Post by Christian Moynahan on Dec 7, 2013 19:26:47 GMT -5
I danced with a million devils
Died from a life of sin
Made love to a million angels
Murdered a million men
There will be blood
-Thirty Seconds To Mars, “Depuis Le Début”
The interrogation had gone about as well as one might expect, Christian had decided. Being the special snowflake that he was, he was kept at an undisclosed location for some time, during which time he was questioned quite determinedly by Mathias. It did not take long for Christian to note that Mathias was quite interested in who Christian’s Washington contacts were, perhaps even more than he was interested in Christian and his alleged crimes. The problem with that was that Christian was not inclined to give them up. Even if he had been, releasing even one name would cause all of the others to lose faith in him, thereby destroying his network. He had no desire for that to happen.
He noted that meals were scarce and, when provided, sparse. Mathis did not seem to want to torture him in the more explicit sense of the word, but there was a point made there about who was in control. Christian was not too bothered by the lack of food; he had unintentionally trained his body to manage without sustenance for long periods while working what he referred to as “cholera hours.” The water was a different matter. It put him into a lethargic state; he hated feeling tired, as it meant he could not work. Not that he could work in that environment anyway, but it was a learned inclination, and one he could not easily shake.
Still, he held on, and Mathias, either satisfied with his answers or irritated enough with Christian that he decided to put Christian through the system, released him to the equally unwelcome confines of a jail cell. Christian was held in a separate cell, one fairly distant from the rest of those awaiting presentments, “for his own safety”; Christian had to wonder just how much Mathias was still pulling strings over the case. By then, it was the weekend, and Christian had to wait a full seventy-two hours before he would be brought before a judge.
Before that, of course, were the mundane matters associated with bringing him in. By then, Christian was fighting to keep his bad mood hidden. He was still wearing the shirt and slacks Mathias had arrested him in, he was still suffering from lethargy, and he was simply put off by the whole necessity of any of this ridiculousness. It was beginning to feel more and more like a vendetta. Every little piece seemed to fall into place just to make his experience that much worse.
They went through the motions. Basic questions about his background, and a background check as well - one that came back perfectly clean, without even a speeding ticket - fingerprint scan, and mugshot, the last of which Christian found especially amusing. His hair was mostly uncombed and his face was still gaunt from the dehydration and his own mistreatment of his body before, but he was determined not to wind up like most celebrities, so he put on a slight smile and chuckled quietly as the picture was taken, and wound up with a shot that would have made most drivers licenses jealous.
He was sure someone would have noticed his absence by then - Gabriel in particular, the precognitive, whose warning regarding the arrest would have been especially helpful had he given one. Some time passed before Christian was allowed to make a phone call; Christian guessed that the charges against him were responsible for that. They were serious enough that they might have been justified in refusing him one. But he did have contacts in Washington; that power seemed to come in handy again, or at least, he assumed so, since traitors did not typically get to make phone calls.
His call went to Lucius Kilvayne, for two reasons; first, to notify his friend of where he was; and second, to assemble his attorneys. Christian had no intention of using any of Ark’s resources, including its legal team, in this; the acts that had led to this debacle had been his own, and in any case, Ark did not need any more trouble than it already had.
Finally, he was escorted to an unfamiliar courthouse to appear before a judge.
“Christian Kiernan Moynahan.”
He smiled at the correct pronunciation of his middle name.
“You stand accused of espionage, theft of government property, willful communication of classified information to foreign nationals and hostile parties, and treason.”
The last was stressed. Christian maintained eye contact with the judge. The courtroom was empty, he noted. No press, no other defendants waiting their turns, no one to overhear anything that might be said on the exact nature of the charges. They were still trying to keep the famine a secret, he realized. A dangerous, consequential secret, looming over the nation, mitigated only by the efforts of his assembled team, and of those “foreign nationals” and “hostile parties.” Christian suppressed another smile, mostly successfully.
The judge frowned at Christian. “And how do you plead?”
