Alistair in Britannian finery was at once a queer site and a natural one. A born and bred prince, he'd spent most of his life with silks and fine linens lying against his skin, with gold gleaming across his breast, but madness had given way to an awkwardness that made anything but a t shirt look queer. A torn pair of jeans, however, would look unsightly in a high court room. Thus, Alistair had been scrubbed and combed and acne-creamed till he looked as presentable as he could.

He fiddled anxiously with the pressed and pleated cuffs of his spotless white shirt. He hadn't eaten all morning, but his stomach was still churning in an upheaval, and the prince seriously thought he might throw up before they reached the courthouse.

"…I told you you're going to be fine, Ali-Cat"

Odysseus' deep voice at his left was comforting, but did little to quell his nausea. All Alistair could do was nod vaguely, and move from his cuffs to picking at a tender sore on his chin.

Oddie's hands were warm as he reached up to pull Alistair's away from his face. He shook his head. "You'll get more scars if you keep picking at those," he warned halfheartedly.

Alistair shrugged. "I'll just go to a fancy dermatologist and she can laser then off."

Then quiet. Nothing could really be said at the moment that hadn't been said already, and nothing could really calm a teenage boy who's life was about to be put into a stranger's hands. The first time around, over two year ago, Alistair had been in a completely different place. He didn't know what was going on, not when day after day Odysseus would visit and find him staring blankly into corners for hours upon hours, only to finally curl up on the floor and sleep just as long. He had no idea then, that a trial of 5 men and women had declared that he couldn't live to see 16 unless he cut this shit out.

But here he was, only 9 months shy of his original execution date, and he was facing the metaphorical hangman once more. This time, he was aware. He knew. No one back when he was 12 had said a word, not thinking he'd actually be able to understand anyway. But now he could, and his stomach gave another lurch.

"…Oddie?" he finally whispered, staring out the window at the gleaming, sleek walls of the city. When his brother hmm?'d in response, he finally asked, "What if they don't let me pass?"

Odysseus was glad Alistair was looking away; though he couldn't see his own expression, he could feel the hard, weary flush across his face. However, he was a Britannian prince, and though he didn't value deception and cunning to the same level as his younger brothers and sisters, Oddie was as much a craftsman of half truths and stretched lies as Schneizel.

"That won't happen, Alistair," he soothed, and adjusted the papers in his lap. He held in a small bundle an assortment of legal jargon and psycho-jumbo that he didn't fully understand, but knew were his tools to dig Alistair from this pit. Over the last two years, with no school to keep him busy, he spent most of his free time (that is, the few hours he spent away from Alistair) researching through enormous volumes of law texts and scouring the internet for any developments, specialists, anything that could treat his mind. His keyboard was worn down to a shine from typing every combination of "Disorganized" "Schizophrenia" "mania" and "delusions" that he could think of.

Now, it came to this. It may not be Alistair's last chance, but they really couldn't bank on another hearing. He was borne of the royal bloodline, but Father was so stringent about not bending the laws for his own son. Not that he really considered any of them to be anything more than just one sperm who managed to out swim the others. All it would take is the emperor's word, and Alistair could be unchained and free to live how he liked, with the unlimited care he needed. Instead, they were forced to plow through an almost impossible minefield of legalities and court systems.

"It's not going to happen. Look at you, you're doing so well!" and both of them had to make a point of not looking down at Alistair's wrists, and the healing scars his shirt sleeves demurely concealed. "A-and I know they'll see that. It's not going to be like that this time."

Alistair nodded, still looking out the window, the bright concrete and steel of the outside making his reflection almost invisible. He could see little more than a vague, hazy ghost of his outline, a few tendrils of dark waves, but nothing else. All his features were washed out from the sunlight. Though the car was cool and air conditioned, the glass was hot and comfortable when he leaned against it.

How comfortable this car was. Even without the luxurious leather interior and the spacious legroom here in the backseat, he'd have been just peachy being chauffeured around like this. The air was warm against his face but cool otherwise, and he let himself be lulled by the white noise of the electric motor, and by his brother's voice. He wasn't really listening, but his speech waws as familiar as his favorite jersey. You'll be fine, everything will be fine.

