Trial

This is just a short oneshot about the Demolition Boys and Voltaire. This takes place during a trial against Voltaire for his actions concerning the abbey and BIOVOLT. It's mostly my own imagination running wild, but - enjoy!

Of all the things he'd felt in his life, it had never been remorse, in the mind of Voltaire Hiwatari.

If so, then why did the emotion resound so strongly in his heart right now? He was a man in a trial for his life, and yet all he felt was a strangely hardened pity for those he'd tormented.

Above them all, pity for a certain testifying victim with a locked jaw and tightly-pressed suit. His grandson. Kai.

As far as he knew, his grandson had taken over Hiwatari Enterprises, and cleaned it up a bit of the remaining taints of BIOVOLT. No one ought to detest that organization more than Kai. Unless you counted his four Russian friends, of course.

Spencer, Bryan, Tala and Ian were all glaring at him, from across the bench, with the exact same distorted faces of rage. Each still bore the marks of their earlier punishments.

Voltaire hated it, but his hands were shaking. He clenched them in the tightest fists he could but even then the shaking didn't stop. His knuckles were white and his face flushed with blood, he knew. Somehow having the tables turned, having his life on the line, seemed to have completely changed him from cold and heartless to soft and shaky.

Was it age? The fear of death? Perhaps he'd grown malleable as the years passed? But Voltaire had always been a cold, ruthless businessman. It was a trait he'd tried to pass on to his grandson, and a trait that was now being used against him as Kai wove his tale of misery to the jury.

With each question the lawyer asked, Voltaire could feel his heart pounding. He couldn't even hear any of the muffled words, for his heartbeat was so clearly audible. It was a wonder no one was staring - unless you counted the Demolition Boys, though they were glaring more than staring.

Unlike his grandson, Voltaire had not been given the liberty of wearing his firmly groomed suit. Instead, it was Kai who sat at the stand, Kai who spoke like a man of action, who wore the dark blue pinstriped suit and called the shots. When his gaze turned to his grandfather, it reminded him so much of his own that he shivered. Both out of fear and pride.

Kai's story started out somewhat hard and gritty, like he was a survivor of some distopian universe. Then it grew regretful, mournful, and weaved itself into a tale so rich in sadness that the jury could no longer hold in their tears.

When asked to describe the change in their relationship and where it currently stood, Kai's gaze burned through him. "I want to hate him," he said softly. "But how do you hate the man that raised you, almost since you were born? How do you hate your own grandfather, despite all the crap he'd put you through? How do you hate the man that was supposed to bounce you on your knee and tell you stories when you were young, who taught you all you knew?"

Was Voltaire the only one who saw through his facade? Even the Demolition Boys had started breaking out with a couple of tissues. Only Tala and Bryan remained in perfect, sculpted stone.

Voltaire still admired Bryan's stoically enhanced structure. The research and technology put into it was incredible, and he'd felt as much wonder when they first tested him on the field. By simply watching him, Voltaire recalled the faint shimmer of emotion that sent chills of wonder down his spine. Truly, the boy himself had become a work of art to the field of research. It was a pity that would be wasted.

It didn't mean he couldn't tell a story, though.

Bryan's role seemed to be assigned as the tired young man who had put up with too much of the gruelling experience to even care anymore. Yet his every detail in every account of his beatings, witnesses to murder, torture, extortion, and many other crimes alongside it were startlingly accurate.

Tala was the same, but a cracked and meek version of Bryan. His testament was short, due to his "difficulty in coping with the situation" (or so he said), but like Bryan, his memories were startlingly accurate.

"The abbey is evil," he declared with a shiver. "And Boris, and Voltaire, and every one of this bastards that out us through that hell. That's where we were; hell, fighting for our lives just so that we could fight for the sake of a devil."

The businessman began to feel a sting of confusion. Had he really harmed these boys so much? Had he truly pushed them so far to the edge, they resorted to such drastic actions? He had difficulty in believing it. The boys never seemed to care. He knew that, inwardly, they had always feared him, but even with all the torture and suffering that passed around them they never did so much as flinch. That was the reason he was so enraged at Kai's escape. How dare the boy betray his loyalties and run away like the coward he was? And yet, here they were, each giving their own sad story to the jury.

Whoever hadn't allowed their forming tears to be released yet let them loose when Ian finally came to the stand.

Ian broke down in the middle of his testament at least five times. He was in his teenage years, yet small in size, Voltaire knew, but even so he dealt the cards of youth, innocence and pity very well.

Blubbering about how difficult it had been in the abbey, Ian's mouth was a dangerous, derailed train. He emphasized quite a bit on Voltaire's cruel nature and the merciless harm that had been brought down on them over and over.

At first he thought nothing more of it than a corny display, but then Voltaire began to realize how much these boys no longer feared him, and the amount of thick, concentrated hatred that had come against him instead. Though by now, Tala's head was bowed and his shoulders shaking, Spencer and Bryan's gazes were colder than Russian snow, whilst Kai's head was still swivelled in Voltaire's direction, his crimson eyes burning like that of a Phoenix.

