It felt like his body was being lugged to its death, abstract, unspecific, but thick with the taste of a bland, unflattering reality. His fingers, on hands bound by their wrists behind him, scratched at the tiles, seeking purchase less out of practical desire and more out of petulance. His breath struggled against his chest, eyes tense, uncertain whether to squeeze shut to suit the strain of instinct or to stay open to glare at his captor. A thin spatter of dark spots framed his vision, ring of the collar of his shirt taut against his throat, and his scalp burnt like a light fire. His legs angled awkwardly, perhaps hoping to twist themselves into a shape that would finally be the wrench in the works despite their bindings, but the world was having none of that.
Distantly some part of Dakarai that considered itself rational felt this struggle was a depressing waste of energy, but he'd never quite been able to convince himself of that in the past, and it didn't look like he was starting to change his mind now. Instinct had saved him time and time again.
Of course, normally, he wasn't being dragged to his death by a sociopath, either - or whatever it actually was that was occurring. Perhaps he'd be calmer if he knew for certain that this man was just going to put a bullet into his brain. He could deal with the notion of getting each individual limb meticulously removed, too, as long as it was announced beforehand. This secrecy wouldn't do. It just served to remind him of the weak-willed twits that had tried so desperately to bully him back in Njoty - they had loud barks, but no bites - which only threatened to make him complacent. This was no time to be naive and he was acutely aware of that.
A moment later, his lungs announce his soft impact with the ground with a deflating huff, a few strands of hair just long enough to get into his eyes pricking at the sclera, making him blink extensively, writhing across the tiles in a futile attempt to dislodge them properly. Then his gaze snaps up to his captor, spine having rolled against the ground and now nuzzling against the tiles, attentive death glare latched on him for a moment, hoping to see what he might produce to harm him, a blade, a weapon, anything, but the jerk's posture and expression are firmly expressing that his attention is elsewhere, and Dakarai N'Sehla's gaze leaps in generously spaced saccades to follow his line of vision.
Neck stretched, gaze cast up beyond his fallen position, past his hairline, Dakarai sees a rainbow's worth of vaguely reptilian, vaguely mythological creatures just past the edge of an altar of some sort. Panting steadily, he takes that in, a numb stupor gnawing at his perception like a mild feverdream as he tries to make sense of what his senses are reporting.
They're certainly not moving very much, so he might not put it past them to be statues and all illusion of motion existing solely in his dizzied, disoriented, adrenaline-soaked mind. If he's meant to be a sacrifice, though, surely there would be more… ritual? On the other hand, he wouldn't know, he's never been a sacrifice before. This is it? It feels like it should be filling in a blank. His gaze darts back to his captor, to equal parts nervous and defiant - an awkward mixture - but the posture is the same as before… and Dakarai himself is far too busy panting, still, to be outright asking a question just this second.
All of the creatures across from him appear to be watching him with some interest, though that could, a part of him points out, be just a trick of his mind. After a few moments, the third from the left - a large, reptilian figure with cream-colored scales and a long, flowing plume of fiery feathers, wreathed in a warm glow - breaks any delusion Dakarai might have that these were simply colorful statues, walking towards him without haste. It pauses perhaps a meter away, expressive eyes studying the human's form for a long moment, then shifting its gaze up to the gym leader, silently confirming that yes, this is indeed who they're expecting.
And then, something impossible happens. ~Dakarai N'Sehla.~ The words aren't spoken, but formed in his mind in a voice that is definitively not his own. At the same time, the creature's gaze shifts back down to Dakarai. It's talking to him. ~You have been brought here, before the Legendary Council, to stand trial for the numerous crimes you have committed.~
There's a long pause, giving that thought and its implications suitable time to sink in, before the voice in his head continues: ~The charges you face are as follows: Multiple counts of forcing pokémon into battle against their will. Multiple counts of violently capturing and enslaving wild pokémon. Multiple counts of emotional abuse towards pokémon, in addition to those covered by the aforementioned charges. Multiple counts of physical abuse towards pokémon, in addition to those covered by the aforementioned charges.~ There's a pause there, the luminous being wearing a thoughtful gaze before turning to the gym leader. ~Am I leaving anything out?~
Pokémon.