Why couldn't they just stay here? Drive past the courthouse, away from the walls of the city, drop their driver off at a tavern along the way and let Oddie take them away from here. Out of Arizona, maybe up somewhere cooler, or at least wetter. Florida sounded nice, or northern California. They could run away, move to Costa Rica, change their names to Francisco and Raul, and open a little crepe shop…yup. Totally. He was a little on the pale side, having spent most of the last two years in and out of hospitals, but a few days on a beach and some baby oil oughta cure that.

But…no. the car stopped in front of the courthouse, just as expected, and their doors were opened by the two bodyguards sitting in the partitioned second row in front of them.

'Taking me to my death, and they're worried about my health,' Alistair thought ironically, the uncomfortably large, suited man keeping close to him as he himself stuck to his brother's side.

He'd never actually been inside the courthouse, not having been present at his first hearing…he didn't like to contemplate the lack of justice in that. This was Britannia, where justice and social equality had a much different meaning than it did to the rest of the world.

As with anywhere else worth stature, Pendragon's House of High Court just reeked of privilege and power. On every wall were scenes and portraits of a history Alistair once felt entitled to call his personal lineage. Her first Royal Highness, her consort, the men and women who retreated from the onslaught of Europe for the new world, people he supposed he could call his great-something grandparents. Would they recognize their beautiful Britannia as it was now? Of course pride and arrogance ran as deep into thie world as did Sakuradite, but one had to wonder if perhaps they'd been a tad more…un asshole-y.

He couldn't' really call it a corrupt system; it ran efficiently. That much was obvious, with the rabid expansion the empire had been going through as of late. 3 areas added in just two years, from what little Alistair knew, and rumors of a weapon in development that would change the face of the front lines.

No, a corrupt government was one that sought to deceive and undermine it's own people first and foremost, whereas under Britannia rule, even the lowest farmer's child was considered a ruby when compared to any Lord from the EU or, worse, a noble from China, Japan, or the Middle East and Africa. Skin color wasn't what made a Britannian one of the elite so much as it was culture. Not even their clever historians could change the fact that theirs was a country built on immigration. Hundreds of thousands of nationals from the lower America's, the Orient and, yes, Europe had built up the country's aristocracy and peasant folk long before its regime of I'm-Better-Then-You.

Alistair, though, couldn't really care less anymore. Whatever these white-haired dead bastards thought back then was irrelevant to Britannia's prime laws today; The strong survive, and put the weak out of their misery, and with his delusion, fits, depression and suicidal idealations, he was the weakest person he knew.

It was a sobering thought.

\Under the gaze of his forefathers (were their eyes reproachful? Sympathetic? He couldn't tell.) he followed just a step behind Odysseus. Being who they were, there really wasn't much need to present ID or go through security. In fact, he was sure it was the employees here today who had been screened through every fold of clothing and every orifice. He shuddered.

He wondered what was going to happen. His brother had tried to explain in briefe what the trial was like, but he could sense that he didn't want to give Alistair too much fodder to dwell on, seeming to think ignorance was a blessing. Dumbass. Alistair was an artist; didn't he realize that the images he could conjure up to fill the void were likely far more unsettling than any knockoff of Judge Nancy?

He longed to be home. He wanted to go stretch out on the sun warmed floorboard in his living room and draw. He could imagine how the vaulted, nearly empty room would echo every tap he made with his pencil. Even the whisper-soft brushing of papers would fill the room, making it feel lived in and comforting. He may live in a world of colors and form and depth, but the near silence of his quarters reminded him far too much of a funeral parlor.

He hiccupped behind his hind; the comparison was making him queasy. He didn't want to face home thinking of it like a mausoleum. It was home. It may be lonely, and sometimes so quiet and echo filled, but it was where he lived, once with his mother…it should be a place of peace, not something he dreaded returning home to.

No, he decided this courthouse was much more like a tomb. It was lifeless, dreary despite its decorated hangings and trimmings, and not a soul they met seemed to have one scrap of cheer. He looked back at each of them bitterly. Did they know who he was? Would they recognize his face if he wasn't with his elder brother? And if so, did they know why he was here? He was fucking royalty! There was a chance he would rule them all one day!…ok, he was 45th in line for the throne now, but hey! It could happen!

