posture, his right hand pressed to his abdomen as glimmers of gold blood well in the cracks between his fingers.)
Still, he speaks, determined to hold his position, unwilling to let the wall of light flicker out.
("Cᴏᴍᴘᴀɴʏ ᴍᴏɴsᴛᴇʀ!" someone shouts.) ]
--I am confident that we will be able to find those answers together. But we cannot aid you, not like this.
[ Not without both sides first ceding ground.
But this will not happen so easily—certainly not in one day, and not with a second shot lining up as civilians clamor, their anger now heightened by fear. Fear escalated by the bids of several Officers for the Director to fall back to safety.
It seems that Sion himself will have to be forcibly removed from his post. ]
OTA | Westerley, W5D4
"Tʜᴇ Aᴄᴄᴏʀᴅs ʜᴀᴠᴇ ғᴀʟʟᴇɴ! Wʜᴇɴ ᴅɪᴅ ᴛʜᴇ ᴘᴇᴏᴘʟᴇ ᴀᴘᴘʀᴏᴠᴇ ᴏғ ᴛʜɪs?!"
"Oᴜʀ ғᴀᴍɪʟɪᴇs ᴀʀᴇ ʜᴜɴɢʀʏ, ᴡᴇ ᴄᴀɴɴᴏᴛ ᴀғғᴏʀᴅ ᴛᴏ ᴇᴀᴛ!"
"Tʜᴇ Cᴏᴍᴘᴀɴʏ ɪs ᴛᴏ ʙʟᴀᴍᴇ ғᴏʀ ᴛʜɪs! Wʜᴀᴛ ᴏʀᴅᴇʀ, ᴡʜᴀᴛ ᴊᴜsᴛɪᴄᴇ ᴅᴏ ʏᴏᴜ ᴜᴘʜᴏʟᴅ?! Tʜᴀᴛ ᴏғ ᴛʜᴇ Nɪɴᴇ's ᴀɴᴅ ɴᴏ ᴏɴᴇ ᴇʟsᴇ's!"
—their voices edged with desperation, frustrated with hours of demonstration to no avail. Unwilling to be cordoned off for any longer, they surge forward and together as one, swelling against the line held by the Company, fueled by anger which rises and expands like thunder until a single civilian breaks through. Company officers immediately move to subdue the man who lashes out, made fierce by his purpose, but in the instant before the Enforcers are able to bring the protestor to heel, a barrier forged of solidified light separates both parties, the gleaming construct keeping civilians safe from harm even as it bolsters the Company's uniformed barricade. ]
We hear your voices, but this cannot continue! [ In the lull momentarily borne of surprise and of awe, in the collective gasp of the protestors and the continued silence of the Company, Sion's own voice rings out, resonant and clear as a bell: ] There will be difficult days ahead, and many questions about Westerley's future remain unanswered, but--
[ But Sion forgets he wears the Company uniform, bearing the crest of his rank upon his shoulders. So focused on parting civilians from Company officers, he forgets to guard himself, the Director who stands as an outlier; who is the obvious cause for the strange partition used to keep the people of Old Town from fighting for the justice they are so deserving of.
(And almost, he forgets to cover the entrance-wound of the bullet after he hears, staggers back from, but does not feel the shot. Where had it originated from? The Director seems undeterred, reassuming his posture, his right hand pressed to his abdomen as glimmers of gold blood well in the cracks between his fingers.)
Still, he speaks, determined to hold his position, unwilling to let the wall of light flicker out.
("Cᴏᴍᴘᴀɴʏ ᴍᴏɴsᴛᴇʀ!" someone shouts.) ]
--I am confident that we will be able to find those answers together. But we cannot aid you, not like this.
[ Not without both sides first ceding ground.
But this will not happen so easily—certainly not in one day, and not with a second shot lining up as civilians clamor, their anger now heightened by fear. Fear escalated by the bids of several Officers for the Director to fall back to safety.
It seems that Sion himself will have to be forcibly removed from his post. ]