Forums → Art, Music, and Writing → The Way of Moderation has ended (page 566)
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Hang on, let me try that one more time, the post keeps cutting off D:
As The Days Went By cont.
The Judge be Judged
It was as appeared on TV and in the movies. Endless waves upon waves of people, yelling and waving placards and pushing and jostling each and every way. The chaos, the noise filled the heavy brick confines of the ArmorGames court complexes to bursting. The occasion? A corrupt mod was being brought to justice!
Through the midst of all this, Strop wove a meandering path. Today he wasn't the Strop the ninja horse, but rather, Strop the defendant, his ninja suit adorned with the finest tie and jacket in his wardrobe, in tune with the delusion that any presumed criminal could improve their chances with the jury if they looked presentable. That said, Strop was painfully aware of just how tight and restrictive the tie was, and felt a familiar tingling on the back of his neck. Who was it that he had forced to wear a suit for so many months again...? But there was no time to think about such things, he had his own problems right now.
Flanking Strop was an unlikely companion, last seen in the throes of drunken defeat. Yet Strop hoped that the fishman Manta would be able to turn the tides in this debacle with a replica of his statement, this time not as one laughing at Strop's misfortune, but to help him rectify it. That was if the fishman was even willing to do so now, and given the sulky look he sported, Strop had his doubts.
"Strop, did it have to be TODAY?" Manta whined, tugging at the collar of his suit. "Why not tomorrow? Or the day after?"
"If I had a choice in the matter Manta, the time I'd prefer to do this would be 'never'," Strop grumped. "What gives anyway? What's so bad about today?"
"Well, it's just that I'm missing out on The Sorority Show."
Strop blinked. "The what?"
"Today's episode is Wet T-Shirt Car Wash on Candid Camera. And I'm missing it. Because of this stupid court appearance thingy."
Strop began to make a >:O face, when he realised this was pretty par-for-the-course for Manta, so he stopped. "Look, just consider that part of your punishment. Yeah. That punishment for trashing the tavern last week, remember?"
Manta said nothing. His lengthy pout was interrupted by a zealous protestor taking a swing at Strop with a large "MODS SUK" sign. Without blinking, Strop ducked it.
"If you want to blow off some steam, you could get rid of the protestors blocking our way," Strop suggested, perhaps a little improperly.
"And you're not going to 'unish' me this time around?" Manta shot back.
Strop shrugged, "Unlike the previous incident, I hardly think it would be counterproductive."
High up on the steps of the greatest of the court houses, the Armor Court of Great Justice, one had a view of the whole complex, swarming with people. Suddenly in the distance, users started flying, or rather, were violently ejected from the crowd into the sky before falling back into the masses. This fountain of users progressed, making a beeline for the stairs until Strop and Manta emerged, Manta still swinging his fists threateningly at anybody who wandered too close. For a moment, the crowds at the top of the steps near the entrance to the great courthouse drew back, and Strop and Manta plunged into the gap and through the doors, just as the crowd surged forward again.
Strop slammed the doors shut and Manta and Strop stood, backs plastered to it, breathing heavily.
"There you have it," Strop quipped. "A day in the life of a mod."
"Hells bells," Manta swore, before shushing himself. "If I'd known before..."
---
"All rise, for the Honorable Justice Moegreche".
In a cacophony of shuffling and stifled coughing, everybody rose. Justice Mogreche was the most venerable and venerated of justices in the city, one of the original Moderators. He was the one who engendered the notion of rational justice in the city of ArmorGames, in its early days- Strop remembered it was not a month after he himself had arrived. Shortly after, the courts had been built with the unlikely aid of Devoidless the Ancient, and Strop himself remembered testing the courts, participating in several debates, culminating in the giant Star Wars nerd-off in which Devoidless had earnt the nickname of Darth Voidy, for his knowledge of the rare properties of unique lightsabers was bordering unholy. All in those carefree days before Strop had taken on the moderator mantle...
Wheeling the famed brain-in-a-jar on his red chuck wagon, was the normally taciturn spaminator robot Flipski, but given that he was the security in today's session, Flipski was obligated to make the calls. Clanking over to the judge's booth, Flipski lifted the jar onto the counter and draped the judge's wig over the top.
"Please, be seated", Justice Moegreche grated in his electronic monotone. Flipski pressed a button on his chest console, and a scratchy recording played back from Flipski's speakers:
"Now calling into session the case Secret Society of Armorgames Representing Victims of Moderator Abuse versus Moderator Strop."
Strop, sitting in the defendant's box, felt hundreds of eyes boring into him. While as a rock-star ninja, he enjoyed great popularity, and he would liked to have think that he did his best to be congenial, fair and equitable... he knew that nobody was perfect... he also knew that this Way Of Moderation tournament was really eating into his duties... and that simply by virtue of being a moderator he was automatically an enemy of many. As to what proportion of people were here to support him, and what proportion were to see him lynched, well that just might be answered before the session was out!
