“Wake up,” the MP said, tapping his crowbar on the metal jail door, “wake up, you’ve got your hearing today.” War Machine slowly awoke from his sound sleep in his jailbed. He had been expecting this day for a long time. Though, he did not expect it to take two years. The higher profile trials had taken much longer than expected, but the eventual verdict was all the same. Some were imprisoned for life, others executed.
War Machine groggily sat up in his bed, trying to adjust his eyes to the early morning light shining through the small window in his cell. The MP walked up to him and began cuffing his hands and legs. The leg cuffs may be a bit overkill, War Machine thought, but at least the MP did not put the shock collar on him. The shock collar is mainly meant for transhumans, though some regular humans are given the collar if they’re particularly resistant. Occasionally, MPs use the collar to enact their own personal punishment, even if the defendant hasn't been officially declared guilty. War Machine struggled to stand up after the MP hoisted him to his feet, but he gradually sobered up from his dazed state.
From here, the MP follows a routine. He takes War Machine to the pre-trial holding block of the small, converted prison. There, the MP hands him a set of professional clothes: a button-up dress shirt, a suit jacket, khakis, choice of a belt or suspenders, an optional suit tie, and comparatively cheap dress shoes made of some type of synthetic leather. War Machine chose a simple black belt and skipped the tie. Next, inmates are allowed to make any hygienic preparations prior to the trial, such as showering, shaving, hair grooming, nail trimming, and teeth cleaning. Inmates are rarely given any light makeup, but MPs, at times, granted their request for it.
War Machine hadn't had a proper shower in weeks, largely due to supposed “plumbing issues” that have been plaguing the prison building for the past month. Conveniently, this holding block just so happens to have a separate plumbing system, with the MP barracks, situated next door, also using this system. War Machine took advantage of the opportunity while he could and gave himself a long shower. He had little facial hair, but he decided to shave anyway to ensure he had a clean face. He also trimmed his nails and brushed his teeth, two things the MPs absolutely neglected to provide to the majority of the inmates. War Machine attempted to organize his hair, however the lack of hair gel made this difficult.
The MP returns two hours later, handing War Machine his breakfast: an MRE. Inmates are usually fed with a tray in a cafeteria, but the holding block has no such area attached to it. War Machine rarely ever ate MREs, despite him being a soldier. Instead, he had a small device connected to his chest rig which would inject nutrients directly into his bloodstream. On top of this, the device would occasionally inject an “anti-fatigue agent” in missions requiring soldiers to be in the field for an extended period. War Machine discovered later that the anti-fatigue agent was a very specific combination of stimulants and amphetamines. The MP returns once again, rolling a trash bin along with him. War Machine tosses the refuse of the MRE, all of the individual plastic packages. Notably, he sneaks the packet of gum into his pocket. The MP cuffs War Machine again, this time only cuffing his hands. Two other MPs enter the room, presumably as escorts as they both have rifles at the ready.
They begin escorting War Machine out of the holding block and down a corridor. The journey down the hallway alone seemingly lasting for hours. Eerily, War Machine doesn't see any doors flanking either side of the entire hallway. Only the mundane white of the floor, ceiling, and concrete walls. It is almost like a portal going from the prison to an entirely different atmosphere. Relievedly, the end of the corridor comes into view as a set of metal doors. The two escorts flanking War Machine quickly walk ahead of him, opening the two doors.
The room he steps into is a mixture of bright and dark colors. The floor is grey, but the white walls provide a defiant contrast. The floor appears newer than any other object in the room, second only to the furnishings and upholstery, which are another matter entirely. To the far left side of the room stands another metal door. Small, but, strangely enough, more sturdy looking, as if the door is designed with protection in mind. Two MPs stand at both sides of the door. War Machine wonders which side the door is supposed to protect and from what.
Another man is sat down on one of the sofas in the room, dressed in similar attire as War Machine. He seems dozy, so much so that he barely paid any mind to the entrance of War Machine and his escort. Only when War Machine decided to sit down on the sofa in front of him did he look up.
“Your hearing’s today too?” said the man.
War Machine gently nodded, “Did you just get done with yours?”
“Yeah...the judgement’s not what I expected.” he said in a slow, pale tone.
“What did you do during the war?”
“Sniping mostly; I was a Cross, after all. Did some scouting and recon work too, but I just wanted to snipe.”
“I guess they found out who you’ve been sniping?” his face turns slightly pale as he begins to look nauseous. At the same time, the sturdy metal door suddenly flew open, with an MP marching out behind it.
