Chapter Text
Electricity has never sounded so loud. The steady whirring of the overhead lights drown out the quiet chatter of the courtroom. It's interesting, Zaeth notes from the dumb table he's sat at, how dumb this whole process is. By no means is this the only time he's had to stand trial, but it is the first time he's had to attend. In life, he had been sent a bunch of papers with fancy pictures on them. The name of the courts had been plastered all over, and at that point Zaeth would burn them. If there's no evidence of the letters being real how can it ever be proven that he read them?
Unfortunately the internet exists now, so avoidance isn't a good method any more. Phones are everywhere, and even if he avoids his messages other people aren't going to. Sometimes people snoop through your phone, and read the message, so it says it's been seen. He's also responsible now, and avoiding shit isn't responsible.
It's fucked up, how he can't avoid shit any more. The internet sucks.
Vampires enter from the shadow-y hallway, filtering into the dull space. His eyes track each of them as they settle into their seats. They are each dressed all fancy, suits and ties and long frocks. Just like Lavonte and HJ are normally. Even the rest of his coterie are dressed fancier then they normally are. The superheroes have none of their… hero shit, and Madelaine's outfit is covering more skin then he's ever seen her cover.
They tried to get him to dress all fancy too. Get him to ditch his jeans and jean vest and cover up. Lavonte said it'd help him- get him to be all respectable and reasonable. Said there was something about his clothes that gave the wrong idea and that wouldn't help him at all.
What's the point of changing? If he's representing himself, then changing himself won't help. It'd actually make him less respectable, if he changed himself to win people over.
He then told Lavonte to go fuck himself. Can't be told to do shit as the Prince of Purpee.
It's insulting to try to do so. Lavonte should know that. He hates being told what to do and he's not even the fucking Prince! Why wouldn't he hate it.
Zaeth keeps his weight forward, leaning against the table. His arms pillow his head, and he cannot wait for all this bullshit to end. They've been stuck in San Francisco for nights now, and Zaeth finds himself missing his ever loyal steed. Ghorse was not allowed to come, and it took many hours of convincing the stallion not to follow behind like some lost puppy. The unpaid intern should be looking after the wonderful beast, and if Zaeth returns finding a single hair out of place he's going to bleed that kid dry, regardless of what the others might say about it.
The humming of light sears itself behind his eyelids, and he finds himself wishing that they turned at least one of these awful lights off. He can't nap at all under these conditions, and his body is shaking at the refusal of impulse. It jitters through his body uncomfortably, and only through the sensation of crescent moons in his palm is he able to contain himself. If he wouldn't be immediately tackled to the ground, he would have broken one of these fucking pieces of shits already. There'd be ruckus in this courtroom, and he would be happy.
As it stands now though? Zaeth Bondana is maybe more miserable then he's ever been in his godforsaken unlife.
Vampire's continue to file in, and he refuses to look at any of them. He's not sure why they are all taking so long. This is boring as sin, all this dumb ceremony, and he doesn't get why they are all stalling. The sooner this is over, the sooner they can all fuck right off back to the stupid skyscrapers they live in. Is it so boring here that they have nothing better to do then to stall a stupid court case.
He just wants to go home. Is that such a crime? Maybe they should trial him for that instead of 'not following orders' or whatever bullshit they are getting him for. Maybe their lives are boring enough that they have nothing better to do, but he has shit to do as the Prince of Purpee. Responsibility to… Responsibility-y.
Or whatever.
He's busy.
There's the loud bang of the gavel, and Zaeth pulls himself up in his seat. Fucking Finally.
Virkus is sat in the highest chair, with the Primogen of San Francisco standing behind him like the worlds worst school photo. Their faces are blank as ever, and Zaeth tenses his arm against the desire to fly across the table and deck one of them. Koschei refuses to look at him, his eyes skipping over him as if he's not even here.
Virkus begins to speak, and the words fall silent to Zaeth's ears. It's not like he really needs to hear the words. He knows what's about to happen.
He knows that look. Knows that disapointment readily. Remembers it from the last time he was in the city. It's the look of care marred by shame. It's one Koschei wears often, especially if it's got something to do with him.
Zaeth leans back in his chair, and crosses his arms over his chest. Might as well get comfortable. Might just be his last time he feels it in a while.
"-Zaeth Bondana has been found guilty of harbouring Anarch sentiment and destroying a Primogen of San Francisco, and shall be punished in accordance to Camarilla Tradition." The Prince of San Francisco's voice rings clear in the almost silent courtroom.
The humming is drowned out by cries of outrage. The superheroes are by far the loudest, hissing their refusal and slamming their fists down against the fences that separate them. They aren't the only ones, though. HJ is taking it badly too, though it sounds like instead of screaming he's crying. Those SSRI's have definitely changed him.
They aren't alone in their outrage. Despite knowing it was coming, Zaeth feels the warmth of frenzy seep through his withered veins. His neck twinges with the sweet beckoning of it, and he clenches his jaw to shove that feeling deep into the recesses of his chest. If they are going to do this to him they might as well get it over with. He hates the needless fluff around this shit.
