Courtroom
MD-264N masterlist
So um. You may notice this is not my Whumptober story. This is bc my brain decided it would only write this today. But enjoy anyway! At least I'm writing more than a sentence or two again!
Taglist: @wolfeyedwitch @den-of-evil @dustypinetree @cardboardarsonist @skittles-the-whumpee
@whatwhumpcomments @whump-tr0pes @snakebites-and-ink @painful-pooch @i-eat-worlds
@a-funeral-romance @rainydaywhump
An AU of MD-264N based on this prompt by @lumpywhump. Morgan goes on trial.
1.4k
CWs: living weapon whumpee, minor whump (discussed), past minor whump, meltdown, unintentional attempted self-harm (head banging), guns, gunshots
"I do solemnly, sincerely and truly declare and affirm that the evidence I shall give shall be the truth the whole truth and nothing but the truth."
Asha glances across at Morgan worriedly. This is the make-or-break evidence of the trial, she's sure of it, she hasn't seen what Blue has to present but she's seen the medical aftermath of it, and she's seen Blue's reaction (she knows exactly when he cracked the files because that's when he brought her the widened cutlery for them, visibly seething). The problem is that Morgan hasn't visibly reacted to anything so far today, and Asha doesn't think that'll help in the eyes of the judges.
Also, against all medical advice, Morgan is standing for the trial. It's standard. They shouldn't be, not on that ankle, not if they don't want to make the permanent damage worse. They didn't even walk here, but apparently weapons don't get seating if they're being reprimanded, so they won't sit now.
But it's been hours, and Asha is really worried about that ankle.
Blue clears his throat and Asha snaps her attention back to him.
"As you all know, Morgan has been with the Regime's Ministry of Defence since they were eight. Within their file was video and written evidence dating back to then. Your Honours, you have the written reports in your evidence packs, but there's videos that I am going to show you chronologically." He clicks a remote control and the screen changes to the hallway of a normal-seeming family home, books and toys scattered around. The 'play' triangle is superimposed over it. "Morgan's parents were well-documented protesters, though by the time they were eight they'd both stepped back from the movement to raise their child. Morgan had several disabilities and powers, both of which put them in danger. They were known as Lili then, and this video, of their... I suppose you could say recruitment, if you want to follow the government's euphemisms, is the last evidence we have of them having a name rather than a serial number until Rhian Williams named them Morgan upon their arrival here. If I may play the video, Your Honour?"
The head judge nods, and the video starts.
There's a high-pitched giggle off-screen, and then a kid charges into view, holding a battered notebook with sticky bookmarks sticking out of the side.
Asha's breath hitches. This must be Morgan. They don't look eight. They're so small.
"Hey!"
Morgan – Lili? – giggles again. A woman runs in, grabbing Morgan around the middle and lifting them into the air. Their long brown hair flies around them, mixing with her light hair.
"Got you! Now give me my notes back!"
There's a movement in the courtroom and Asha glances over. Morgan's dropped to the floor. At first Asha thinks it's just their ankle, but then they get up, clawing at the thin wooden rail attached to the plexiglass sides. Their eyes are fixed on the screen, and at first they look no more emotional than before, but tears stream down their cheeks, and their hands tremble.
"No!"
The woman smiles and snatches the notebook. "Too late. Let's see what you've given me."
As the woman flips through the pages, Asha notices the subtitles for the first time and her breath catches in her throat. She was focused so much on Morgan she didn't notice the language switch – she's not sure how that happened. But Welsh. Morgan's Welsh. A different part of Wales to herself, it sounds like more of a borders accent to Asha's north Wales, but they're Welsh. Can they still speak it? Would it help them if she did? Make them feel less alone?
The woman's eyes widen. "Baby, you–"
A door latch clicks off-screen. "Honey, I'm home!"
Morgan grins and scrambles off the woman, running for the edge of the screen. "Tad!"
Their dad enters the video, catching Morgan around the waist and spinning them in a circle. "Hey little monster. How was your day?"