Strop cast his eyes over to the plaintiff's side of the court, to find several shady hooded figures huddled over a table with a stack of folders, glaring back at him. He dreaded to imagine the contents of the folders, so he shrank back and gazed down at his table, empty save for his briefcase. He snapped open the case and took out a stack of papers. Atop the stack was a post-it note, and on that post-it note, in cursive scribble: "I prepared some notes for you."
Oh, bless his troubled heart! Strop thought to himself, once again feeling a rush of mixed thankfulness and guilt... which turned into a plunging, queasy rush of his stomach dropping through the floor as he flipped through page after page of complete blank. Save for the last page. Upon which was written, in that rounded cursive: "Sadly, I don't have resources to actually research anything due to the utter lack of payment. Good luck."
Desperately hoping this was just a practical joke, Strop flipped the page over, to find another note: "P.S. Sai made you a sandwich. But I ate it. -C."
Strop screwed his face up, trying to move the raging FUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUU building up in him to a parallel dimension where he could conveniently forget about it.
"Moderator Strop, do you have legal counsel to represent you?"
"Uhh." Strop, being a moderator, was stuck in an unusual situation. Normally when a complaint was processed against a moderator, it would go to the administration and be independently reviewed by an omniscient entity. Failing this, another moderator would investigate and act based on the evidence garnered. However, in this case... Carlie was away and nobody really knew what happened, hence the purpose of this trial being to present said evidence... but more importantly for Strop, it meant that nobody could represent him, except...
"I'll be representing myself, Mo- your Honour."
Judge Moegreche didn't blink, but then again that would have been because he didn't have eyes, though as to how he knew who was addressing him was- anyway. "I will take the liberty of presuming that you have pleaded Not Guilty."
Strop sighed. "Yes, your Honour, but seriously, couldn't you just have thrown the case out? Manta here is missing out on his fanservice TV and I've already obtained statements to the effect that-"
Flipski banged his cannon arm on the counter to counteract the roars of indignation arising from the stands. It was just as well that the cannon wasn't charged, which made Strop wonder how further and more extreme outbursts might be handled. "Thank you, Flipski," Moe intoned, before adding, "Moderator Strop, as you would well appreciate there is much more at stake than a simple verdict, thus this trial will be run in its due course."
"Pfffft" Strop muttered to himself. Here he was defending himself against a charge of a crime he didn't even know the details of, allegedly taking place at a time he didn't even remember. All he had were a few names and some dodgy 'confessions', going up against some consortium of users who made it their job to take moderators to task for failing to adhere to some arbitrary level of perfection that probably involved being a mindless robot (Flipski, of course, didn't count, as even though he was a robot he also had a mind of his own... a dangerously erratic one.)
In short, he was screwed. "Very well then, let's get this over with", he said to nobody in particular and sat down, arms folded.
---
"So let us recall the facts of the case," spoke one of the hooded plaintiffs, pacing to and fro in the space between the judge's bench and the stands. "On a Winter's night some two months ago, henceforth to be named 'The Night of the Incident', there was a certain Rap Battle, held as part of the Way of Moderation Tournament, which is directed by The Defendant, hence The Defendant is responsible for the events that happen within..."
Strop's eyelids felt like they weighed a ton, which was bad for Strop because he never did any eyelid training. Consequentially he was finding it extraordinarily difficult not to close his eyes and fall asleep. He had hoped that his opponents would consist of kids and noobs whose opening oration would go something like "Mods r suck, they r corrupt and will rune you're akknt," but it figured that they had to be a little older than that to think that authority was their natural enemy. Oh! Adolescent angst! Whatever the case may be, though, Strop simply had to stay awake long enough to discover what the plaintiff's actual argument was, and how they were planning to support it.
"...some hours after the event ended, we allege that The Defendant loosed an arrow from his own bow, and pierced the tournament contestant known as Chill, Grandmaster of George, henceforth known as The Victim. The Victim was seriously wounded, and on the basis of The Defendant's behaviour for the duration of The Way of Moderation Tournament, we will establish that The Defendant is in fact corrupted and seeking the destruction of the City of Armorgames itself, along with the attempted murder of The Victim!"
Wait, what? Strop's ears pricked and he sat upright, and not just because the atmosphere in the room seemed to have chilled a few degrees. This didn't sound at all like what he'd come here to defend... and it certainly didn't sound like a valid opening oration, in fact it sounded more like inciting a riot!
"OBJECTION!" Strop jumped to his hooves and brandished his index finger. His cry rang around the chamber, before settling atop a pregnant silence.
