thejudge_tlv: (Default)
[personal profile] thejudge_tlv
[After 12 hours have elapsed since the beginning of systems failure, every person regardless of status will find themselves abruptly, violently teleported into their own rooms, with one exception. The Judge's voice booms over the communicators.]

THIS SHIP IS NOW ON LOCKDOWN.

[The screens flicker to life, showing a mostly-repaired courtroom, although the crack in the gavel is still present. Shen Wei is bent over the defendant's table, manacled to its surface by his wrists and neck. They're tight, and it looks like it's difficult for him to breathe.]

BY SUMMARY JUDGEMENT THE PRISONER SHEN WEI IS SENTENCED TO DEATH.

[The manacles start to glow, forge-red, hissing as they scorch into his skin, and then the large hoop around his neck begins to shrink, squeezing and strangling, relentless, until Shen Wei is decapitated as neatly as a potter slicing off a chunk of clay with a loop of wire.]

FURTHER SEDITION WILL BE DEALT WITH IN KIND.

[For the next 12 hours after that, the Lockdown will remain in place - no doors will open, and everyone will remain confined to their own rooms, although the communicators will work, and the adjoining room mirrors may still falter and become two-way on occasion. Passengers will also hear terrible mechanical groaning sounds and sometimes feel brief jolts of acceleration, like being in an elevator that sometimes jerks sideways.

By morning, many of the ship's surviving Advocates will find that now two or even three of their walls adjoin a Prisoner's quarters. All of them will also find the following message on their communicators in text:]


The following addendum shall be henceforth appended to the Galley Code: any Advocate who fails to accompany and supervise their Prisoner or Prisoners at all times while said Prisoners are not confined to their own quarters shall be Guilty of Negligence, and be punished by immediate demotion and a sentence of not less than one month and not more than six months of time to serve. Any such Negligence that results in further damage to the Galley will qualify as Gross Negligence and carry a sentence of not less than one year.

THE SHIP IS NO LONGER UNDER FULL LOCKDOWN. ADVOCATES, PLEASE SEE THE ADDENDUM TO THE GALLEY CODE PERTAINING TO YOUR DUTIES.

[After Lockdown:
  • The Courtroom door is no longer rusted, and will once again open to Advocate keys, although it remains closed otherwise.

  • Much of the physical damage to the interior of the Courtroom (and any other areas of the ship) has been repaired.

  • The gavel, however, remains cracked and slightly off-center. The crack actually might be a little bigger now? If you want to try getting close to look.

  • Shen Wei's body is gone, but the new neck-sized manacle remains. What was once the defendant's table is now the Chopping Block. The wrist manacles will move of their own accord, reaching to grab any prisoner brought near them and drag them into the larger circle of metal.

  • The layout of individual cabins is totally different, reflecting that the now-outnumbered Advocates are literally surrounded.

  • The issues with electrical power, gravity, temperature, air, etc will sporadically continue.

  • Advocates with powers will continue to occasionally find their abilities suppressed for up to several minutes at a time. Prisoners with powers will once again occasionally find their abilities returned to them for up to several minutes at a time.]
badbutsad: (Currently eating shit)
[personal profile] badbutsad
WHO: Hunter, Sakazuki and general Galley folks
WHAT: The boy-son getting punished for helping destroy the Court Room
WHERE: Doing the rounds!
WHEN: Post-post-riot
WARNINGS: Corporal punishment of a minor, whip wounds

Punishment (CW: Whipping a minor)
He feels like he ought to care more about being demoted. Mostly he just wonders if Rags would be proud of him.

That's not to say he's not fighting like hell: he's kicking and lunging at the Advocates dragging him with a ferocity that borders feral - until one of them has the sense to taze him, sending him limp from pain while they rip him out of his cloak and tunic, bind him to a pole in the Oar Banks with his wrists locked so high up that breathing is difficult until he gets his feet back under him, and his face is all but pressed into the smooth, stained wood of the beam.

He can't turn his head enough to see Sakazuki, but his ears twitch at the sound of the whip unfurling, and a coldness sinks deep into his stomach that has nothing to do with his bare, already-scarred chest pressed against the beam.

"Are you watching, you filthy ingrates?!" Sakazuki's voice is a bellow, but Hunter is already tuning it out, taking a deep breath and closing his eyes, pressing his forehead into the cool wood and letting the familiar, slow crawl of static into his mind. Let him be somewhere else, that soft spot two inches to the left of his own body that doesn't need to feel the pain, or listen to that ridiculous rousing.

The first strike comes as a shock that cuts through his self-imposed fog: it shears his back open across one shoulder blade down to the opposite hip, deep enough that he knows, with a learned intimacy, will scar. The second comes too soon, crossing the first and making Hunter jerk against his restraints, but he doesn't make a sound.

Two becomes three. Becomes five. Eight. Eleven. When the twelfth finally comes Hunter lurches, loses his footing for a second and his arms pull taut, pulling the bleeding, bone-deep wounds wide and tight and painful before he can catch himself.

The static in his ears is real, now, and he doesn't hear the approach of footsteps. Is only aware of someone touching him when the cuffs around his wrist are unlocked, and his arms fall limp by his sides, and he's shoved unceremoniously into the nearest seat where fresh ones snake up and slap themselves around him and clap his hands onto the oars. And when he doesn't move, the shock that results pulls some obedient muscle memory out of the depths of his retreating mind, and he starts rowing. And rows, and rows. For the rest of the shift.


Life in prison

Someone's kind, or at least decent enough, to give him back his shirt and cloak after their shift. Hunter doesn't remember who. He just wakes up in a small room with a small cot, with his face buried in the fur collar of his cloak that he's bundled against his chest like a doll.

His back hurts.

Tunic on, cloak on. If he stands tall enough, it's only the new paleness to his skin, the darkening of bags to nearly fully black under his eyes, their glazed look that gives away his pain. But the smell of blood, quickly turning stale, still lingers, even after he visits the Infirmary.

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