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Sonya/Teresa is a little late to the meeting, mostly out of an unwillingness to hurry her snack to get here on time.

Arriving at the “Cathedral” she pauses briefly to take in the completely over-the-top architecture, and attempts mostly successfully to avoid cracking up at the skull-encrusted thrones. Is she serious? I feel like I’m on the set of Buffy or something.

Still, it doesn’t really surprise her… it had become pretty clear, both in the aftermath of the Camps closing and Isabel’s trial, that the Order is quite dedicated to being the Bad Guys. That would have bothered her once, she’s fairly sure. She’s not sure why, other than the sheer outrageous aesthetics of it.

She waves vaguely at Syn and the recently reunited twins, suddenly remembering Slate’s comments about them working for Hunter. Which might be a problem, since she’s at least ostensibly supposed to be trying to find out how to take Hunter down… though the truth is, she hasn’t been doing much along those lines lately.

The multiple Abysses (Abyssi? Abees?) are, as usual, hard to miss; she finds herself wondering whether there are other twins in the group she hasn’t met yet. Isabel, at least, she’s pretty sure is a singleton – good thing, too. She waves to them all as well.

The two guys, she doesn’t know. The scarred shirtless guy is intriguing, but something about him raises her hackles. The kid in the muscle shirt, on the other hand, is actually pretty cute; she wonders what his story is. He seems friendly enough, so she makes her way over to where he is chatting with one of the Abysses. “Hi… don’t think we’ve met, have we? I’m Teresa.”

> "Doug. Don't get yourself killed by a freak, okay?"

Sonya has become accustomed to the experience of her templates trying to fight her control, over the past few months. It used to be scary. Now, it's more like taking an unruly dog for a walk... sure, it _might_ pull the leash out of your hand at an unexpected moment, but really, the odds are firmly in your favor if you don't freak out.

This is different. It's more like _she's_ the one trying to take control.

Which is ridiculous, of course. She's already _in_ control. Has been all along. Doug has long since been relegated to a copilot role. And who else is there?

Still, the feeling is there, and the almost incoherent sense that, had things turned out differently, things would have been... different.

Which is, also, absurd.

Still, there's an unaccustomed softness in Doug's voice as Sonya calls back, probably too softly to be heard over the gunfire. "Yeah. You, neither."

It's the last word anyone will ever hear coming out of Doug's mouth. She folds his uniform neatly, throwing each piece of clothing into the fire as it comes off, looking thoughtfully into the flames before his body melts and reforms as Teresa's, and the shorts he wore under his uniform flow into a familiar black bodysuit.

She picks up the pulse-rifle and sniffs the air. Back in this body, she can smell the sweet aroma of charred flesh intermingling with the chemical stink of busted gas lines, and decides it's time for a quiet retreat before the whole place goes up in flames.

And inside her own mind, she gives Doug a little push into oblivion. She's gotten better at that lately. And the truth is, he doesn't seem to mind.

(( End Thread ))

The next few days of testimony are almost a blur for Cynthia… important, of course, but really just laying the framework for her star witness, Mr. Kelly.

There weren’t many witnesses to the Slaughter – not many left alive, anyway – and those few had been frightened at the time and remained frightened now. They testified about what they saw and heard, but couldn’t – or in some cases wouldn’t -- definitively identify Isabel as the perpetrator, and the defense had made that perfectly clear on cross-examination. The families of the dead officers were even less relevant; she’d been lucky to get their testimony included at all. Still, they’d all served their purpose… they proved nothing, but they set the tone, set the jury’s mood. Which was just as important, if not more so.

Then, the forensic medical expert who testified about the bone fragments found in officer Isaac’s chest, and their match to Isabel’s DNA. The other forensic experts who testified about the dozens of fatal stab wounds, slice wounds, etc. that were consistent with her powers (though, of course – as the defense pointed out – consistent with other types of weapons as well). These were dull as ditchwater – expert evidence always was – but they provided a much-needed grounding in observed, recorded, scientific facts.

For her entire career as a prosecutor Cynthia has been amazed by how little importance juries actually assign to facts. In her early years she kept trying, and failing, to build cases on them. She’s learned from experience, though… first, you tell them what to believe, then you give them just enough facts to justify believing it. The defense always has experts of their own, of course… so at the end of the day it’s really all about what the jury wants to believe. Which makes it all about who has the most compelling story.