"Strop, you realise that objections only apply to arguments and witness questioning?"
"But... but that opening oration, that's not a prosecuting me, that's character assassination!" Strop flailed.
"Naturally the defence would object to the plaintiff's opening oration; if they did not, there would probably be precious little in the hearing." Strop resumed his seat, cheeks burning. Moe paused, a few bubbles forming in the vat. "Will the member of the prosecution please restate the charges they are arguing?"
"Your Honour, we contend that The Defendant attempted to murder The Victim by firing an arrow from his bow through The Victim."
"Good, let us proceed from there." Strop winced; the damage was already done, then paled as Moe continued. "Would the defence please present their opening statement?"
Oh crap, Strop hadn't prepared any opening statement. He fumbled with the blank sheets of paper, stalling for time, only to be shoved from the stand by an enthusiastic clap on the back from Manta: "Go get 'em, ponyboy!"
Dusting himself off, Strop opened his mouth to speak, for the first time in a long while feeling truly out of his element as the audience crucified him with their glare. What was he going to say? "Ladies and Gentlemen, what you are seeing here is a witch-hunt!?" Oh, that would go down well. Or, "Ladies and Gentlemen, I have no idea what happened that night, but I swear I didn't do it!?"
This day was only going to get worse.
---
"The Prosecution would like to submit this evidence, henceforth known as Exhibit A."
A box was passed up to the front of the room and laid on a long flat table. The box was unwrapped to reveal Strop's (extremely long) longbow and quiver. Strop's eyes widened.
"OBJECTION!" Strop found himself on his hooves again, that same finger pointed at nothing in particular.
"What is it this time, Moderator Strop?"
Strop started pointing in multiple directions, trying to find the legalese to substantiate himself. "I, uh, your Honour, I call Fruit of the Poisoned Tree. This evidence was improperly requisitioned, therefore I move that this case be dismissed on the grounds that any case built on this evidence is also improper!"
"COUNTEROBJECTION" the prosecution roared, falling over themselves before one got up. "The bow was confiscated in the interests of the safety of the public immediately following the Incident!"
"Overruled," Moe decided. "Given that Exhibit A is the weapon of the alleged attempted murder, you would have to disprove the charges in order to establish that the taking of the evidence was done improperly, Moderator Strop."
"But it's not a we-" Strop started, then facepalmed, trying to mask his rising panic. His bow! Ever since it had gone missing and the first of those suspicious letters had landed on his bed, he had found it difficult to believe that it would come to this, yet he'd found it impossible to shake that suspicion that something sinister was afoot. Registering an inquiry with the "Lost and Found" was useless (which really he shouldn't have expected anything, as it was something he'd told the post-office gremlin to do as lip-service, given that the Freemarket yielded a plethora of minor hiccups and complaints of the sort and the moderators had the power to do jack-all about it,) and given that even the veteran Crimson didn't have any leads, naturally there was nobody else to turn to except the other moderators, and they didn't know anything either...
Eventually a nice little array of exhibits had been lined up on the table, Exhibit B being pictures of the hall (presumably after The Incident), still decked out in Firefly's street do, but empty save for a small bloodstain and a chalk outline (Strop had OBJECTED again, arguing that chalk contaminates the crime scene, but was shot down as it was for "demonstrative" purposes only since Chill hadn't actually died, so he OBJECTED to the fact that the chalk outline denoted a spreadeagled figure, and for once it was sustained... so the exhibit B was replaced by exhibit C, which was a closeup of the bloodstain, which made Strop go >_<. Exhibits D, E and F were all "expert analyses" on the fingerprints on the bow, the trajectory of the blood stain, and a simulated reconstruction Strop didn't even think possible given the technological level of the largely non-existent forensic facilities of ArmorGames (i.e. magnifying glass and torch), which pretty much said "Strop obviously did it." And to top it all off, there was Exhibit G, which, crucially, was the blood-stained arrow.
When all the exhibits were in, everybody waited for Justice Moegreche to make the next motion. But nothing happened.
"Your Honour?" Strop called out.
"...it's all so cruel." Moegreche said. "So cruel!"
Strop boggled, another niggling notion in the back of his head rising to the fore. "...are you okay? You haven't... felt different since the past... few months, have you?"
There was a pause. "I don't know. Lately I've been feeling all these strange feelings, and it's hard to think straight, and sometimes I just want to shoop on people... and you need to address me as 'Your Honour' or I'll book you for contempt of the Court."
"Sorry, Your Honour." Great. Strop adjusted his collar, watching the pieces of his doom steadily falling into place.
---
"The Prosecution would like to call Moderator Strop to the stand."
"Moderator Strop, would you please take the stand."