He's looking at pokémon.
The realisation peels the warmth from his head and shoulders in a single motion, lapping at his collarbone as the seed of nausea, spawning tendrils to lash lightly at the frame of his innards, unsettling them. A knot of very gentle flavour of horror twists itself into the fibres of his neck, light in application, but no less constricting and absolute. He breathes steadily, but in his mind's eye, he's forgetting it altogether. The words spoken don't parse, but hardly have to. He's made a terrible mistake, a grave, unforgivable error in judgement. The past two months unravel as a narrative in his skull, revealing a consistently missing thread of information. The whole picture is a shock to his system, mercifully cutting what might otherwise be an instinctual reaction - a desperate, hollow, insane cackle - short before it can even surface.
The second thought - grovelling for mercy desperately - simply results in his eyes closing to hide his raw annoyance with himself. The visceral urge to survive flaring up impotently within him sputters and dies before it's half-formed, dissolving into the numbing, overwhelming haze of shock, that soothing disconnect.
Fuck. Well done, Dakarai, you've stuffed up, and the collateral damage is obscene.
Sanity cradled by the disconnect, it is unmistakable that this isn't personal. He's not on trial here. The person he was twenty eternal seconds ago, however, entirely is, of course - and it was easy enough parading him before his execution squad. Like any game, it simply required some focus, but that's not beyond him. The chill eating at his spine, the panic about the consequences, about pain and death and dishonour and ridicule, only fuels his desire to be professional about it.
His captor seems significantly more engaged with the creature speaking than with the bundle of unlikely misery crumpled on the floor, of course. “Creation of a weapon purely with wilful intent to further the aforementioned,” the gym leader comments, drily, a light but resentful and dismissive shrug touching his right shoulder.
For a moment, Dakarai marvels at the situation. If he were less… involved in it, he might be awed and enamoured by the whole scenario, but he sadly has no time for that. The smile forms on his face regardless, only to twist into a practised smirk, his spine arching lightly as he rids himself of some inner tension and jitter by translating it into a single smooth motion. His gaze angles itself to the luminescent raptor. “That's adorable,” he comments, a predatory delight in his voice. “And what do you intend to do about it, exactly?” he asks, pronouncing the last word with an exaggerated clarity, each syllable crisply apparent, curiosity glittering in his eyes. “You're impotent to change the past. These things have happened; you can't undo them now,” he observes, tone light, but all the more condescending for it. “Sure must suck to be you,” he appends with the slightest hint of pity.
A grimace distorts the raptor's features; he knew there was something he'd been forgetting and now he recalled why. The sheer notion that anyone could want to build such a thing was repugnant in a way that the other, sadly more common transgressions didn't quite stand up to. ~Noted,~ he replies with a nod.
The raptor's thoughts are interrupted by the commentary from the accused, teeth bared and eyes glaring in rage, the glow from his scales intensifying. He'd dealt with humans who didn't know their place; this individual was either utterly clueless as to who he was addressing, or had absolutely no empathy for those he'd harmed - and he was quite heavily leaning towards the latter. There's a sharp inhale of breath, followed by a low hissing as it's slowly exhaled through parted teeth. Dakarai would live to regret those words, he reminds himself. This trial would ensure it. On the other hand, that attitude is desperately crying out to be taken down a few pegs, and if he simply backs away now that would send all the wrong messages.
~Were you paying attention when I said 'trial'?~ the Legendary responds in a venomous tone, taking another two steps towards the human, looming over him. ~Or is that concept unfamiliar to you?~ One massive forepaw comes to rest on the human's chest, applying enough force to keep him pinned. ~The purpose is not to undo your actions; it is to ensure that justice is carried out for them. And as for what we intend to do, your sentence will be announced once the trial is concluded and we have determined the appropriate punishment.~ There's a brief urge to add something along the lines of 'Is that clear?', but he's decided that giving this human more opportunities to speak than are strictly required is probably unwise.
