#ch2 trial

It’s hard to catch Lucky off guard. Impossible, even.

...Impossible, they thought. When everything around them is there in their sights—when a room can never hold a surprise, can never have something slip by a periphery that never ends—when they’ve decided, subconscious or not, that they understand exactly how humans can be—

(They do not look to Fox when he speaks, but they see him all the same. There is a rustle of their wings, and nothing more is said.)

—and yet, when the votes come in to spite their final words spoken at this round table—

(They could not help but flinch when the lightning struck. Puffed up, defensive, they made a grumble of sound and pressed deeper into their chair, but moved no further.)

—they cannot pretend to not be surprised. Their feathers ruffle; their beak clicks; their eyes undulate, pulsing their strange glow into the room. It’s an unexpected turn of events that pulls them into simply watching Khloe bleed, red pooling from her as gently as a leaf dripping rain after a storm.

(Threat Level... No. They understand.)

They watch as Fox fusses, as Flick pushes, as Khloe explains, as Jules—

(So angry, and yet Lucky cannot be surprised by this. He is consistent, is he not? He will hunt to survive; what, though, does it do to his heart?)

—blinks into a room with a bomb and a book and mere hope to guide him.

They watch as he reads, as he fumbles, as he slips deeper into something panicked and cornered and desperate. They watch him back as far as he can away from the thing like it’s a bear trap ready to snap closed, but that’s the problem, is it not?

The bomb is not the bear trap; the room is.

When the bomb goes off they again flinch, their beak clicking, but between then and now is all it takes for Jules to return to his seat.

They gaze at the state of him as the masses swarm—as they carry him away, desperate and terrified and terribly human in all the ways Lucky simply cannot understand, and yet, and yet—

(Subconscious or not, they understand exactly how humans can be, do they not? Why else would they be here? Why else would they bother?)

Once the recovery group has cleared from the room, Lucky slips their bracelet back on. They stand up. They leave the room and take care to be unseen as they head straight for the train’s exit.

They do not ponder after Jules. It is likely he will survive. He is being cared for.

Tick.

As if he's never left, Julius Vachon is back in his seat, though markedly different. Completely unconcerned by the fact that Jules is in pain - as if unaware or perhaps unbothered - The Conductor once again appears on the screen.

"Well, I know who not to call to dismantle the collars around your necks!"

He lets out a short laugh before swiveling around in his chair, once, twice - it'd be dizzying if he were to go around a third time, but he stops.

"The timing of all of this is rather inconvenient - I mean. By the time you get out of here, I won't be able to reset your clock until a few more hours. No matter! Please exit Car 8 - I've unlocked the medicine cabinet as well for the time being. You know. For no particular reason or anything."

The Conductor nods his head, and a rush of cold wind causes a door you previously didn't notice to swing open.

"Don't waste time before treating those injuries, my fellow friends!"

A small bit of 'advice' imparted by The Conductor before the screen goes dark.

It’s always something with a countdown around here, isn’t it?

That’s what Jules thinks while he tries to orient himself, eyes catching first on the timer and second on the bomb that it’s strapped to. It’s starting to feel a little bit trite to be honest - like, a countdown on top of a countdown, a bomb on top of the guillotine he’s already wearing? If he was as brave as he is committed to being a hater, maybe he’d use the last breath he’ll ever take to get Barnaby to come up with some new material. Ruri gets the stage and fancy violin, all Jules gets is a cement room with a bomb on the table and five minutes on the clock to figure out what to do with it?

Right, he thinks. Figures. 

But sure, he’ll play.

Like the panels on a slot machine, the portraits begin to merge into one large blur until finally the "winner's" portrait flashes up on the screen:

Perhaps it's too short a time - or perhaps the time is mercifully short - because suspense is one hell of a thing - but before long the jumbotron starts flickering and a sound emits from the overhead speakers, drowning out any further conversation (or noises of surprise).

Before you can lift your hands to cover your ears, however, the song is abruptly cut off as The Conductor appears before you on the screen once again, looking all too pleased with himself despite a moment of what can only be considered scuff:

"Whoooopsie! Did you all miss me? Preparations have been complete, my dear passengers and fellow friends!"

The Conductor lets out a laugh before clapping his paws together.

"Your eyes up here, please! Let's see who has the displeasure of taking responsibility for our Accuser's actions!"

Now, before we get into things, I’d like to make one thing perfectly clear: what happened here tonight is beautiful, and I couldn't be happier for Khloe.

Jules, on the other hand -

“Un-fucking-believable.”

(Maybe anger wasn’t quite as productive as he thought it would be, but he’s got his claws in it now, and if he lets go then he has to feel something else. It’s easier to lean in, find someone to blame other than his own incompetence.)

“He started running and what, Khloe? I’d love to hear. I need to hear, actually. You were afraid he was, what, going to tattle on you? Come back with a mob? Who do you think would have joined? You think Fox, or Liss, or fucking Tali would have helped him do that? Did he bring, like, a weapon that nobody found? I mean it’s, it’s - it’s fucking unbelievable!”

Abstain, abstain, abstain. What a joke. Closing their eyes to it, refusing to pick a side at all. Like that’s better. Like they can close their eyes to it, excuse it, let Cross’s body vanish into nothing without making anyone answer for it. He turns his gaze, furious and accusing, to the rest of the room. It wasn’t everyone, he knows that, but he’s not really thinking about it right now. He’s getting way too worked up.