Strop sighed. This was the worst part. He could see absolutely no way he could make himself look credible, let alone good. But it was too late to think about stuff like that. So he trudged up and laid his hand on a tatty leaflet titled "Rules and Guidelines of ArmorGames", swore his oath, and sat in the stand.
"Can you tell me in your own words what happened on the night of the Incident?"
"Errr." Strop chewed on his bottom lip, not sure how to go about this.
"'Errr' is not a valid response, Moderator Strop," Moegreche pointed out.
"Well, umm. I don't know." Strop wished that a hole would open up beneath him and drop him to where most of his other internal organs had already gone.
"And why don't you know?" The hooded Secret Society members leered at him as one.
"...I don't recall..."
From somewhere in the stands, somebody yelled out "Say it again, Clinton!" Flipski preemptively banged his cannon arm on the counter, this time leaving a rather noticeable indentation on the woodwork. "Continue, Moderator Strop," Moe said when the ruckus died down.
"...I don't recall anything from that evening."
The prosecution let that sink in for a minute. Then they resumed their questioning.
"You are a moderator of ArmorGames, are you not?"
Strop rolled his eyes, but had no choice but to answer. "Yes, I am a moderator of ArmorGames."
"You are the chief host of the Way of Moderation Tournament, correct?"
"That is correct."
"Can you tell me how the fights in the round of 8 were decided?"
Strop knew that Cen had faithfully documented the whole process and it was sitting, very trackable, in the archives, so again he responded truthfully, despite really not liking the direction of this line of questioning. "I decided it myself."
"Who was Chill scheduled to fight in the round of eight?"
"Crimsonblade."
"And who is fighting in the final round?"
"Leon McAcid. And Crimsonblade. Oh come on guys, that's just not crick-"
"Please limit yourself to the question, you'll get your turn later," Justice Moegreche reminded Strop. Strop sighed, and rested his chin on his hand.
"Let us now talk about your handling of the Way of Moderation tournament, such as the complete and utter destruction of such venues as Firetail's mansion, ArmorCastle, the blowout in admissions and budgeting of Armor Hospital, the-"
"OBJECTION! Come on, Your Honour, that's not even relevant to the charges."
Mercifully, Justice Moegreche agreed with him. "Sustained. Stay on topic please."
The prosecution chuckled among themselves, before turning to the front. "No further questions, your Honour."
Justice Moegreche mulled over this, before declaring, "You are now in the unusual position of having to cross-examine yourself, Moderator Strop. Proceed when ready."
"Right! Well, first I'll start by saying-"
Justice Moegreche cut him off: "You still have to follow the format, Moderator Strop."
"...what?"
"You still have to ask the defendant a question and then answer it."
Strop cringed. "But that's gonna make me look like an idiot!"
"You're forgetting to call me 'Your Honour' again."
"...sorry, your Honour >_<"
---
"So, Moderator Strop, tell us a bit about your longbow."
"Sure thing Moderator Strop, well, you see..."
Strop figured that by this point, there was nothing left to lose as far as his dignity was concerned. So for the sake of a convincing performance, he had brought out the ultimate prop: the Strop-on, as crafted by that perennial pervert Zophia. Originally intended as a, well, a 'Strop-on', it just happened to also be in the likeness of his Ninjaness, and given that Strop could actually fit his arm into it (it was one hell of a Strop-on), also served as a fantastic hand-puppet. Which Strop was now using. To play himself. Questioning himself. While sitting in the witness box. Of the Armor Court of Great Justice. In front of several hundred anti-mod conspiracy-theorists. Who doubtless had now confirmed beyond any shred of doubt that he was a complete nutjob.
"...the longbow is not one of my moderator tools. It's been with me ever since I determined to follow the Path of the Rightful Way."
The Strop-on waggled. "What is the Path of the Rightful Way?"
"It is the continuing quest For Great Justice. Its central tenets are that violence and aggression is weakness, and for that reason the bow may be a natural weapon but I have sworn an oath never to target a living being with this bow."
"And have you ever fired and pierced anybody using this bow?"
"No, I hav-"
"OBJECTION!" It was the prosecution's turn to brandish their fingers at Strop.
"Sustained," Moe intoned. "Please rephrase your question so as not to assert the verdict, Moderator Strop."
"Fine," Strop gritted his teeth, picking the Strop-on up again. "Before 'The Night of the Incident', have you ever fired and pierced anybody using this bow?"
"No, I have not."
"What is the significance of this not being a moderator tool?"
"It means that others can wield this weapon and, if they possess the strength and skill, could use it."
"Let us," the Strop-on mused, "talk about the round after The Round of Eight. How was the match-up decided there?"
"I let the four of them work out their teams of two by themselves. The team that won would be the two to face-off in the finals."