Christian shrugged. He was wholly and fully guilty of the charges, but not in the manner that the charges were meant; his intentions had been perfectly benign, an effort to keep the nation safe and hale. That was hardly treason. But there was not really a plea that fell along those lines, so he responded with, “Not guilty.”
“Very well.” The judge paused to look Christian over, reading him carefully. “I have here a thorough examination of your background, Mr. Moynahan. It seems you have never had any trouble with the law before.”
Christian nodded slowly. “That is correct.”
“Do you have any family or friends here, Mr. Moynahan?”
“No, Your Honor.” He had family in Virginia, but they hardly kept in touch with him, and had probably disowned him by now. Their proximity was of no importance.
“Do you plan to flee the country or otherwise avoid trial, Mr. Moynahan?”
“No.”
“Are you a Special, Mr. Moynahan?”
Christian balked. He preferred to keep his abilities very private, partly because it meant nothing in the context of his position over Ark, but mostly because it wasn’t anyone’s business. “I believe that question violates my rights, Your Honor.”
The judge raised an eyebrow. “The government is no longer authorized to compile information on citizens and their… abilities, but, in deciding how much of a danger or a flight risk you are, I am not infringing on your ‘rights.’ Please answer the question.”
Christian did not reply.
“Answer the question,” the judge said, “or I will hold you in contempt of court for as long it takes to have your genetic pattern analyzed.”
He sighed. “Yes, I am a Special.”
“Describe the nature of your abilities.”
Christian rolled his eyes. Seriously? “Psionic constructs.”
The judge raised an eyebrow. “Meaning?”
Rather than attempt to explain it verbally, Christian moved his hands slightly to form am amber-colored form in the perfect shape of a gavel. With some reluctance, he gave it handle first to the bailiff, who took it very warily, and, after inspecting it, passed it to the judge, who also examined it, then tapped it against his gavel’s sounding block. The psionic gavel gave a solid ring just as a wooden gavel did. The judge looked at it again, and then at Christian. “And this is made of energy?”
“Yes.”
“Is it permanent?”
“No. It will fade after a few minutes.”
The judge set the psionic gavel next to his wooden one and continued. “It seems to me that yours is a fairly benign ability, but does have some potentially harmful uses.” He folded his hands. “I have decided to allow your release, under a few conditions. First, and foremost, if you wish to be released, you will post bond, of an amount that I will disclose shortly. Second, that you remain within the District of Columbia for the duration of the trial. Third, that you will use an ability inhibitor until the trial concludes, and for a longer time depending on the decision of the court.”
Christian held up a hand at the last one. “I’m afraid I have need of my ability. I rely on its energy to survive.” It was a lie, mostly; he could easily survive without his ability, and had in the past, most notably during the three months’ “power outage.” But it did help, especially in his recovery from his dehydration and other conditions, so he considered it more of a white lie.
The judge mulled over this. “Then you will use a power inhibitor during your presence in the court at all times during the trial. I will instruct your judge to keep a medical professional on hand.” He gave Christian a hard look. “Are these terms agreeable, or will we be sending you back to your cell?”
“What’s the bond?” Christian asked.
Christian left the courtroom feeling wholly dissatisfied. Mostly, the idea of needing to post bond and follow the other rules irritated him, but he also considered the amount to be excessive. He could, and would, have posted the bond himself, and simply have had to make do without the money until it was returned to him; however, before he could even begin to make any arrangements in that vein, his bond was immediately posted by a small, partly anonymous group of associated parties. A show of solidarity, he knew.
He could not help the smile that spread across his face as he jogged down the courthouse steps with the last of his energy. He was sure he looked and smelled like utter shit, but Gabriel hugged him anyway.
“The first thing I’m going to do,” Dakari said, “is invoke forum non conveniens. The next thing I’m going to do is challenge the constitutionality of this circus. Christian, you look like hell.”
“I figured as much.” Christian sighed. “I hope one of you brought a bottle of water. And a bottle of wine. Not necessarily to be presented in that order.”
