Chapter Text
Simon sat with his back to the judge. The little makeshift public lawyer they gave him wouldn’t even look at him. His wrists were tied with black rope, and then to the holes in his chair. He thought it was kind of funny, because if he could really do what they presumed he could, then these ropes wouldn’t do much. Now when he pulled they pulled taut. He groaned.
“Convict Simon.” The judges voice rang smoothly through the windowless room. He could feel eyes on him. Some scared, some angry. All sorrowful. He straightened out.
“Yeah.” Silence followed his response. He cursed himself in his head for potentially being disrespectful. The thought that a ‘yes’ would probably have been more formal crossed his mind, followed swiftly by a ‘whatever, it won’t lessen my sentence anyway.’
“Listen. You don’t need to tell us why.”
“Oh-kay.”
“We just want to know how you did it.”
Damn. Not this again. Simon turned his head slightly, eyes catching the judge’s face for a moment. He hoped momentarily that this rage bubbling inside of him could be conveyed through a bitchy look. All he wanted to do was live, and now he’s being held in front of people who would never understand, looked at like an animal.
He’d had this conversation before. First with a makeshift criminal psychologist (which was actually just a person with a slightly above-average vocabulary), then with his reflection, and now here. The answer was always the same:
“I don’t know. Sorry.” His voice was monotone, and his eyes drifted from the left side of the wall to the right. It really didn’t matter what he said. He didn’t know what they were expecting, anyway. ‘Yeah, I blew them all up with my mind.’ A lie. ‘I don’t actually know what happened, but this closed off secret part of my soul knows I did it. That’s why I look so nervous. Not because I’m guilty.’ Technically the truth. Might get him to inadvertently plead insanity. Oh, well.
A collective sigh ensued at his bore of an answer, and Simon rolled his eyes.
“Can we skip this and can you just throw me in prison? It doesn’t matter how or why it happened, you’re convinced it was me, and I can’t change your mind. So just… fucking… I don’t know.” The room was silent. He guessed by the shortly following murmurs that there were around ten people there.
“You’re not going to prison.” Simon froze, then shifted, feet braced on the ground instinctively. He had a feeling this wasn’t a revelation that was going to bring him much relief. Go on. “Eden is desolate after what you did. I’m sure you know that.” He found his gaze downcast. Looking at his hands again. Tapped his foot. He could only imagine how guilty he looked. Like his body was responding naturally to something it knew he did. He didn’t know why.
“There’s no formal name for this, so I’ll explain it.” He perked up slightly, realizing the voice changed. This fucking idiot sentencing him doesn’t even know what his punishment is. He wondered lightly if that was funny. “You’ll be the first. This will be an involuntary experimental exploration program… taking place on the moon nearest to us that sports potential for life.”
“Shit.” He didn’t mean to say that. Silence, followed by a throat clearing. Damnit. Shut up.
“The, uh, Iron Lung is the name of the vessel you’ll be welded into. It’s an industrial grade submarine, virtually pressure-proof. Of course, we don’t know what it can handle, so implosion is still a possibility… hence our usage of you as a test.”
Wow. Thoughtful.
“You can earn your freedom if during your expedition, you find something that contains DNA or other clonable material that is either edible or useful to our science programs. You will be trained over the course of 48 hours, and given minimal supplies.” Scattered murmurs broke out, before dissipating.
Simon’s main problem when it came to handling awkward silence is that he always felt like he needed his voice to fill it. Unfortunately, he’d been hit over the head too many times to count, so his words came out a little harsh.
“This sounds more like an execution than an exploration.” He muttered, tapping his shoes together to try to wake up his left leg. Note to self: stop making smart ass quips. No, it’s not better than being a dumbass.
“You will no longer have a name.” The other, grittier voice was back. It was still a man. Presumably older. Reminded him of his dad. “You will be henceforth known simply by your title, Convict. This will decide not only the trajectory of your life—the protection of which seems to occupy your conscience most of the time, anyway—but also of everyone else. You want to fucking redeem yourself? Here’s your chance, Convict.”