"So you could't have predicted that Crimson and Leon would eventually end up facing each other in the finals."
"That's correct, Thoad and Frank were just as likely to have a shot. That was the idea."
Suddenly the Strop-on rounded on Strop. "And that was a really good idea wasn't it? Now that you've got a deranged murderous nut in the finals, you really wish you had manipulated the matchups in your favour, but no, you had to do it fair-and-square didn't you! You thought it would work out in the end if you let everybody showcase their abilities and teamwork and now look what you've done, you fool! LOOK WHAT YOU'VE DONE!!!"
Strop attempted to peel the Strop-on from around his neck, shooting a desperate look at the Judge's box. "Your Honour, my lawyer's harrassing me D:" Strop whined.
"...need I remind you that you are your own counsel, Moderator Strop?"
Strop blinked, then looked around sheepishly at the people on the benches, all boggling at him. "Oh... yeah."
The Strop-on piped up: "No further questions, your Honour."
---
As precocious as he may have been, Chill was still a young boy of twelve, maybe thirteen. He looked several sizes smaller than that, sitting in the box with a bunch of hooded figures standing around him protectively. From his perspective, Strop, naturally, saw differently.
"So, Chill, Grandmaster of George, you are a contestant of the Way of Moderation tournament?"
"I was," Chill corrected.
"Until!" pounced a hooded prosecutor, "Until you were eliminated by Crimsonblade! Isn't that correct?"
"Well, yes... I was..." Chill shot a quick look at Strop. Strop frowned and looked back before averting his gaze. Chill was definitely paler than normal, occasionally playing with his fringe, rubbing his head, before setting his hands back down on the counter and fidgeting. To be looking at him like that, would only be interpreted as...
"You must not be afraid to reveal the truth!" In sync, the prosecutors turned to glare at Strop.
Strop glared back, then raised his finger. "OBJECTION!"
"Sustained," Moe declared. "Please get on with relevant questions, members of the prosecution."
The prosecution glared at Strop, or at least Strop imagined they were, for their faces weren't visible from under their hoods. "Well then!" they huffed, "Chill, Grandmaster of George, did the injury you sustained on The Night of the Incident affect your performance during your duel with Crimsonblade?"
Strop facepalmed. He thought he had demonstrated earlier that this so-called agenda the prosecution was saddling him with was a load of horsecrap, but evidently they didn't think so, or, rather, they thought they had a chance to undermine him further by using their key witness to suggest... but what about Chill's own statements to him earlier, as corroborated by Manta's statements!? Strop narrowed his eyes at Chill before he remembered this would proably make him look like a big meanie, so he looked away again. But not before noticing that Chill was noticibly tremoring.
"Uh, uh actually," Chill started, glancing at Strop again.
"Please, go ahead and answer the question, we're all here so it's okay!" The prosecution crowded in around Chill, partially blocking his view from Strop, leaving Strop free to narrow his eyes again.
"...yes." Chill looked down, rubbing his head, and the prosecution eased back. Strop openly stared at Chill, gears ratcheting in his head until he noticed something very strange.
Chill did not have a mug of coffee in his left hand. In fact, there was no cup of coffee to be seen at all. The gears ratcheted a little more, until it clicked.
Coffee addict + no coffee = caffeine withdrawals = headaches, tremors and agitation. Along with Chill's strange reactions, those sneaky secret society scumbags had to be withholding Chill's essential beverage for their nefarious purposes!
"That's it!!!" Strop jumped up and slammed his fist down on the table in a spectacular Eureka moment, only to realise, too late, just how bad his timing was.
As if to drive another nail into Strop's coffin, Moe's computerised voice cut through the murmurs: "Please, Moderator Strop, resume your seat."
Cheeks burning, Strop slumped into his chair and slunk as low on the table as the table would let him. Being ninja didn't quite afford him the gift of being able to transcend the material realm, thus the hole in the floor he had been increasingly desiring, would not come to claim him.
Just then, a female voice whispered above him, "Cheer up, Stroppykins, we're still rooting for you!" It was quickly rejoined by another very familiar voice: "You should refrain from using such double-entendres, they are distasteful."
Strop looked up.
"Woah, what are you doing here guys!" Strop whispered incredulously. "And where did you get those horns from, Strip?"
Manta reached over and punched him in the shoulder. "Oi ponyboy, you talking to yourself?"
"I suppose I am," Strop mused, before continuing. "And the trident. And the wings."
Miniature-Strip fluttered a little before switching poses. "I'm your conscience!" she announced.
"More like your sins and temptations," miniature-Cen countered, "Which makes me your real conscience." He ruffled his angel wings, and Strip blew a raspberry at him.
"Cen, why are you my conscience? That's kinda disturbing."