A startlingly loud thunk brought Alistaur out of his internal ranting, and he looked around him. Oddie was encouraging him to take a seat on a small, tackily upholstered chair. With the seating arranged around the walls, all of which were mostly bare, save for a bland waterscape, it looked like a waiting room. Alistair knew waiting rooms, he'd been in enough, and he always judged the integrity of the doctor, shrink or physician he was about to meet on their waiting rooms. Coffee was a nice touch; too much, or the addition of a pop machine meant you'd be waiting half your day. Lego tables were never a good sign, and usually meant he was about to be talked to with the vocabulary of a first grade teacher. And God help him if there was too many gag inducing signs of over the top patriotism.

This room's overall blandness indicated a need to appeal to the lowest common denominator among all prospective visitors; misery. No one came to court to spew sunshine and rainbows; they came to have someone else sort of the shit they couldn't plow through themselves.

He sighed, and sunk down into the hard chair. They weren't alone. Two other men sat across from them. One was perhaps in his late forties, with dark blond hair peppered with the years. While he tried to amuse himself with a golf magazine, the man to his right just kept his eyes on the floor. He was far older, by twenty years at least, and what hair he had left was gray. Under the sleeves of his polo, his thin arms were covered in sagging wrinkles, to match the heavy lines pulling down his eyes, cheeks and chin.

Alistair knew it wasn't proper, especially crass behavior for a prince, but he couldn't look away. The old man was the most interesting thing in the room, after all. He guessed he was about 60, maybe. Sixties, seventies…he couldn't be sure. Although their father was well into his fifties, his only real marks of age was his heavily grayed hair, beginning to recede. Otherwise, he was just world-hardened. Aside from the emperor, Alistair really didn't have anyone comparison for this mans age. He didn't really know any elderly people. By the time they reached Father's age, their bodies tended to start wearing out. Muscles ached, health decreased, and the general quality of life dimished with each year.

At least, that's what his school textbooks said. But looking at this man…he didn't look terribly infirm. He didn't see a cane or a walker, and though he was thin, he wasn't gaunt. His face was crisscrossed with crows feet and laugh lines, yet his eyes didn't have a deadened stare like he assumed they would, being so old.

'He must have cancer or something,' Alistair reasoned. He still had his hair though…perhaps chemo wasn't an option. That made sense as to why he'd be here, after all.

A door opposite the one they entered opened up, with a smartly uniformed man indicating the men across from them to follow; it was their turn.

The younger man, the son he guessed, rose and followed, both waiting impatiently for the other, who rose to his feet with a slight creek to his knees.

'Look away, look away, look away…' Alistair told himself, but he couldn't, and just as he feared, grandpa there met his eyes as he passed. They were warm and hazel and seemed so friendly, but they looked sorrowful, turned to Alistair.

The young prince pressed himself awkwardly back into his seat, and ducked his head down, but still couldn't look away. He didn't really need to, though. After a moment, the old man sighed, shook his head and plodded obediently after his son and the officer. The thunk of the heavy double doors was as jarring now as when they had entered.

From the corner of his eye, he caught Odysseus looking sidelong at him, but neither said anything. They both knew what was going to be the verdict here.

Alistair anxiously watched the doors, waiting for them to come back through. He…didn't know why. It's not like he'd have the nerve to ask the man what happened. It wasn't any of his business anyway. But he figured he'd be able to tell somehow…

However, when the doors opened next, it was to let through neither a freed man nor a condemned, but to usher them inside.

Alistair's stomach seemed to have filled with lead. It both clenched his innards and weighed him down to the seat more effectively than modeling paste.

"Alistair…let's go," Oddie urged gently, putting a hand on his shoulder. When Alistair still couldn't bring himself to rise, his eyes flickering nervously over to a now impatient baliff. He knew he had reason to be on edge; Alistair was on trial to prove he was mentality competent, yet here he was, seemingly too retarded to follow a simple order.

There was a shake in Odysseus' voice as he repeated, "Ali-Cat, it's us now. Come on…"

He wanted to. He knew he needed to. No matter how eloquent of a speaker Oddie was (and he wasn't) nor how convincing a testimony his shrink gave, a first impression would weigh just as heavily, if not more so, on the minds of his jury.