The creature's gaze swivels up to the gym leader, expression stony. ~Arbiter, you may call any witnesses you wish to have testify.~
“Oh no, I heard you,” Dakarai comments, just a peg short of eagerly, smiling with an alien serenity. “It just seems like a futile bandaid. I can't imagine it's satisfying, given the damage is already done. But you can have your fancy ritual if it makes you feel better, it just boggles my mind that it would.”
Dakarai's human captor meanwhile curls the fingers of his left hand into a controlled, tight fist, the segments of his digits snugly fitting against each other. He's closed his eyes, leaving those two symbols of tension and displeasure to stand out as an oddity amongst the calm his body language is otherwise expressing - then he glances down with a cold, cutting stare. A moment later, the heel of his right boot sears the structure of its sole against the edge of Dakarai's jaw, half as if he might intend to pin his head to the ground by forcing his cheek onto the tiles, but it's really more of a punishing kick. Half-heartedly, his weight sets down against his foot a moment later, casually imprinting the patterns of his footprint on half of Dakarai's forehead. It's not painful, but it's far from comfortable. “You will speak when it's your turn and not a moment sooner,” he comments in a way that could easily pass as dispassionate, but is full of a restrained resentment.
His survival instinct was getting in the way. “…when is that?” he asks, the most defiance he quite manages to muster. There was something about 'why should I respect your rules if you don't respect your own' somewhere in the depths of his head, but the relevance of the gym battle's premise had already been deconstructed, and he could only half-heartedly use that as an argument.
“Not now,” the gym leader comments with a dark amusement, briefly wiggling his heel, but the motion is gentle, full of deliberate restraint.
He maintains his stare at Dakarai for just long enough to convince himself that the pitiful excuse for a human being was genuinely shutting up, rather than just temporarily stunned to silence - then he glances at Solalon. “For the moment I'd rather skip that part, perhaps get back to it if it turns out to be genuinely necessary - I think his pokémon have had enough undue stress already,” he comments, composure in no way betraying that he was still firmly planting a heel against Dakarai's face.
And the pitiful excuse for a human in front of him continues to dig his grave deeper. That alone is enough to keep his rage in check - Dakarai will get what he deserves. Thankfully, Jagdish puts his foot down - literally, in this case - before Solalon feels the need to respond. The forepaw planted on Dakarai's chest pushes off of him with a bit more force than is strictly necessary as Solalon takes a step back, giving Jagdish some room, very briefly dipping his muzzle in gratitude.
~I suspected as much,~ the Legendary replies, giving a slow nod. ~In that case, I think presentation of the relevant evidence is in order.~ There's a pause, a grimace forming on those reptilian features, before he adds: ~This weapon he created, especially.~
Jagdish's response is delayed, but minimalistic and curt, singular nod acknowledging Solalon's request. His left shoulder rolls slightly for a moment, his gaze swerving back down, burning as a chilling disconnect into the miserable excuse for a human being at his mercy, as his left hand dips into his pocket, setting the tips of three fingers against the implement. A moment later, he's smoothly tugged it free and extended his arm out straight from the shoulder to the side, letting his fingers droop, holding it both in plain sight and denoting his visceral displeasure with it in one fell swoop. A moment later, still not quite looking at the item as much as at Dakarai N'Sehla, the fingers twitch, shifting their grip on the item to something closer to its middle, only for his thumb to roll against it, triggering three lashes to spill from the shaft, emitting a hollow, barely audible chime as they tinker against the hard stone floor. Another motion engulfs the tendrils a crimson luminescence.
Dakarai's gaze is latched on it from the moment it surfaces, tracking it with smooth, unbroken eye motions, only blinking once the red sheen's established itself. A bitter medley of emotions spirals tightly around his throat: Pride and self-loathing. Former palpably stings in his chest - he's spent so much sweat and wit making it that he can't disown it, even now. It was a worthy endeavour in itself; he could effortlessly justify creating it to himself as long as it came with the imperative never to use it, never to raise it against a sentient creature.