“The tribunal signed off on all the papers.” the MP whispers to the other two MPs guarding the door, “Still need to get Bison’s signature, but that can wait. For now, just get the prisoner back to his cell.” the two MPs nod and come over to the man on the sofa, proceeding to grab his wrists and cuff them. They expected him to just get up after being cuffed, but the man stayed, still pale and nauseous looking. One of the MPs yanks him up by his handcuffs before grabbing one side of the man. The second MP grabs the other and they quickly leave the room, dragging the man through the same doors War Machine came in.
War Machine sits in silence as he contemplates what he has seen, both in the last few minutes and the distant past. He never thought that waiting for a trial could pull someone so deep into their mind. Perhaps he just hadn’t fully realized the true magnitude of being in that courtroom as a defendant until now. The metal door opens again after several minutes, this time more slowly. A woman, dressed in professional attire, motions to the three MPs still in the room. They then walk over to War Machine.
“It’s time bruiser,” says the MP who originally brought War Machine to the holding block. The other two MPs cuff his wrists and escort him through the metal door.
The large courtroom is filled with spectators, prosecutors, judges, and military officers all conversing with each other. The MPs take War Machine across to the other side of the room and sit him down on the witness stand, which is separate from the seats where the five judges of the court reside. The bailiff, taking notice of War Machine’s presence at the witness stand, inform the judges that the tribunal is ready to begin.
“All rise! This tribunal is now in session!” the bailiff loudly declares. Everyone in the room cease their prior conversations and stand at attention toward the five judges. War Machine simply remains seated on the witness stand.
“You may all be seated,” the centermost judge says. “Prosecution, are you ready to conduct testimony?”
A man stands up from a small group of prosecutors positioned at the front of the room, “Yes, Your Honor."
“You may begin.” The prosecutor approaches the witness stand where War Machine sits.
“Please state your name and prior position in the Combine military for the record of this tribunal.” the prosecutor says.
“War Machine, 3rd Officer of the Ballista subdivision of the Metro Police Force.” War Machine responds hesitantly.
“That is your callsign. I’m looking for your real name. Do you know your name?”
War Machine pauses for a long moment before responding to his question, “I don’t know anymore…”
“What was the highest rank you achieved while working in the Combine military?”
“Trial Commander. I was being considered to become the commander of the Ballista subdivision.”
“Were you eventually selected to become the subdivision’s commander?”
“No.”
“How long did you work for the Combine?”
“About a month after the fall of City 17 until my surrender to the Resistance, about eight years.” The prosecutor looks toward his coworkers, who are all writing notes on notebooks and sheets of paper. One of them looks up and nods to him. The prosecutor nods back before turning back to War Machine.
War Machine groggily sat up in his bed, trying to adjust his eyes to the early morning light shining through the small window in his cell. The MP walked up to him and began cuffing his hands and legs. The leg cuffs may be a bit overkill, War Machine thought, but at least the MP did not put the shock collar on him. The shock collar is mainly meant for transhumans, though some regular humans are given the collar if they’re particularly resistant. Occasionally, MPs use the collar to enact their own personal punishment, even if the defendant hasn't been officially declared guilty. War Machine struggled to stand up after the MP hoisted him to his feet, but he gradually sobered up from his dazed state.
From here, the MP follows a routine. He takes War Machine to the pre-trial holding block of the small, converted prison. There, the MP hands him a set of professional clothes: a button-up dress shirt, a suit jacket, khakis, choice of a belt or suspenders, an optional suit tie, and comparatively cheap dress shoes made of some type of synthetic leather. War Machine chose a simple black belt and skipped the tie. Next, inmates are allowed to make any hygienic preparations prior to the trial, such as showering, shaving, hair grooming, nail trimming, and teeth cleaning. Inmates are rarely given any light makeup, but MPs, at times, granted their request for it.
War Machine hadn't had a proper shower in weeks, largely due to supposed “plumbing issues” that have been plaguing the prison building for the past month. Conveniently, this holding block just so happens to have a separate plumbing system, with the MP barracks, situated next door, also using this system. War Machine took advantage of the opportunity while he could and gave himself a long shower. He had little facial hair, but he decided to shave anyway to ensure he had a clean face. He also trimmed his nails and brushed his teeth, two things the MPs absolutely neglected to provide to the majority of the inmates. War Machine attempted to organize his hair, however the lack of hair gel made this difficult.
The MP returns two hours later, handing War Machine his breakfast: an MRE. Inmates are usually fed with a tray in a cafeteria, but the holding block has no such area attached to it. War Machine rarely ever ate MREs, despite him being a soldier. Instead, he had a small device connected to his chest rig which would inject nutrients directly into his bloodstream. On top of this, the device would occasionally inject an “anti-fatigue agent” in missions requiring soldiers to be in the field for an extended period. War Machine discovered later that the anti-fatigue agent was a very specific combination of stimulants and amphetamines. The MP returns once again, rolling a trash bin along with him. War Machine tosses the refuse of the MRE, all of the individual plastic packages. Notably, he sneaks the packet of gum into his pocket. The MP cuffs War Machine again, this time only cuffing his hands. Two other MPs enter the room, presumably as escorts as they both have rifles at the ready.