Each of those eyes spoke of hatred. Kai's, fiery and defiant. Bryan, cold and hard-hearted. Spencer, seething with rage and a refusal to so much as glance in Voltaire's direction. Even Tala, whose face was hidden in shadow, had his features contorted in an angry snarl; Ian, filled with and gushing tears like a faucet, had fists that, Voltaire glimpsed, were shaking with fury.

He'd known for a very long time the boys would hate him of they ever got free. He simply didn't know that they would hate him, specifically, so much.

Boris, he told himself, Boris should have been the one they hated the most. Boris was the one who trained them. Boris was the one who starved them. Boris was the one that ordered the punishment, forced them through training, and devised all the terrible plans. So why did they hate him, the unknown face behind the organization, so much?

The answer could have been written on their faces, and the mastermind grandfather still wouldn't understand.

Spencer went up. At the very least, the larger boy was honest with every question the lawyer gave him. Voltaire was glad he hadn't gone up earlier, for each of his answers came in perfectly-tuned timing with the elder man's thoughts.

"Could you describe your relationship with the defendant, please?"

"He's a slavemaster. An evil, mastermind, madman."

"Your relationship, please." The prosecution's lawyer looked like he was trying to swallow a log. "How you would describe your connection to the defendant."

Spencer's arms were crossed and his eyes fixed firmly on the rest of the Demolition Boys as he answered. "He was the man who funded our very suffering. Just some rich freak that we all knew as a master. He knew us as a couple of drones that were his servants."

The prosecution's questions seemed to become his own.

'How do you feel about me now?'

"I'll be glad when that old bastard over here is dead. I'll have nicer dreams tonight."

'Why?'

"That face haunts me every night. That place haunts me, and when he's gone, I know that abbey is, too."

'What did I ever do to hurt you so much?'

Spencer's jaw tightened, and suddenly Voltaire was glad for the presence of judges, guards, the other Demolition Boys, and that the stand Spencer sat in was difficult to remove and launch oneself from, for he knew, in that moment, that if Spencer could have killed him just then, he would have.

The boy's eyes were murderous. "I hate him," he growled, his voice quivering. "We all do. He's responsible for everything, all of it. From the first day I saw his face in the abbey, I started to see it everywhere. Even with his dirty mask on, Boris's face became his. Every single guard that pushed me around had his nasty mug. With... With every single person he made me fight..." His voice cracked, and he shook his head. "All I saw was him. He haunts me everywhere. Not just at night. I don't have to look at him to see him. All I want is to see him dead."

The courtroom fell silent with Spencer's dark and bloodlusty proclamation. Even the churning thoughts in Voltaire's mind were silent, but for some reason he stood up, chains clattering against the polished surface of the wooden desk. Some people tried to pull him down, but he persisted, standing despite the urges of his attorney and orders from the guards.

"Go on, Spencer." His voice was so cold and dead the courtroom could freeze. "Tell me. Tell them. Tell them everything."

A wild look flickered in the boy's eyes, but he looked away and stared down at the desk. There was a shuffle from the benches in the back, and Voltaire looked back to see that his grandson had stood up. He was holding Tala's hand tightly,tears brimming in his eyes. He gave a small, tiny, nod, one that only Spencer and Voltaire saw, for they were the only ones who dared to look.

"We suffered, all of us...for his selfish sake. We didn't know what we'd ever done wrong, but we were just...punished." The last word came out in a forced choke.

"We survived, somehow...thinking of would make things better. If we performed better. But the pain just kept coming, they did more things..." He took a shuddering breath, shaking uncontrollably. But one look at his friends seemed to bring him back to full confidence.

"They put a chip in Bry's head," he announced more loudly, chewing his lip so hard Voltaire thought the skin might break, with a gaze determinedly looking at the Demolition Boys in the back. "We heard him screaming for days how much it hurt, and we tried to take care of him, but then after...he felt nothing. That hurt us the most, losing our friend like that. We still took care of him - whenever he would let us, but it just wasn't the same. Ian cried too much, and didn't get food for a week. We gave him what we could, but he was still so thin...so weak...he couldn't do anything, and we couldn't do anything because he was trapped in a cell all by himself and couldn't move..."

Voltaire remembered those days well; Bryan had been the most expensive soldier of them all, and money well spent. Voltaire had observed the operation himself, but the last memory he had before seeing the boy as a mindless drone was nothing but stitches being sewn to seal the cut made in his skull. Boris had informed him later on that a few of the boys had required punishment due to the change, and Voltaire had quietly accepted it without even caring or realizing who in particular had undergone these brutal teachings.

"Tala, you..." Spencer swallowed. "You tried so hard to help us...you were the one who figured out ways to sneak food for Ian when he was half-starved, you lost battles against us on purpose so we wouldn't be punished..." He gave a bitter chuckle, and Voltaire turned to see that the red-haired Russian had buried his tearful face in his hands, a watery-eyed Ian and soft-faced Bryan both embracing him. Several times, Voltaire's attorney stood to try and state an objection, but the elder kept insisting to let him continue. "I want to hear this," he murmured. "I want to know what they think." He refocused his enraptured gaze on Spencer, though the lawyer looked at him as if he was crazy.