But he had.
Just as he couldn't disown the item, he couldn't divide it from all that he'd done with it. To his emotive perception, the crimson glow brimmed to equal parts with unspeakable, ignorant malice as it did with scientific progress, and the combination deeply unnerved him, tugging his gut into opposite directions, tightening that toxic knot in it, lapping at his senses as broad furrows of a fever fire. But there he was, the patient observer of his own deserved demise, casting an enamoured smile at the evidence - it was his creation, it was his undoing, and both filled him with a cerebral delight.
“Would you mind explaining your contraption to the audience?” the Arbiter asks, inclining his head lightly as he smiles down lightly at Dakarai, both loathing and relishing the degree to which he would no doubt damn himself irrefutably given that invitation to reveal the sheer malice behind his actions. The foot eases back off his forehead, tip of the boot briefly nudging against the underside of his chin, before receding completely and setting down on the ground where it belonged.
…would he? A part of him wanted to object simply since he'd been given an option - certainly one that wasn't a true option in any sense of the word, but the letter of the law was so much more interesting than the spirit of the law in a situation like the one he's in right now. Miraculously, he's still breathing evenly, despite the part of him trying to constrict his lungs and skip an in- or exhale out of overwhelming unease. He closes his eyes for a moment, allowing himself an indulgent smile, grappling with his pride and sinking into it, wielding it like an impenetrable armour. His gaze as he opens his eyes once more, however, is hollowly latched to the ceiling, forming a distant, serene expression with the mild smile on his face. “It took me a while to make,” he comments, surprising himself with the casual tone. “I had the good fortune that someone had laid the groundwork for trapping type energies into crystal structures, though they never did quite figure out how to get them to resonate with anything. My first attempts at harnessing it just discharged the energy in one abrupt flare, which proved useless for anything as fine-tuned as what I had in mind, but as you see, it works quite steadily now. It could easily be the most significant marvel of technology in the past decade, I suppose, though I imagine that's nothing you're remotely brave enough to acknowledge.”
Nausea slowly creeps into the Legendary's gut as the weapon activates, its strands adopting a sinister, crimson glow. It's instinctively recognizable as 'a blood-type move', but placed directly in the hands of a human, it takes on an entirely more disturbing character. A weapon like this could only have a handful of conceivable uses, none of them good. Perhaps one could argue the case for self-defense; but if a circuiting is 'defending themselves' from pokémon, they probably deserve whatever attack is aimed at them. Perhaps it could serve a purpose if humans decided to just skip past fighting each other with pokémon proxies and instead attack each other directly with weapons like these…. But no, that was an unrealistic fantasy; faced with having to actually bear the pain they inflict on the pokémon they force to fight for them, such a thing wouldn't last.
The completely unsubtle insult prompts a different reaction than perhaps intended - a concerned pause. Human technology had a way of spiralling out of control. One day the humans have discovered a way to store matter compactly in a palm-sized sphere; before you know it, there are untold numbers of the devices being used to trap pokémon and force them to fight against their will. A sudden mental image flashes through Solalon's mind, of trainers all over the island using these things to goad pokémon into fighting each other.
~Two questions,~ the Legendary begins, shifting his attention to the human on trial. ~First, is this the only such device you made? And second, is there anyone, aside from you, who knows how to make such a thing?~ Technically, this was off-topic. The answers would have very little impact on the Council's ruling in this trial. But knowing how much damage had already been done would be critical for the Council's decision on what to do about this weapon.
Meanwhile, Jagdish's reaction is noticeably less measured. He narrows his eyes, casting them down at the captive, curling his free hand into a fist, visibly resisting an urge to reach down and gag him.