Dakari frowned. “You are being much too cavalier about this.”
“Why shouldn’t I be?” A hint of amusement found its way into Christian’s exhausted expression. “My rights were violated - as a human, as a citizen, and as a Special. As much as I want to protect Ark from yet another scandal… I’m going to the wall on this.” His gaze swept their faces. “I hope you’re ready for war.”
He noted that meals were scarce and, when provided, sparse. Mathis did not seem to want to torture him in the more explicit sense of the word, but there was a point made there about who was in control. Christian was not too bothered by the lack of food; he had unintentionally trained his body to manage without sustenance for long periods while working what he referred to as “cholera hours.” The water was a different matter. It put him into a lethargic state; he hated feeling tired, as it meant he could not work. Not that he could work in that environment anyway, but it was a learned inclination, and one he could not easily shake.
Still, he held on, and Mathias, either satisfied with his answers or irritated enough with Christian that he decided to put Christian through the system, released him to the equally unwelcome confines of a jail cell. Christian was held in a separate cell, one fairly distant from the rest of those awaiting presentments, “for his own safety”; Christian had to wonder just how much Mathias was still pulling strings over the case. By then, it was the weekend, and Christian had to wait a full seventy-two hours before he would be brought before a judge.
Before that, of course, were the mundane matters associated with bringing him in. By then, Christian was fighting to keep his bad mood hidden. He was still wearing the shirt and slacks Mathias had arrested him in, he was still suffering from lethargy, and he was simply put off by the whole necessity of any of this ridiculousness. It was beginning to feel more and more like a vendetta. Every little piece seemed to fall into place just to make his experience that much worse.
They went through the motions. Basic questions about his background, and a background check as well - one that came back perfectly clean, without even a speeding ticket - fingerprint scan, and mugshot, the last of which Christian found especially amusing. His hair was mostly uncombed and his face was still gaunt from the dehydration and his own mistreatment of his body before, but he was determined not to wind up like most celebrities, so he put on a slight smile and chuckled quietly as the picture was taken, and wound up with a shot that would have made most drivers licenses jealous.
He was sure someone would have noticed his absence by then - Gabriel in particular, the precognitive, whose warning regarding the arrest would have been especially helpful had he given one. Some time passed before Christian was allowed to make a phone call; Christian guessed that the charges against him were responsible for that. They were serious enough that they might have been justified in refusing him one. But he did have contacts in Washington; that power seemed to come in handy again, or at least, he assumed so, since traitors did not typically get to make phone calls.
His call went to Lucius Kilvayne, for two reasons; first, to notify his friend of where he was; and second, to assemble his attorneys. Christian had no intention of using any of Ark’s resources, including its legal team, in this; the acts that had led to this debacle had been his own, and in any case, Ark did not need any more trouble than it already had.
Finally, he was escorted to an unfamiliar courthouse to appear before a judge.
“Christian Kiernan Moynahan.”
He smiled at the correct pronunciation of his middle name.
“You stand accused of espionage, theft of government property, willful communication of classified information to foreign nationals and hostile parties, and treason.”
The last was stressed. Christian maintained eye contact with the judge. The courtroom was empty, he noted. No press, no other defendants waiting their turns, no one to overhear anything that might be said on the exact nature of the charges. They were still trying to keep the famine a secret, he realized. A dangerous, consequential secret, looming over the nation, mitigated only by the efforts of his assembled team, and of those “foreign nationals” and “hostile parties.” Christian suppressed another smile, mostly successfully.
The judge frowned at Christian. “And how do you plead?”
Christian shrugged. He was wholly and fully guilty of the charges, but not in the manner that the charges were meant; his intentions had been perfectly benign, an effort to keep the nation safe and hale. That was hardly treason. But there was not really a plea that fell along those lines, so he responded with, “Not guilty.”
“Very well.” The judge paused to look Christian over, reading him carefully. “I have here a thorough examination of your background, Mr. Moynahan. It seems you have never had any trouble with the law before.”