"Yes," Cen remarked dryly, "It is, seeing as it probably means that you don't even have your own conscience anymore."
"Hey!" Strop cried indignantly. "That's not true!"
"It doesn't matter," Miniature-Strip cut in, "If he's being mean to you, you can just listen to me!" As if to emphasise her point, she tightened the grip on her trident... by squeezing her ample cleavage around the shaft. Strop automatically wiped his nose. "So, uh, what did you guys want?"
"What else!" Strip flounced, "So you've discovered the prosecution's plans, and realised Chill is suffering from caffeine-withdrawals!"
"...which means you're going to have to decide how to approach the cross-examination." Cen finished.
"...don't you think it's time for some coffee?" Strip winked at Strop. "But I don't drink co-" Strop began, before he understood, and raised his hand.
"Yes, Moderator Strop?" Justice Moe asked.
"I would like to request a toilet break, your Honour."
Justice Moe pondered. "Now that you mention it, I've been feeling the urge for quite a while. Let us adjourn, reconvene in fifteen minutes!"
Strop decided not to ask what kind of toileting urges a brain in a jar could possibly have.
---
"So, Chill, Grandmaster of George..."
Strop paced in front of Chill, steaming polystyrene cup of coffee in hand. He had, naturally, no intention of drinking any of the coffee, because that would probably have caused his heart to break some kind of world record, followed thereafter by him doing something incredibly dangerous, which he could not possibly afford at this juncture. However, as to exactly what he was going to do with it...
"Look at the poor kid, Strop. Maybe this isn't such a good idea, tormenting him like that..." Miniature Cen tut-tutted at him.
"Uhhh, as I was saying, Chill, Grandmaster of George, as you are aware, you are the prosecution's key witness, as you are the subject of the charge which is being laid against myse- I mean my client..."
"Are you going to get on with it?" Justice Moe interrupted before the prosecution could even raise a hand in protest.
"Yes, um, right away your Honour," Strop bit his lower lip. Miniature Strip nudged him with the pointy bits of her trident. "Go on, ask the question, just make sure he can smell the aroma of that niiiiiiice coffee! ^_^" She then proceeded to poke him multiple times, causing the hairs on the back of his head to prickle somewhat fierce. Strop looked back at Chill.
"Really, Strop, this is no better than the shameful behaviour of the prosecution," Miniature Cen lectured him. "You should just give him the coffee and end his suffering, who knows, maybe people might think you were a bit nicer for it."
Strop rounded on Miniature Cen in protest: "But if I do that, the prosecution will accuse me of bribing Chill!"
Miniature Strip joined in, shaking a finger at Miniature Cen, "Besides, what does it matter if he can obtain a retraction and end this whole case right here?"
"But that wouldn't work either, and you know it!" Somehow impervious to Miniature Strip's charms, Miniature Cen was now engaging her in a rapidly emerging argument.
"If you are going to delay the court with your silence," Justice Moe cut in, "We'll have to assume that you have no questions to ask the witness."
"Hang on, hang on, give me a minute!" Strop squeezed his eyes shut and pummeled his head.
"That's the third time you forgot to call me 'Your Honour', Moderator St-"
"Just give me some time to think!" Strop yelled, a collective gasp rising in the court. Justice Moe's monotonous calls for "Order. Order." did nothing, so Flipski banged his cannon arm on the counter again, this time splintering half the top with a resounding crack. Over this, Miniature Strip and Miniature Cen were now yelling at each other.
"IF STROP DRANK SOME OF THE COFFEE IN FRONT OF CHILL IT WOULD DEFINITELY WORK."
"ARE YOU INSANE, YOU KNOW FULL WELL WHY STROP DOESN'T DRINK COFFEE!"
"I KNOW FULL WELL THAT STROP HAS IN FACT NEVER DRUNK COFFEE SO YOU DON'T KNOW THAT YOU DRONGO!"
"COVER YOUR NAKEDNESS, YOU HUSSY!!!"
"BITE ME, YOU PRUDE!!!"
Strop parted the warring miniatures with his hand. "Please, guys, if you don't mind I'll just begin..." and he turned to Chill, coffee still in hand.
"So, Chill, Grandmaster of George. I only have one question to ask you. And that is, did I, or did I not actually shoot you with my bow on The Night of the Incident?"
The whole courtroom gasped, and held their bated breath. Chill, tremoring more than ever, hesitated, his eyes darting from the prosecution to the coffee in Strop's hand. Beads of sweat collected on Strop's brow.
"If you're feeling that bad, just give him the kitten-huffing coffee, Strop!" Miniature Cen tugged on Strop's ear.
"No, drink the coffee, pile on the pressure!" Strip called into his other ear.
Strop had had enough. "Look guys, can't you settle this some other way? Like rock-scissors-paper or something?"