Perhaps if he were along with Dakarai, he wouldn't let any of this get under his skin - the insults would be for him or their targets would not be able to hear them. Surely he should have a modicum of control over what is formally his client. The Legendaries know better than to make him accountable for this creature's antics, but it still feels like an unfortunate slip of control; to Jagdish's perception, something about Dakarai's tone of voice files that self-absorbed blathering away as preventable.
For a blessed moment, Dakarai is silent.
In his mind, cold fear finds itself abused as a fuel for his self-destructive path. The calm response to his statement is a shock to his system. The detached fragment of him marvels at it, assuming it temporary but no less sincere - these creatures were interested in much more than their own gratification, that much was certain. He turns Solalon's response over in his head, trying to discern the motivation. Is he afraid that someone else might repeat Dakarai's trick? His gaze reaches for the device, resisting the urge to recoil in the fresh sense of horror that accompanies his sense of pride.
Take a good look at what you've done.
That frantic emotion was hardly helpful, contributing only to a touch of his tongue's tip across his lips, fortunately easy to pass off as a contemplative gesture. What was the wiser response to give? If he wanted their undivided attention, he would have to tell them the truth, but at cost of inciting fractionally less loathing than if he pretended he'd spread his knowledge.
Then the eternal second is over and he gives a single, soft syllable of a chuckle. “Alas, unfortunately the device you possess is the only of its design and I am the only one who knows how to make another,” he says, the barest hint of tension in his voice, not wholly suiting the unfettered air.
Solalon lets out a silent sigh of relief. To be fair, the danger has not entirely passed; the fact that such a weapon is even possible is still cause for concern, but now at least the Council has time to prepare for such an eventuality. ~Lucky for you, then,~ he comments, claws of his right forepaw tracing lightly along the stone floor in a half-conscious gesture, ~that to what extent this is 'the greatest marvel of technology in the past decade' is entirely irrelevant to this case.~
There's a brief pause, long enough to let that thought sink in, before he continues. ~More relevant is what, precisely, you were intending to accomplish with it, and why exactly you felt the need to construct and then use such a thing.~
The answer is out before he's bothered to polish his response: “I thought mister mysterious and enigmatic here summarised that sufficiently earlier. What was it? The 'wilful intent to further the aforementioned', with the aforementioned being something or other about physical and emotional harm and coercion.” A pause lingers, albeit not nearly long enough. “Oh, and slavery. I think you mentioned slavery. It was all quite dramatic when you said it, implying that my pokémon had something of a soul.” He smiles across at Solalon with most smug expression he can muster while the rest of him privately wrestles with his terror.
The only warning Dakarai receives is a low, impatient snarl before a clawed forepaw shoots forward, grasping at his face, the central digit hovering a centimeter from his left eye. The Legendary's muzzle dips, teeth bared, his gaze tightly focused on Dakarai, the raptorian face and glowing mane of feathers occupying nearly all of his field of vision. At odds with the savage demeanor of the creature looming over him, the voice in his mind is rather calm, though a hint of strain underlies it: ~You seem to be confused about the question. Let me clarify.~
The words are delivered with a slow, measured rhythm, as if trying to explain a complicated concept to someone without a solid grasp of the spoken language. ~Unless you specifically set out with capturing, enslaving, and abusing pokémon as the end goal of what you were trying to accomplish in crafting this weapon and going on the gym circuit - in which case, good job, you succeeded - then that is not the answer to the question I'm asking. So please, take a moment to think before you open your mouth again, and answer the actual question.~
It takes all of his strength of will not to yelp at the sudden motion that ends in his face. A tension just shy of infecting him with a quiver seizes his shoulders and spine. The instant threatened to make him apologise, infecting him with a sense that he had done something gravely wrong in a way that the physical roughness or the calm, scolding voice alone never would have. Battling the nausea in his gut, he hijacked the emotion, twisted it to serve him: He was not playing his role good enough.
That alone was only half the way to a solution, though. His head was more heartbeat than thoughts for the moment. He was more lucid than he'd ever been in his life, but that only made the rhythm in his skull that much more apparent. Think.