They begin escorting War Machine out of the holding block and down a corridor. The journey down the hallway alone seemingly lasting for hours. Eerily, War Machine doesn't see any doors flanking either side of the entire hallway. Only the mundane white of the floor, ceiling, and concrete walls. It is almost like a portal going from the prison to an entirely different atmosphere. Relievedly, the end of the corridor comes into view as a set of metal doors. The two escorts flanking War Machine quickly walk ahead of him, opening the two doors.
The room he steps into is a mixture of bright and dark colors. The floor is grey, but the white walls provide a defiant contrast. The floor appears newer than any other object in the room, second only to the furnishings and upholstery, which are another matter entirely. To the far left side of the room stands another metal door. Small, but, strangely enough, more sturdy looking, as if the door is designed with protection in mind. Two MPs stand at both sides of the door. War Machine wonders which side the door is supposed to protect and from what.
Another man is sat down on one of the sofas in the room, dressed in similar attire as War Machine. He seems dozy, so much so that he barely paid any mind to the entrance of War Machine and his escort. Only when War Machine decided to sit down on the sofa in front of him did he look up.
“Your hearing’s today too?” said the man.
War Machine gently nodded, “Did you just get done with yours?”
“Yeah...the judgement’s not what I expected.” he said in a slow, pale tone.
“What did you do during the war?”
“Sniping mostly; I was a Cross, after all. Did some scouting and recon work too, but I just wanted to snipe.”
“I guess they found out who you’ve been sniping?” his face turns slightly pale as he begins to look nauseous. At the same time, the sturdy metal door suddenly flew open, with an MP marching out behind it.
“The tribunal signed off on all the papers.” the MP whispers to the other two MPs guarding the door, “Still need to get Bison’s signature, but that can wait. For now, just get the prisoner back to his cell.” the two MPs nod and come over to the man on the sofa, proceeding to grab his wrists and cuff them. They expected him to just get up after being cuffed, but the man stayed, still pale and nauseous looking. One of the MPs yanks him up by his handcuffs before grabbing one side of the man. The second MP grabs the other and they quickly leave the room, dragging the man through the same doors War Machine came in.
War Machine sits in silence as he contemplates what he has seen, both in the last few minutes and the distant past. He never thought that waiting for a trial could pull someone so deep into their mind. Perhaps he just hadn’t fully realized the true magnitude of being in that courtroom as a defendant until now. The metal door opens again after several minutes, this time more slowly. A woman, dressed in professional attire, motions to the three MPs still in the room. They then walk over to War Machine.
“It’s time bruiser,” says the MP who originally brought War Machine to the holding block. The other two MPs cuff his wrists and escort him through the metal door.
The large courtroom is filled with spectators, prosecutors, judges, and military officers all conversing with each other. The MPs take War Machine across to the other side of the room and sit him down on the witness stand, which is separate from the seats where the five judges of the court reside. The bailiff, taking notice of War Machine’s presence at the witness stand, inform the judges that the tribunal is ready to begin.
“All rise! This tribunal is now in session!” the bailiff loudly declares. Everyone in the room cease their prior conversations and stand at attention toward the five judges. War Machine simply remains seated on the witness stand.
“You may all be seated,” the centermost judge says. “Prosecution, are you ready to conduct testimony?”
A man stands up from a small group of prosecutors positioned at the front of the room, “Yes, Your Honor."
“You may begin.” The prosecutor approaches the witness stand where War Machine sits.
“Please state your name and prior position in the Combine military for the record of this tribunal.” the prosecutor says.
“War Machine, 3rd Officer of the Ballista subdivision of the Metro Police Force.” War Machine responds hesitantly.
“That is your callsign. I’m looking for your real name. Do you know your name?”
War Machine pauses for a long moment before responding to his question, “I don’t know anymore…”
“What was the highest rank you achieved while working in the Combine military?”
“Trial Commander. I was being considered to become the commander of the Ballista subdivision.”
“Were you eventually selected to become the subdivision’s commander?”
“No.”
“How long did you work for the Combine?”
“About a month after the fall of City 17 until my surrender to the Resistance, about eight years.” The prosecutor looks toward his coworkers, who are all writing notes on notebooks and sheets of paper. One of them looks up and nods to him. The prosecutor nods back before turning back to War Machine.
“Who were you before you joined the Combine?”
To be continued...