Christian nodded slowly. “That is correct.”
“Do you have any family or friends here, Mr. Moynahan?”
“No, Your Honor.” He had family in Virginia, but they hardly kept in touch with him, and had probably disowned him by now. Their proximity was of no importance.
“Do you plan to flee the country or otherwise avoid trial, Mr. Moynahan?”
“No.”
“Are you a Special, Mr. Moynahan?”
Christian balked. He preferred to keep his abilities very private, partly because it meant nothing in the context of his position over Ark, but mostly because it wasn’t anyone’s business. “I believe that question violates my rights, Your Honor.”
The judge raised an eyebrow. “The government is no longer authorized to compile information on citizens and their… abilities, but, in deciding how much of a danger or a flight risk you are, I am not infringing on your ‘rights.’ Please answer the question.”
Christian did not reply.
“Answer the question,” the judge said, “or I will hold you in contempt of court for as long it takes to have your genetic pattern analyzed.”
He sighed. “Yes, I am a Special.”
“Describe the nature of your abilities.”
Christian rolled his eyes. Seriously? “Psionic constructs.”
The judge raised an eyebrow. “Meaning?”
Rather than attempt to explain it verbally, Christian moved his hands slightly to form am amber-colored form in the perfect shape of a gavel. With some reluctance, he gave it handle first to the bailiff, who took it very warily, and, after inspecting it, passed it to the judge, who also examined it, then tapped it against his gavel’s sounding block. The psionic gavel gave a solid ring just as a wooden gavel did. The judge looked at it again, and then at Christian. “And this is made of energy?”
“Yes.”
“Is it permanent?”
“No. It will fade after a few minutes.”
The judge set the psionic gavel next to his wooden one and continued. “It seems to me that yours is a fairly benign ability, but does have some potentially harmful uses.” He folded his hands. “I have decided to allow your release, under a few conditions. First, and foremost, if you wish to be released, you will post bond, of an amount that I will disclose shortly. Second, that you remain within the District of Columbia for the duration of the trial. Third, that you will use an ability inhibitor until the trial concludes, and for a longer time depending on the decision of the court.”
Christian held up a hand at the last one. “I’m afraid I have need of my ability. I rely on its energy to survive.” It was a lie, mostly; he could easily survive without his ability, and had in the past, most notably during the three months’ “power outage.” But it did help, especially in his recovery from his dehydration and other conditions, so he considered it more of a white lie.
The judge mulled over this. “Then you will use a power inhibitor during your presence in the court at all times during the trial. I will instruct your judge to keep a medical professional on hand.” He gave Christian a hard look. “Are these terms agreeable, or will we be sending you back to your cell?”
“What’s the bond?” Christian asked.
Christian left the courtroom feeling wholly dissatisfied. Mostly, the idea of needing to post bond and follow the other rules irritated him, but he also considered the amount to be excessive. He could, and would, have posted the bond himself, and simply have had to make do without the money until it was returned to him; however, before he could even begin to make any arrangements in that vein, his bond was immediately posted by a small, partly anonymous group of associated parties. A show of solidarity, he knew.
He could not help the smile that spread across his face as he jogged down the courthouse steps with the last of his energy. He was sure he looked and smelled like utter shit, but Gabriel hugged him anyway.
“The first thing I’m going to do,” Dakari said, “is invoke forum non conveniens. The next thing I’m going to do is challenge the constitutionality of this circus. Christian, you look like hell.”
“I figured as much.” Christian sighed. “I hope one of you brought a bottle of water. And a bottle of wine. Not necessarily to be presented in that order.”
Dakari frowned. “You are being much too cavalier about this.”
“Why shouldn’t I be?” A hint of amusement found its way into Christian’s exhausted expression. “My rights were violated - as a human, as a citizen, and as a Special. As much as I want to protect Ark from yet another scandal… I’m going to the wall on this.” His gaze swept their faces. “I hope you’re ready for war.”
