The Trappings and the Suits of Woe (Act 1, Scene 1 excerpt)
It was the four-thousand, three hundred and twenty-sixth week of the Volscian rebellion against the ever-seeing Eye and ever-reaching Hand of the empire, and Triarius Alaspoor Yorick—Fascial Philosof, mentor, and beloved friend—had been dead for twenty-eight of those weeks. He had been as quiet a presence in the Gestalt chamber as he had been in life, but his absence was felt none the lesser for it, and Althem often found his eyes wandering to the vacant seat at the First Table, as though he could somehow reach through death itself and meet Yorick’s eye through sheer willpower and force of habit alone. The chair, predictably, remained empty, and Althem, consequentially, remained alone.
Outside, the icy winds of Elsinore battered against the walls, their whistling moans echoing through the massive hall and nearly drowning out the sounds of the debate currently taking place within. It was the three hundred and thirty-second debate of its kind, as the Gestalt had been finding reasons to argue about the rebellion once per month for nearly as long as the rebellion itself had been active. Each discussion was largely the same—complaints over the effort’s simultaneous inefficacy and preternatural ability to be a thorn in the side of every contingent sent planetside to deal with them, proposed plans of attack to drive them out of and away from crucial habitable zones, strategies for engendering loyalty and maintaining nationalistic pride within the populace, and suggestions for treaties and olive branches that could theoretically lead to a ceasefire. The latest of these occurred less frequently and tended to garner a not-insignificant amount of skepticism, often leading to one-sided agreements that made any resulting ceasefire end prematurely regardless. Thus the cycle would begin again, and the next Gestalt assembly within the month would focus its members’ attention once more on the matter of how to keep control of the habitable zones and the civilian masses.
Althem had learned many years ago that the best approach to these meetings was to sit quietly and let his mind wander. As Princeps, he was expected to attend each assembly and sit straight-backed in his chair with the countenance of someone paying attention; he was also expected to offer no contribution or commentary of his own and speak only if directly addressed by a member of the First Table. This middle ground suited him exceptionally well for the time being—it left him space to concern himself with the loose button on his jacket and how best to conceal it, as any indication that his uniform was out of order could lead to a formal interrogation, at which point he’d be forced to retire his military blacks for something more "appropriate," and they’d all be done talking about Yorick forever. So he sat silently, a dark spot in a sea of pristine blue, and twisted the offending fastener until the onyx was rendered cloudy with his fingerprints.
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