"Oooh good idea," Miniature Strip squealed, clapping her hands. "I can't lose, with the luck of the Devil on my side!" And before Miniature Cen could agree or disagree, she had rounded on him and the match had begin!
Miniature Cen beat Miniature Strip.
"Best of three!" Miniature Strip clearly did not like losing, and shook her fist again.
Miniature Cen beat Miniature Strip again.
"I meant, first to three!" Steam was now blowing out her nostrils, and Strop started feeling a little nervous at the possible outcomes of his little idea. But it was too late, the third round was underway.
Miniature Cen beat Miniature Strip for a hattrick.
"Ooooh, you cheated!" Miniature Strip fumed.
"Actually, no, I am simply ninja," Miniature Cen folded his arms. But Miniature Strip wasn't done!
"WINNER TAKES ALL ROUND!!!" Miniature Strip grabbed Miniature Cen's hand and...
"So just give him the coffee, Strop." Miniature Cen demanded. Strop started reaching out, then stopped. Then he looked at Chill again, whose tremoring had gone from Californian to East Asian magnitude.
"You need to answer the question, Chill, Grandmaster of George" Justice Moe prompted.
The prosecution stood poised, ready to object but not quite sure how to go about it, so they leaned on the threshold of their desk, jostling, itching but not quite speaking out.
"Give him the **** coffee, Strop." Miniature Cen demanded, a few shades more insistently. Strop looked over at Miniature Strip, but she had her back turned, obviously sulking.
Chill's eyes darted back and forth, and he had started hyperventilating. Strop realised that in his brief, Chill had described himself as prone to anxiety, and grew panicky at the notion that he might actually pass out on the stand.
"Answer the question, Chill!" Justice Moe repeated.
The prosecution was now jumping up and down on the spot, still powerless to speak.
"THE COFFEE. NOW." Miniature Cen bellowed at Strop, kicking him in the back of the head.
Strop caved in.
"Look, Chill, I think you might be needing this," he said, slamming the coffee cup on the witness stand. Chill looked like he didn't know whether to faint or cry.
"OBJECTION!!!" The prosecution triumphantly fell over themselves and the table. "THE DEFENCE IS BRIBING OUR WITNESS!!!"
"Care to explain why you are offering the witness coffee?" Justice Moe asked Strop.
"Your Honour," Strop said, "it is my expert opinion as ArmorGames' resident doctor that the witness is suffering from caffeine withdrawal and is medically unfit to serve as a witness."
"Is a caffeine dependency documented?"
"Why yes, in fact, it's in the archived participant files. The initial candidate briefs."
"You can't be serious!" the prosecution protested. "Your Honour, this is tantamount to the submission of evidence we were hitherto not informed of prior to the commencement of this trial, hence it should be inadmissable!"
If Moe had a glare, it would have been withering, and it was just as well he wasn't shooting laser beams out of the jar. "Members of the prosecution, be advised that I am prepared to accept that the witness is suffering from a medical condition that renders him unfit as a witness, further to this I am under the impression that this is a condition you should have seen fit to manage appropriately prior to the trial. I hereby declare that all statements in this session made by the witness Chill, Grandmaster of George, inadmissable. You are dismissed."
Visibly relieved, Chill chugged down Strop's coffee and left the stand. "Thanks, Strop," he muttered as he passed.
"Unfortunately this does mean that you cannot ask this witness any further questions either, Moderator Strop," Justice Moe informed Strop.
"Yeah... I figured," Strop muttered under his breath, before returning to his own box. While Chill's testimony was out of the picture, this also meant that Strop wasn't able to extract a retraction from him, and therefore had nothing to support him, and still had several testimonies and pieces of evidence fingering him for the crime. The score still stood at Strop: 0, Anti-Moderators: >9000.
Crap.
---
The audience had been on a steady simmer for most of the morning already, while the prosecution had presented their case. Now their venom started to come to the boil, as Strop's turn to present his defence rapidly approached. Frustrated, Strop jiggled his blank sheets of paper, wondering why Cen had chosen such a time as this to play such a mean trick on him. He couldn't help but wonder why Cen had gone so far as to give him a whole briefcase worth of blank paper. Maybe it was symbolism of just how much paperwork he'd been saddled with? Maybe it was for another purpose. Or maybe Strop was reading into it too much.
"Would the defence call its first witness please."
Strop looked around the room, fretting. There was no way he was going to be able to mount a complete defence, meaning that all his plans were really stalling for time, for an eventuality that was more of a liability, given he didn't even know if it was going to eventuate, or whether he even wanted it to eventuate. But alea jacta est, and que sera, sera. While he was at it, he might as well throw in a Ave, morituri te salutant, though he would have much preferred a hakuna matata, despite the latter not even being Latin.