“I can't say that was my only reason,” he said, surprised by the saccharine tone he was maintaining against all odds. “But if you're hoping I was oblivious to what I was doing, you're being hopelessly naive. Primarily I wanted functioning tools so I could win the circuit, but let's be realistic - in absence of a circuit, I would have simply crafted my own backdrop.” For a moment, he considered how true that was in abstract, his mind trying to reach down to tear his gut to ribbons in a desperate gesture of self-mutilation, fortunately powerless to make it more than twinge. “As a sidenote, you would be best advised to understand that I always think before I open my mouth,” he said, tone as condescending as he could muster, wringing the tone out of his disdain for himself. “I grant that it's a human trait, so you might not understand.”
Dakarai's response sends a chill down the Legendary's spine. Of all the rationalizations he's heard over the decades, 'intentional desire to inflict pain on pokémon' was, thankfully, quite rare. The clawed forepaw peels back, the reptilian form recedes; he takes a few moments to consider the implications of those words - ironically ignoring the insult about not thinking before speaking. ~Do you also totally disregard the well-being of your fellow humans for your own amusement?~ he asks, tone closer to curiosity than anything else.
Did he?
There was an instinct to deny it. He'd certainly always tried to be respectful toward people unless they physically assaulted him - and even then he'd granted certain leeways before snapping their bones. And yet, given the cause for his social ostracism in Njoty had never been entirely transparent to him, and the disdain that his father expressed for him had never been explained, perhaps he had simply always been cruel.
Perhaps he had always disregarded the well-being of his fellow humans for his own amusement. It wouldn't be the first fundamental error he'd indulged in.
That said, this particular one had unravelled without nagging doubt. It all made a lot of sense. In contrast, if he thought back on how he had treated human beings, he could perhaps claim to have been situationally indifferent toward some, but he could discover no deep, flawed habit that spoke that language. It did not pop out at him in the same way, it was not an obvious error that he simply needed to be nudged toward.
“Of course not,” he responds. “Even ignoring for a moment that there's a grave physiological and psychological divide between pokémon and humans, it is a little more difficult to deal with antagonism in a human context, given civilisation is run by humans. Plainly, it's nothing I could get away with. My 'amusement', as you put it, would be cut short, assuming I were so inclined.”
Jagdish was regarding the conversation with what had simmered to a twisted sense of pity, the hand of his that wielded Dakarai's twisted invention rolling in an idle motion about its wrist. Let the fool destroy himself. In any other situation, with any other character at his mercy, he might interrupt to cast things into a perspective that was less of a guaranteed disaster, but the desire to mediate anything at all had been bled out of him.
Perhaps he would interrupt Solalon at some point, suggest they simply file this case away as a benchmark for the worst possible behaviour. The only thing that kept him was that as much as he resented Dakarai, he was in no rush at all to move on with his duties. The likes of Keith Sirius might run the way this psychpath's punishment would turn out through his mind, but Jagdish shied away from those mental images. His fondest wish was for Dakarai to simply spontaneously disappear. That seemed like it would be the best solution for everyone.
There's a subtle shift in Solalon's posture, eyes narrowing with predatory focus. The picture Dakarai is painting speaks volumes, sketching out a creature who was at best irrationally predisposed to injuring pokémon, at worst morally bankrupt. ~So is that the basis of your ethical system, then? “Can I get away with it”?~ he probes. ~Put another way: If you had the opportunity to put a human through a similar amount of harm you put 'your' pokémon through, without having to fear consequences from human society, would you do so?~
This was not the way the conversation was meant to pan out. The measured venom implicit in Solalon's enquiry was what Dakarai had been fishing for, but the context was veering away from the territory he was familiar with - pokémon as used for battling - and into the murky, uncertain waters of social interaction. It was a bearable tangent, its only vice that it was perhaps drawing out this trial longer than necessary… as long as it didn't uncover his thoughts.