"Tala, you were so...sensitive, but...we probably wouldn't have made it out without your help..." The red-head gave a small noise halfway between laughter and a pitiful sob. "And Kai..." Spencer's eyes glazed over. "You...were the bravest. I'd never seen anyone so fierce and rebellious in the abbey..." He took another deep breath, though this time it was more controlled. "When Boris would take us for punishments, you made a deal and took them instead...the number of times we snuck out, just you and me, Kai, and painted stupid stuff on the abbey walls, it was the only time I ever felt free, the only time I had fun there, even just a little bit...and then when they found the paint cans, you..." He gave a small chuckle that turned quickly bitter.

"You took all the blame, and it hurt worse, watching you come back...all bloody...and then that one day the four of us finally shared a cell, you told us..." Spencer swallowed, a small sound that was easily heard in the thick silence of the courtroom. Voltaire thought he would continue, but then his former Seaborg slave buried his face in his hands and let the tears flow.

Voltaire's attorney stood, meaning to take the floor, but a voice spoke up from the back. "You told us that you were Voltaire's grandson," said Bryan quietly. "I told you I never wanted to see your filthy face again." He gave a bitter laugh as he glanced down at Kai, who wore a sad smile accompanied by a single trail of water on his cheek that Voltaire had never seen before. "And later you ran up to Boris and punched him in the face after he gave me a good smacking." His eyes died down to something apologetic and regretful; once again, an emotion that Voltaire had thought completely alien to the boy was on his face. "I'm so sorry," Bryan whispered to the Hiwatari grandson, sinking back down to the bench.

Kai's gaze was averted. "I ran away the day after," he murmured, "but I wish I had taken all of you with me." Bryan held back for a minute, seemingly hesitant, but then buried Kai in his arms.

A strange bewilderment had overtaken the helpless, elderly man sitting in the defendant's corner of the trial.

He knew these boys. He thought he had. They showed no pity, no remorse, no anguish, and no regret for causing pain.

Everything in this trial was wrong. Wrong, wrong, wrong. Spencer didn't have nightmares. Bryan never apologized for anything. Tala wouldn't accept comfort, nor should Ian offer any. And least of all, could his grandson ever shed a single drop of liquid other than blood. Even his eyes were proof of that.

But now those eyes, those thoughts, those actions, and those boys had betrayed him. Voltaire thought he understood those boys because he watched them battle. Knew them inside out and saw straight through them all because they were afraid of him. How could his miserable mind have been so wrong for all these years?

If he didn't know these boys, no one quickly and silently, he realized: study knew each other. They had shared tears and apologies with one another, something he had never seen in them. How? They were in separate cells up to the day they'd been chosen to represent Russia. None of them had ever interacted in any friendly manner before either Voltaire or Boris. How was it that he knew so little about them after so long? Even his own grandson?

But he did know one thing: what they savoured was defeat. The taste of his last-minute stand as he floundered under their vast numbers and overwhelming strength.

Though he knew that some of them were trying to hide it, Voltaire could tell that the jury was glaring at him with obvious hatred. Some let it show directly on their faces, while others, at the very least, attempted to disguise or mask their disgust.

Voltaire smiled. He'd always been known as a ruthless businessman. He would have no problem dying that way, too. He leaned over to his lawyer and did something he'd never done before - surrendered.

"Call off the witnesses," he murmured. "I know I've paid some of them, but just give them more money to leave. Now. I don't have a defence. Is that understood?" He was so used to giving orders to Boris, he'd almost forgotten that his loyal servant was gone - shot by the police whilst attempting to escape.

The attorney gave him a baffled look. "Absolutely-"

"Do it, or you're fired," Voltaire snarled.

Licking his lips, the attorney whispered to his assistant, then stood, straightening his tie, and made the announcement to the court: "My...my client...the defendant...says he has no defence for his actions."

A small gasp rang around the courtroom; Voltaire smirked. He could almost feel the angrily burning gazes of the five boys behind him.

The judge gestured behind him, to the bench. "What about all the witnesses you've gathered?" She queried, pushing her glasses further up her nose.

The attorney glanced behind him, and Voltaire felt a flutter of annoyance at having to clarify, but he held his smirk steady. 'A good businessman never smiles, if he can help it. He just pushes his lips up, just like the business.'

"They're...not witnesses, your honour. Just...friends. Family."

Voltaire heard the dark mutters behind him, but it didn't matter; the bribes had already been given out, so those people could still walk out with their money.

The judge glanced back and forth. "Very well," she decided, looking rather cross. Voltaire looked behind him and saw that the gazes of the five boys behind him were laced with a single, suspicious thought: did he bribe the jury? Threaten them? Was he somehow going to evoke something with his death? Would there be others to come after them?

Voltaire settled back in his chair with a satisfied smile. A businessman couldn't smile, but a dead man could.

Those boys would rest in peace for the rest of their lives, while Voltaire in his own handmade creation of a grave.