"I decorated mam's notebook! And I've been practicing my writing!"
"Here, have a look," says Morgan's mam, passing the notebook over with a smile. Their dad's grin widens.
"You wrote your name? And a whole sentence?"
Morgan nods enthusiastically.
"She did indeed. She also coloured in my notes at the same time, but I'm sure my professor won't mind too much."
Morgan's dad ruffles their hair. "Well, I think this calls for celebratory pancakes. Why don't you go and pick out the mould?"
Morgan nods and charges off-screen. Morgan's dad wilts and he runs a hand through his hair. Their mam kisses him.
"Hard day at work?"
"No kidding. I got the number for that specialist, but we don't have long. If anyone catches wind of Lili..."
"We don't have long. But let's leave today for celebrating Lili. 50p she chooses the Archimedes mould?"
"I'd be a fool to take that bet." He puts an arm around her shoulders and they wander off-screen. There's nothing for a minute, just a blank hallway with no sound. Whatever camera bug this is by the former regime, it's good quality.
"Hey baby, what'd you choose?"
"Archimedes!"
"Your favourite. Come and help me with–"
There's a fast, loud banging on a door. "Ministry of Defence! Open up!"
Someone curses. Morgan yelps.
"Lili, I will always love you. Now run. Just like we practiced."
"Mam? Tad? What's–"
"Go! We'll catch you up."
A running child's footsteps. Morgan's dad strides into the hallway and takes down a framed painting, unlocking the safe beneath it and passing a gun to their mum.
She cocks it. Was it already loaded in there? Who were Morgan's parents?
"I love you."
"And I you."
The door crashes in. The sound of gunshots fills the room, and not just from Morgan's parents. They–
"No!"
The scream is strangled and wet. Asha glances around to see Morgan on their knees, their head in their hands, rocking. They look devastated.
The video doesn't end there, as Morgan's dragged on-screen, kicking and screaming, smacked around the head until she stops, and all of this over her parents' bodies, splayed out on the wood, blood pooling around them.
There's a makeshift height chart just visible in the last shot, the pencil marks on the wallpaper sprayed with blood.
This video ends here, with Morgan's removal, but it's not the only one. Asha doesn't know how Blue can stand there and present these so calmly. There's one very soon after, with Morgan's head newly-shaved, a shock harness and mittens freshly fitted, and they look so cold. They're in shock, they're an orphan, but they're not allowed to grieve, the attitudes of the handlers makes that clear. They don't understand but nobody's giving them a chance to do so.
And so it continues. And so Morgan grows up. Never spoken of as a person, never given an inch, locked into the tiniest room, shocked until they stop moving, stop speaking. Stop resisting. Trained, punished. Taught to kill, punished when they resist, hesitate, react violently to the harsh sounds and movements and actions. Hurt until they stop hesitating, forget that they can, perhaps forget that they were ever anything but a weapon, forged in the fires of pain and desperation, purged of everything they don't actively need in an effort to survive.
But the nightmares never stop. They still haven't, Asha knows. She just didn't have the context until now.
Meanwhile, present-day Morgan is getting worse with every piece of evidence. Scrambling back when certain people come on screen, and freezing, and pleading with the videos when they think they're going to be punished. Their face is blotchy with silent tears, and they keen, rocking back and forth in distress from the latest video (active mission testing).
And then they start trying to bash their head against the plexiglass, and one of their guards has to restrain them. Asha should be there, she's their doctor, but she tries to stand and someone official shakes their head at her. It's not fair, she knows she's part of the trial, but she– she–
"They've survived worse, they'll be okay," whispers Rhian hoarsely. Asha nods, unable to speak. She should still be there.
She aches to go to them. She knew it was bad – only a fool would see a young person wearing an electroshock harness and think it wasn't – but she didn't realise it was this bad.
But she can't. She's not allowed, she can't risk the trial, they won't let her. All she can do is sit here and watch uselessly as Morgan's heart is ripped wide open, all over the very public courtroom floor.