“I have had no reason to ponder that - and no reason to ponder it now,” he finally says, his voice still successfully simulating steadiness despite his rising anxiety, that emotion a far more effective blade than his fear at prying at his careful constructed persona. He felt a strong urge to flee into the phrases he was taught in school, the moral foundations of Sehto, consent as an axiom, perhaps use it as a means to mock their trial as deeply corrupt - he had won the battle, by the gym leader's own advertised rules he should not only be free but have the Astral Badge - but he held back for now, deeply uncertain if it might not accidentally require more twisting than he was capable of. In theory it should be enough if he simply did not accept pokémon as sapient agents, but he did not trust himself to think clearly enough to risk that balancing act.
“I beg to differ. Your 'reason to ponder it now' is that you have been asked your opinion.” Jagdish's fingers steeple briefly, subtle expression of exasperation. “Though I will advise you once, and just this once, that your opinions do not seem to be doing you any favours and you would certainly be better off remaining silent.”
The condescending “Touching,” has escaped Dakarai before he's bothered to filter it. The lightest quiver briefly touches his right shoulder, betraying the degree of tension running through his bound body, even as he shoots a glare up at Jagdish and seizes the moment. The gaze that meets his is deeply unsettling, but for the few seconds he has to maintain his stare, he can narrowly bear simply letting it pass through him. “I have no reason to take advice from someone who transparently does not follow his own purported rules.” Relief grips his gut as he casts his gaze back to the less expressive face of Solalon.
~Continuing to act like a petulant child isn't doing you any favors either,~ the Legendary comments. It's certainly not making this trial any less frustrating. It's almost like Dakarai's personality was designed specifically to be as grating to Legendaries as possible; listening to any of his answers so far has been like trying to chew sandpaper.
Solalon pauses, taking the moment to collect his thoughts on how to proceed. He could force the issue, trying to pry an answer out of the defendant. But how much good would that actually do? All told, the answer to this question was unlikely to make much of a difference to the trial's outcome, given the weight of the evidence and the way the trial had gone so far. He'd already effectively admitted guilt and simultaneously declared a complete lack of remorse.
~But you seem perfectly fine refusing to answer the question, so I'll take that as a simple 'yes' and we can move on. Perhaps we'll come back to it later if there's time.~ If that doesn't convince him not to ignore questions, then probably nothing will. ~Since we've broached the topic of your gym battle here, perhaps you'd like to share how exactly you managed to defeat Vendetta?~
At the edge of their perception, Crinyx lurched into an aborted motion, reined in by an attentive Psynateh's crushing psychic grip. Her gaze anchored on the human being with a stubborn perpetuity that gave the intense stare a quality of simply passing through the creature, calmly boring into his soul. It took discipline not to let the smouldering focus turn into a wildfire - but if it was one thing the psychic pokémon had, it was discipline. Let this human hang himself by his words. He clearly needed no help ushering him along.
A tension had crept through Jagdish, then dissipated as Solalon's response continued on. Now he was putting the device away, that piece of evidence that spoke sufficient volumes to kill Dakarai N'Sehla ten times over even if he pleaded desperate ignorance. The narrow lines of light withdrew abruptly as if shy, then the robust case disappeared into a pocket.
Dakarai was unusually silent.
It was an obviously temporary blessing, but there was a line of confusion through him that was difficult to make any sense of given his behaviour so far. The light tremble in his shoulders persisted, not subtle enough to reasonably ignore - but who cared about the no doubt purely instinctive fears of a psychopath? Let him be afraid for his life. Perhaps it was dawning on him that he should watch his tongue.
When he spoke, it became apparent he had learnt no such thing. “If you insist on calling it by those terms, he defeated himself. He stepped out of line by his own volition; he tried to assault me mid-battle in blatant, direct disregard of Nemo's wishes. I simply put him in his place,” Dakarai dismissed, dispassionately. “I struck him repeatedly, until he relented, which so happened to be at the end of his strength, given he was very stubborn indeed. Unfortunate, given he wasted an opportunity for a noble battle, but I hope he's at least learnt his lesson.”