“Is this the new precedent we’re setting, then? We’re all okay with this? We’re okay with letting people get away with fucking murder as long as it means that we don’t have blood on our own hands? Do you think you can just put your hands up and decide not to be a part of it? Whoever’s name Barnaby is about to pull out of his stupid little hat, whatever happens to them, that is who you just cast a vote for, and you all have to be okay with that. And fuck Cross, I guess! Not like he jumped to a completely reasonable conclusion based on the information he had, right? Not like anyone here had a better lead to follow.”

Back to Khloe, seething, a withering look that Fox gets caught in too.

Khloe Hartmann never thought of herself as an optimist. A realist, perhaps, who ended up enabling optimism with sheer stubbornness. Perhaps she could have convinced more people if she were cunning like Lily, pragmatic like Jules, or as charismatic like Venetta. But Khloe knew better than to hope for that. Khloe was a shark who only knew how to keep moving. But… even she knew when the walls closed in. She’d taken the bait and felt herself pulled to the surface. She closed her eyes, took a deep breath, and worked on keeping the storm at bay.

The TV buzzed to life, carrying over hundreds of tiny wires the news she was dreading. She knew this was coming the second she chose to bring that rock down on Cross for the last time. They’d all agree she was someone dangerous, some threat that had snuck into their midst and must be eradicated. She doesn’t even look at the screen as the tallies roll in. She was… She was…

…?

Her hand falls away from her face, squinting as the lights hit her eyes. They… they spared her? They had nothing tying her to the scene -she made sure of that- but she’d assumed her Otherness would always be enough to convict. Her brain had barely processed the information before Fox was upon her. She only gets in a few light slaps and a little ‘Hey!’ before he is holding onto her like a koala. His professionalism was astounding, if only she hadn’t had nose bleeds since she was a child.

“Easy, easy-” Her voice is muffled by his sleeve, staying still for his sake. But not for too long. She presses away on his chest to get some needed distance. “I remember the last time,” Though it was far from the most memorable moment of the night, club members would remember Fox futzing over another one of her nose bleeds with the coastguard. “Easy, Doc. It’s all dried.” She reaches over and pats his shoulder with… more gusto than she usually allows herself.

But Flick was next. With questions that deserved answers. 

“Mm.” She starts. Though… Perhaps more words were needed. Earned. “I… I did. Think about that. Since...” Every extra word was like getting her sea legs. "Because that's what Cross thought. And he wouldn't listen- He just started running, and I-" Her voice trails off. Perhaps she shouldn't go into the details, not when Cross wasn't able to defend himself. She reaches up, running her finger along the brim on her hat as she puts it back in place. Deep breath. Her face steels. 

Flick likes a finger press to a hot stove, but they’re not the type to go and lean on it. After figuring out exactly how hot it was, they resigned themselves to watching again, only meeting Khloe’s gaze levelly when she’d fixed them with that cold look.

But their eyes flutter shut as the rain starts. With the sound, they can feel the snap of an iceplant between their fingertips, wind playing with their hair, the cooling heat of the rocky cliff under their legs; they can smell the bitten peach they use to collect the flies that would be landing on their skin otherwise, knowing the incoming rain will drive them away now; they can see the first smatterings of ink on their journal pages. Santa Monica was never enough, and the open window of the train doesn’t come close. There’s a part of her that wishes the roof would blow off, that they could all feel something aside from the stale air they had all been breathing in since they’d arrived.

It’s a short lived thought. This close, the all-encompassing flash of lightning and the thunder are almost simultaneous. The light sears even through closed eyes, and they blink open with a start. Their free hand falls heavily on the piano keys, pressing them down soundlessly.

Their vision clears; they look at Khloe for only a couple of heartbeats before their head snaps to the side, free hand covering their own nose. While their hand rubs by their upper lip -- maybe out of some deeply empathetic feeling, maybe as if their doing so will transfer the motion to Khloe -- an uncomfortable feeling bubbles from their stomach, thick enough that they could grit their teeth and bite it. The physicality of the blood on the table, like wiping sweat from a brow after lifting something, the evidence of the work…. …Well, there’s no point in them opening their mouth and letting that feeling spill over. They pull their hand from their face, tap their POM quickly, and rest that hand on the piano. With their eyes hazy and their fingers slightly curling and with their distance, it’s hard to consider their thoughts. After the vote tally, they finally look back over to the group again.

She’s grateful for Fox, and she’s grateful for the space between herself and the action. She’s quiet immediately following his commands and, after allowing for some time, she calls from her safe position by the piano.

“So… like… you got what you wanted, didn’t you, Khlo?”

The quality of their voice is lower, resonant. It’s not a yell, but it has the volume of one, clear despite the fact that she’s not at the discussion table.

“You’re not dying for this, you know? But we’re gonna have to live with not knowing if we made the right call or not. You know, since we’re not gonna be sure about you like how we’re sure about Ruri, Lucky, and Cross, now.”

A flex of the hand on the piano again, shaking their hair back from their face.

“Jules was right, wasn’t he? You were scared we’d kill you, thinking you killed Sou because of your powers. And like… we didn’t. You owe it to everyone to offer some kind of assurance, don’t you?”

A tilt of their head, a scrunch in their eye visible even from the distance.