“What if Troikans expect perfection from you?” the MB continues. “With their countless rules and regulations, how can they not? Can you be perfect?”
She licks her lips, shakes her head. “No one can.” A whisper. He’s getting to her.
“That’s right. No one can. If you return with us, we will accept you for who and what you are, no matter what you’ve done. You must simply admit you made a mistake asking for a court date and denounce Troika.”
“Tell him you have no crimes,” Deacon whispers, as caught up in the drama as I am. “Tell him you are free from your past. Tell him you are ready to start over.”
I tremble as if I’m the one on trial. —Surely our Barrister prepped her for this?—
—He did. But knowing what’s coming isn’t the same as experiencing it.—
The noose tightens.
Radiating sorrow and regret, tears running down her cheeks and snot pouring from her nose, the human chokes out, “I’ve done despicable things. Unforgivable things.”
The TB sheds a tear of his own.
“I’m sorry,” she whispers. “I made a mistake. I can’t risk the hatred of your people. I choose to remain with Myriad.”
Cheers erupt from one side, groans from the other.
“So you have said.” The judge bangs, bangs the gavel. “So it shall be.”
A wiry blanket of disappointment wraps around me.
“This.” Deacon’s hands curl around his knees, his knuckles turning white. “This is how eighty-nine percent of cases end up.”
And this is what Dior will face. Dior, who harbors resentment against Myriad. Who hates herself for the things she’s done and the people she’s allowed to suffer.
We have to prepare her. We have to prepare her hard, until the only sentence she’s willing to speak is “I choose Troika.”
Determined, burning with urgency, I jump to my feet. —Come on. We’ve got work to do, a case to win and a girl to save.—
—Not yet.—Deacon clasps my wrist and draws me back to the bench. —The proceeding isn’t yet over.—
—But the judge banged the gavel.—And I know what’s coming next, what Deacon warned me about. I don’t want to watch. —Let’s go. Please.—
—The Barrister had the strength to risk his life. We must have the strength to witness his death.—
My chest tightens as the MB smirks at the TB, who is standing, moving around the dais. He stops in front of the MB, his hands clenched at his sides. My throat threatens to close.
Pity darkens the TB’s eyes. Pity, and a determination that is far more powerful than mine.
What I don’t see? Regret.
Tremors rock me as the judge unscrews the top from the gavel, revealing a blade hidden underneath. A blade he hands to the MB.
“Weapons aren’t allowed,” I call, willing to risk punishment to stop this. My words go unheeded.
Deacon reaches over to squeeze my knee. “His name is Tom. He has a wife he adores. He works in the orphanage in his free time, teaching children how to play baseball. He is kind.”
I want to scream at Deacon to shut up. I don’t need to know. I don’t want to know. I want to leave. But the TB—his name is Tom, kind Tom with a wife—doesn’t deserve my cowardice.
Then...oh, then...
With a single motion, the MB slashes the TB’s throat. I cry out, the reason for the drain suddenly, vividly clear.
Tom presses his hands against his wound. Lifeblood spills between his fingers and from his mouth. Though pain fills his eyes, the pity and determination never falter.
The human hunches over and vomits. Tom topples, lands with a heavy thump. He shakes...shakes, fighting death...and finally stills.
“The price is paid,” Deacon rasps. “Even though it was paid in vain.”
MYRIAD
* * *
From: K_F_5/23.53.6
To: S_A_5/46.15.33
Subject: Let’s get together
Come to my place. There are things I’d like to do in the dark…
Might Equals Right!
ML, Killian Flynn
MYRIAD
* * *
From: S_A_5/46.15.33
To: K_F_5/23.53.6
Subject: On my way
Hopefully you’re better with your hands this time.
Might Equals Right!
ML-in-training,
Sloan Aubuchon
MYRIAD
* * *
From: K_F_5/23.53.6
To: Z_C_4/23.43.2
Subject: Things are gonna get freaky
So I’m going to disconnect and take a little time out with Sloan. I know, I know. You’d rather we remained connected. Thing is, I’m giving you a heads-up, not asking for permission. We’d rather have privacy. And yeah, I know everyone claims intimate moments aren’t recorded, but we’d rather not take any chances. I’m irresistible enough as it is.
Might Equals Right!