He needed to get up.

Finally, unsteadily, he rose, but refused to take the hand Oddie offered him. A child would hold their older brothers hand, or someone who was retarded. He couldn't appear to be either. He couldn't afford to.

On tv, courtrooms were always impressive spaces covered in mahogany paneling and gleaming floors, with a bank of windows facing west for the best dramatic lighting. He was a little disappointed to find himself in a plain white walled room with a few buffet tables set before a pale, simple judge's bench. His nose wrinkled; it screamed tacky after school program mess hall, really, but he realized that this office was likely used specifically for Right to Mercy hearings.

Mercy…that's what they called this. Alistair took his seat, that word ringing through his head. A Right to Mercy trial was suppose to be in the best interest of the ill, delegating whether they should be humanely euthanized to put an end to their suffering…the only suffering Alistair was having was his hear racing through his chest in fear.

Under the table, Oddie gave his hand a squeeze. he held his so firmly, warm and broad. As his thumb swept over the back of his hand, he let go of a deep, almost aching breath.

'I'm fine. This is going to be fine.'

Even as a half dozen bored looking men and women filed in before them, all rising to greet them, he knew, with his brother there, he'd be fine. Odysseus wouldn't let it be any other way.

)o(

"Oddie? What's this word?" Alistair pointed to a string of letters in his social studies book.

Oddie craned his neck over and turned the book to see. Oooh he wasn't even going to try and get his kid brother to sound it out.

"That's 'eugenics,' Ali-Cat," he said.

The child tried the word on his own tongue. "Euginits," he tried, then shook his head. "Eu…genics."

Oddie nodded, going back to his own book. He was prepping for his junior finals, and considering his penchant for under achieving, he really wasn't too worried. He'd get into some sort of college regardless. If not, there was always the military. Through that sounded like it'd suck worse.

"And what does that mean?" Alistair wanted to know. He'd heard the word before, and felt very proud that he could now read it.

Oddie just made a noncommittal grunt, which was his usual way of saying, I don't know or I'm busy, ask someone else.

"It means making the next generation better than this one by not letting some people have kids, or by helping people who are old or sick not have to be in pain anymore."

Alistair looked up; he hadn't even heard Guinevere walk in. His oldest sister, she was just a few months younger than Oddie, and very pretty in Alistair's eyes, even if her face always looked a little pinched, like she always had a bad smell under her nose. Oddie said she thought she was a better Britannian than her brothers and sisters because she could trace her family back to the original royal line on both sides. Considering how little contact she had with Alistair, it seemed a spot-on appraisal.

"Oh…ow do you make them not hurt anymore? Medicine?" the second grader ventured, never one to take just the brief reply.

She scoffed, and flicked a lock of dusty lavender hair over her shoulder. She looked at Alistair as though his ignorance was surely a character flaw, and not merely a result of being 7 years old. "When someone is really old or sick or has something wrong with them, they're better off being helped to let go. It's better for them, and for the country, because it costs a lot of money to take care of someone who can't ever pay anything back to society."

"Oooh." Alistair vaguely. "So it's like when someone's dog gets ran over and they have it put to sleep?"

"Exactly." She said, before brushing on past to wherever it was she was heading.

Alistair watched her leave, and paragraphed his answer as best he could to fit on the blank line of his worksheet. No one in the room paid any mind to the fact that despite all the how's, what's and who's, the one question a child of the emperor would never think to ask, Why.

)o(

Quiet. No words. Only the demure pure of the engine to break an otherwise silent vacuum. In the back seat, Alistair stared now at the floor rather than out the window. He stared at his shoes, their impeccably shined tops reflecting a skewed and swirled image of the sky and back of the seat in front of them. But Alistair wasn't thinking about shoes or skies or car seats. He was recalling a conversation long obsolete, words that shouldn't mean anything to him now. Eugenics was just suppose to be a word in a book, the C answer in a multiple choice quiz.

On Oddie's lap, tucked away in a file, bore a paper with a large red ink mark, and a date scrawled in some middle age bitch's hand. February 4, 2009 a.t.b.

Alistair didn't think he was going to be marking that particular date on his Paintings of the Renaissance calendar.

)o(