~Perhaps it is the human that must learn his lesson,~ Crinyx hissed menacingly, his previously regal posture deconstructed into a tense coil, as if he were truly only a psychic intervention away from leaping forward to rend the human's flesh - no doubt just enough to force a few screams from the battered body and not a torn fibre more. ~Assuming him capable of learning it before his life expires. What further evidence do we need of his nature?~
In normal circumstances, Psynateh might have volunteered herself to sample the human's soul, but most of the Council - Icechel notwithstanding - had considered this far enough removed from 'normal circumstances' that they had no interest in subjecting the lady to the mental contact. By sheer accident, the decision was in the human's feeble favour just the same, given how fragile a human psyche could be under sufficiently rough psychic handling, like a rock worrying at the skin of one's joints until they were raw - and irreparably damaged.
Solalon looks back at Crinyx at his initial outburst, held by Pysnateh's psychic grip as he is, a touch of sympathy in his otherwise stoic demeanor. ~Patience, Crinyx,~ he intones calmly, before turning his attention back to the pitiful human in front of him. Perhaps the human's started to get a sense of what's about to happen to him. Perhaps he might actually think about what he's saying before it leaves his mou–
Nope, okay, apparently not. Apparently he's quite determined to make sure to give the Council enough rope to hang him several times over. If Solalon didn't know better, he'd almost suspect this was being done on purpose. Unfortunately, he had plenty of experience with psychopaths unwittingly dooming themselves in his presence. This one seemed to be doing an especially good job; it wasn't often he felt the urge to murder a human while they were standing trial.
There's a long, thoughtful pause after Crinyx's comment. On the one hand, this trial, despite how it's felt interrogating this psychopath, has been remarkably short so far. In principle, there are many more questions he ought to ask. On the other hand, at this point it's clear what kind of human they're dealing with, and that any further questions would simply paint the same picture over and over again. And he's already admitted guilt. And he's already shown, multiple times over, how little he regards the well-being of pokémon around him. And the Council, himself included, is getting tired of hearing this human talk. And the longer this goes, the longer it will be before he sees punishment.
~I think we've heard quite enough at this point,~ the Legendary declares, turning his attention to the Arbiter before him. ~Unless there's anything else that you think needs to be considered here, the Council will discuss and determine an adequate sentence.~
An adequate sentence. The phrase raked its claws across Dakarai's perception, raising the hair on his bound arms and the back of his neck. This was no time to lose his composure - he just had to hold on a little longer, keep up this façade of confidence and cool indifference. Fear was all right, but he couldn't grovel. Pitifully, mutely, Dakarai's thoughts supplied: 'Just one more thing… I didn't actually mean any of what I said.' The urge to speak those words burnt under his skin. Thankfully, silence was easy. His throat ached from the tension of keeping it still - the first sound out of it would be a sob if he tried to utter anything now.
Jagdish exhaled, mixed feelings knotting at his gut. The end of the trial loomed as a threat and a relief, both. His usual resentment for his task was dulled by the severity of this man's callousness - but he would still cry, he would still beg, he would still plead. Regardless how deserved each and every one of his wretched tears would be, Jagdish did not look forward to being the one to extract them from his fragile body.
“The accused had 28 pokémon in his possession,” Jagdish summarised; his arms slid in behind his back, loosely crossing as he straightened himself out for the formal recitation. “I submit that he was only witnessed mistreating twelve of these more than by simply sending them into battle. I further submit a lower-bound estimate of two hundred battles for your consideration. I understand that the… device, as well as his attitude, are severe factors to account for, and would like to plead that each is considered as no more than a doubling factor when considering his due punishment.”
Dakarai didn't deserve that mercy, but for his own sake, Jagdish was going to ask for the minimum possible sentence as long as it was tactful to do so. The length of the sentence was a formality at best, after all - they all came apart in the end, or in the middle, or in the beginning, and given Dakarai's extensive attitude problems his sentence was likely to drag on long enough that he by necessity fell into the final category.
✘ IN PROGRESS