ML, Killian Flynn
MYRIAD
* * *
From: Z_C_4/23.43.2
She licks her lips, shakes her head. “No one can.” A whisper. He’s getting to her.
“That’s right. No one can. If you return with us, we will accept you for who and what you are, no matter what you’ve done. You must simply admit you made a mistake asking for a court date and denounce Troika.”
“Tell him you have no crimes,” Deacon whispers, as caught up in the drama as I am. “Tell him you are free from your past. Tell him you are ready to start over.”
I tremble as if I’m the one on trial. —Surely our Barrister prepped her for this?—
—He did. But knowing what’s coming isn’t the same as experiencing it.—
The noose tightens.
Radiating sorrow and regret, tears running down her cheeks and snot pouring from her nose, the human chokes out, “I’ve done despicable things. Unforgivable things.”
The TB sheds a tear of his own.
“I’m sorry,” she whispers. “I made a mistake. I can’t risk the hatred of your people. I choose to remain with Myriad.”
Cheers erupt from one side, groans from the other.
“So you have said.” The judge bangs, bangs the gavel. “So it shall be.”
A wiry blanket of disappointment wraps around me.
“This.” Deacon’s hands curl around his knees, his knuckles turning white. “This is how eighty-nine percent of cases end up.”
And this is what Dior will face. Dior, who harbors resentment against Myriad. Who hates herself for the things she’s done and the people she’s allowed to suffer.
We have to prepare her. We have to prepare her hard, until the only sentence she’s willing to speak is “I choose Troika.”
Determined, burning with urgency, I jump to my feet. —Come on. We’ve got work to do, a case to win and a girl to save.—
—Not yet.—Deacon clasps my wrist and draws me back to the bench. —The proceeding isn’t yet over.—
—But the judge banged the gavel.—And I know what’s coming next, what Deacon warned me about. I don’t want to watch. —Let’s go. Please.—
—The Barrister had the strength to risk his life. We must have the strength to witness his death.—
My chest tightens as the MB smirks at the TB, who is standing, moving around the dais. He stops in front of the MB, his hands clenched at his sides. My throat threatens to close.
Pity darkens the TB’s eyes. Pity, and a determination that is far more powerful than mine.
What I don’t see? Regret.
Tremors rock me as the judge unscrews the top from the gavel, revealing a blade hidden underneath. A blade he hands to the MB.
“Weapons aren’t allowed,” I call, willing to risk punishment to stop this. My words go unheeded.
Deacon reaches over to squeeze my knee. “His name is Tom. He has a wife he adores. He works in the orphanage in his free time, teaching children how to play baseball. He is kind.”
I want to scream at Deacon to shut up. I don’t need to know. I don’t want to know. I want to leave. But the TB—his name is Tom, kind Tom with a wife—doesn’t deserve my cowardice.
Then...oh, then...
With a single motion, the MB slashes the TB’s throat. I cry out, the reason for the drain suddenly, vividly clear.
Tom presses his hands against his wound. Lifeblood spills between his fingers and from his mouth. Though pain fills his eyes, the pity and determination never falter.
The human hunches over and vomits. Tom topples, lands with a heavy thump. He shakes...shakes, fighting death...and finally stills.
“The price is paid,” Deacon rasps. “Even though it was paid in vain.”
MYRIAD
* * *
From: K_F_5/23.53.6
To: S_A_5/46.15.33
Subject: Let’s get together
Come to my place. There are things I’d like to do in the dark…
Might Equals Right!
ML, Killian Flynn
MYRIAD
* * *
From: S_A_5/46.15.33
To: K_F_5/23.53.6
Subject: On my way
Hopefully you’re better with your hands this time.
Might Equals Right!
ML-in-training,
Sloan Aubuchon
MYRIAD
* * *
From: K_F_5/23.53.6
To: Z_C_4/23.43.2
Subject: Things are gonna get freaky
So I’m going to disconnect and take a little time out with Sloan. I know, I know. You’d rather we remained connected. Thing is, I’m giving you a heads-up, not asking for permission. We’d rather have privacy. And yeah, I know everyone claims intimate moments aren’t recorded, but we’d rather not take any chances. I’m irresistible enough as it is.
Might Equals Right!
ML, Killian Flynn
MYRIAD
* * *
From: Z_C_4/23.43.2