He wants to run far away, flee across the nation and go somewhere they'll never find him. His leg bounces under the table, the frenzy threatening him making itself known, and he lets it do so. He wants to fight his way out of this room, and all the way home.
He may not be smart, but he knows that's a stupid idea. They'd destroy him before he even left the room, and probably the others too. No matter how much Madelaine might insist that none of this had anything to do with her, the fact she's sitting behind him is enough evidence for those claims to be untrue.
"Any closing remarks from the defendant?"
Zaeth pulls the most convincing grin he can onto his face and leans forward; "What can I say? You got me."
More outrage echoes throughout the room, though not as close as before. His attention turns to the other half of the room, and is met with frenzied faces. They claw at him, and he's sure the only reason why they haven't begun mauling him is because doing so would break their oh-so-precious traditions.
There are hands grabbing at his back. He ignores them.
His eyes finally meet Koschei's, and behind that veneer of disdain Zaeth knows there is a deep despair. Some disdain is there, sure, but the despair is what burns him.
"You did this," he mouths to his Sire. He grins afterwards, and hopes his own disdain is evident.
Koschei's attention snaps towards his Prince, and Zaeth does not bother to hide his sneer. He's already been sentenced, and it's only through Koschei's reputation that the result isn't his immediate destruction.
Zaeth kicks his legs up onto the table, and the back of the chair knocks into the fencing keeping him and his coterie apart.
"Order in the Court!" Virkus slams the gavel down onto the podium, and the head snaps off with the force of it.
It takes time for the courtroom to crawl back to that humming silence of before. Zaeth can hear his unneeded breathing cut through it, and he digs his nails into his arms.
HJ's sobs seem to have quietened, but he's not alone in crying any more. It's faint, but Zaeth knows it's there.
Zaeth rises to his feet and thrusts his arms out in front of him; "You gonna arrest me?" He asks to the room, relishing in the raised hackles of the San Franciscan Vampires.
If they are all so convinced he's an Anarch, he might as well play the part. It's not so far off, any ways, to everyone else's chagrin.
Why shouldn't he let them think he's the next MacNeil? Put the fear of Cain into these bozos. Fucking deserve it, losers.
The council trades looks, and pass something around out of sight. Zaeth doesn't lower his arms, and steps around the table he was forced to sit at. He doesn't approach the podium any more, though he is really tempted. It's not like any of them are brave enough to approach such a scary kindred.
He's 5'9 on a good day. He's not even Nosferatu. Cowards. The lot of them.
"We don't have all night," he says, taking another step towards the podium.
Tarker flinches, and Zaeth bares his teeth in a wide grin. Maybe he could even be the next Garcia. That'd really scare the shit out of them.
"What the fuck's wrong with you?" He hears Lavonte hiss.
Zaeth doesn't spare the man a glance.
Koschei steps off the podium and comes towards him. In one hand, held by the chain, is a pair of handcuffs and in the other there are a good number of zip-ties.
It's not a surprise a that it's his own sire doing this. He is the strongest of this council. Tarker wouldn't be able to hold him off at all, and the rest of them wouldn't be any better. Ermine definitely wouldn't, but she's not here any more so what she'd be able to do doesn't even matter. It'd be a slap in the face for him to run away, and it'd make Virkus look like a wimp.
However, despite responsibility knowing this to be true, it doesn't mean that impulse is happy about it. He keeps the danger on his face even as Koschei approaches him.
There's nothing tender about how his sire slaps the cuffs on him, nor in how he ties the zip-ties.
It's expected. It'd be weird if he did anything else. Impulse brings pressure to the space behind his eyes. His eyes do not mist.
"It was out of my hands," Koschei whispers into his ear, "You are out of control."
Zaeth sets his jaw, and squares his shoulders. He cannot bring himself to say anything.
Cheers drown out the humming, and smother the sombre attitude surrounding Zaeth. It's no wonder they are celebrating. A terrifying Anarch was just arrested, and the beloved tower of Camarilla stays standing in at least one city of the sunny state of California.
"Court Dismissed." Virkus announces, and Koschei grabs Zaeth by the flesh of his bicep.
Zaeth does not look at his coterie as he is lead out of the courtroom. He has no reason to. There's nothing to be done. It's not like this is going to stop any of them in doing whatever they want. It's hard to stop them- the Camarilla should know that by now.
He's happy though, that they don't.
Just as Koschei almost drags him out of the room, Zaeth tosses a smile over his shoulder at the council still stood at the podium. It's shaky, and he knows his eyes are open a little too wide to give the threat he wants it to.
The electricity is drowned out by celebration. As the doors shut behind him Zaeth's shoulder's drop.
"For what it's worth," A thick Russian accent speaks, "I'm sorry for the ending."
Impulse shakes against his bones with only the pressure on his bicep keeps him from bolting like a startled horse. Zaeth spits at the ground, hitting the toe-cap of his Sire's boots.
Zaeth can't look at his Sire as he drags him along. He doesn't register the walls change in the darkness. He doesn't know where's he being taken- he doesn't need to know where he is going, not with the sentence he's been given. It's not like he's going anywhere in at least a century.
Impulse homes itself in his spine, cold as the dead. He hangs his head. His fist clenches, and shakes.
He does not give his Sire a response.