Amidst general coughing and muttering, Strop stood up. "I would like to call Manta to the witness stand."
"BOO-YAH, HERE I GO!" Manta yelled, pumping his fist and springing into the box in a single bound.
It was a less than desirable start.
Having done away with all the preamble, Strop opened the questions. "Manta, please state your relation to The Way of Moderation Tournament."
"I," Manta opened grandly, "The fishman from a small village in the Wilderness, some way from the City of ArmorGames, was a participant in the tournament, for my name, in my native tongue, means 'he who is destined to strive for great things, and may sometimes fail-"
"Good, good," Strop hastily cut him off, leaving Manta in shocked indignation (>:O ha, the shoe's on the other foot now isn't it!) before following with his next question: "And you were present at the Way of Moderation Rap Battle, weren't you."
"Yeah, and I was getting all my verbal stylinz down like mad, and I won this!" Manta produced a diamond studded pendant. Made with paper and gems of congealed glue. With the inscription "WINNAR" on the medallion.
Strop was starting to wish right about now that he hadn't decided to make the whole round a parody.
"Well, yes. Yes, you did. So can you tell me what happened after that?"
Manta took a deep breath, trying to get serious. "Well, after the battle was over, you went to buy a drink from Hermit's stand. Then you passed out. Then, uhh, we decided to play a few tricks on you."
The muttering increased in intensity.
"Okay, okay," Strop said, trying to steer the questions in an organised fashion. "Who is 'we'?"
"Well, everybody present at the battle. Okay, not everybody. Actually it was just my idea to shave and tie-dye you, since you shaved me... and my hair's finally grown back thank you very much!"
Strop was overtly aware of the people behind him exchanging glances and imagining what he would look like shaven and tie-dyed. But he had to get on with the more important questions.
"So what happened to Chill at this point?"
Just like in the interrogation, Manta shrugged and deadpanned, "Oh, well, Leon picked you up and put the bow in your hands, then he shot Chill."
And the crowd went wild.
"Order." Justice Moe called, but was drowned out by the cacophony. "Order. Order? Is this voicebox even working anymore? Darn these cheapskate manufacturers, I specifically asked for a volume control..." Flipski's cannon arm started glowing and crackling, and the crowd very quickly went silent, more out of rigid fear than anything else.
"So," Strop said. "Could you describe this incident in more detail?"
"Well," Manta said, "More like Leon said 'I have an idea that will get Strop into trouble!' and so he got Chill to stand against the wall and use his magic to prevent him from getting hurt too bad when he got shot. So that's why only the tip of the arrow went in. We thought it was a pretty funny prank."
Evidently scandal was more effective at lubricating tongues than fear of Flipski's cannon was at freezing it, for the gallery was getting loud again.
"To ask directly, did I, I mean my client, shoot Chill?"
"Well, technically speaking you did-"
"I'll ask that again. Did I or did I not shoot Chill?"
"...no. You didn't."
"No further questions, your Honour."
---
"Manta, could you please explain to us what happened on the night of the Round of Eight, in which you were defeated by Thoad?"
Strop raised his hand. "Objection, your Honour, this isn't relevant to the case."
Justice Moe paused. "...I'll allow it. Mainly because I've always wanted to say 'I'll allow it.'"
Strop flailed, "Aw come on, Moe, what-"
"'Your Honour!'"
"Sorry, your Honour..."
The prosecution stood expectantly. Manta scratched his head one way, than the other. Then both ways at once.
"Honestly, I don't recall."
"Then let us refresh your memory." Thus Exhibit H was submitted, it being an article on a certain fishman who had trashed the Tavern while pretending to be a moderator. A very drunk moderator. Featuring a photo of Manta. Poised to throw a barstool at the hapless reporter while flipping them off.
"Is this you?"
Manta squinted at the article. "Why I guess it is!"
A murmur rippled around the room. "So you admit to being drunk and disorderly on that night?"
Manta shrugged again, "Yeah, I guess. I mean that's why I'm here after all. It's punishment. You know I'm missing out on The Sorori-"
Manta only stopped because he had spotted Strop making zigzagging motions across his neck with as much suppressed vigour as possible. But it was too late.
"...punishment? What do you mean by punishment?"
"Oh," the clearly straightforward Manta answered, "coz I, well, trashed the tavern, Strop decided my punishment would be to testify on his behalf. Here, today. Otherwise he woulda banned me for sure. Guess I got off pretty light, huh?"
Strop's head hit the desk with a thunk.
"I put it to this court, then," the lead prosecutor said smugly, "that The Defendant has used his powers improperly to distort the course of justice."
And with that, Manta's testimony was, for all its truthfulness, blown out of the water.