She’d been torn about whether to include psychiatric evaluation… ultimately, decided against it. Juries never believe in them anyway, and she doesn’t need the usual droning about “pronounced sociopathic and psychopathic tendencies” to creep the jury out when she can show the jury pictures of streets full of sliced-up cops.

She’s pleased with herself – she’d handled the case so far with an attention to detail as well as her usual flair. If her star witness performs as well on the stand as he did during their prep sessions, she’s confident they have this case locked down tight.

"The prosecution calls Rupert Kelly."

> "How do we know you're really one of us? Just hand over the mutants. They're dangerous, can't you see?"

"You’re kidding, right? I’ve been working here since the damn place started. " S/he tries to remember the guards’ names, but under stress they don’t come to her. "I’ve been drinking coffee from the same stupid break-room you have, with the post-it note on the decaf pot that says “This really is decaf” as if anybody here actually fucking drinks decaf. I’ve been getting dirty looks from Kelly every time I run into him in the halls, like I’m personally ruining his day. I’ve been watching freaks do my laundry and cleaning up the city and now I’m watchin’ ‘em kill half the folks I work with. So if I ain’t one of ‘us’, Curly, then you damned well better start explaining who you are, ‘cuz I goddammit work here. Got that?"

She winds down from the outrage, takes a slow, casual step towards the gunman, puts Doug’s hand out. " Come on, man. You don’t want to do this. They’ve just got you seeing ghosts, is all. I don’t blame you… it’s a fucking massacre out there… but we humans gotta stick together, right?"

(( OOC: Introducing the lead prosecutor, Cynthia Keys. She's a thin, tall, black woman wearing an expensive and conservatively styled pantsuit and a thin silver chain around her throat. She wears glasses at her desk -- she finds they make her look smarter -- but she takes them off when she's addressing a jury.

She's not famous, but has a few solid cases behind her. Besides, nobody else in the office wanted to touch a case this volatile. She has a growing reputation within the DA's office as an expert hand with a jury, but a bit sloppy with her research. Fortunately, for this case she has assistants to handle the research side.

The biggest surprise about her is that she was a vociferous critic of the MRA from when it was first proposed, and a strong and vocal supporter of mutant rights. The news has been full of speculation for weeks now about what exactly that means; no two commentators seem to agree.))

---

Cynthia stands, walks casually to the edge of the jury box, leans conspiratorially in to address the jury.

"Wow. This is going to be some case, huh?" Her eyes widen slightly, as though in anticipation. "I mean, it's got everything. A pretty girl. Mutant powers. Elimination of due process. Brutal oppression of a minority. Race riots. An exciting rescue from a concentration camp. All the elements of a movie-of-the-week, right? I know I'd watch."

Nobody nods, but she didn't expect them to. She sees a couple of hesitant smiles, though. It's a start.

Her voice is mellow, friendly, and inviting as she indicates the defense table with a friendly sweep of her arm. "You'll hear more about all that from the defense, I'm sure. And they'll be absolutely right: Isabel Duskmoor, along with hundreds of other mutants, was incarcerated under the Mutant Registration Act and treated horribly. It's a bad law, and the Camps were a horror and a travesty. I opposed the MRA when it was passed and I oppose it now, and so should you."

And now the closed-off faces start to open. Good. They're listening. They didn't expect that.

She'd taken a huge gamble during jury selection... the safe bet would've been to stock the box with anti-mutant bigots and exclude mutant sympathizers, while the defense tried the opposite. Instead, she'd gone the other way... excluding the complete mutant apologists who would never convict a mutant for anything, keeping the reasonable sympathizers, and focusing her efforts on weighting the jury in her favor more subtly.

The result, she'd hoped, was a fairly homogenous jury, with relatively little internal strife. Which should lead to a quick verdict. And with a crime as visceral as this one, that helps the prosecution. Besides, she doesn't want to give the defense any grounds for appeal on this case.

"So if I'm so chummy with the defense on this, if we're both so full of peace, love, and understanding... " (and in the privacy of her own mind she cheers as three of the jurors, the ones she'd pegged as ex-flower-children, turn to face her with just the hint of a smile. That's right, boys and girls, pay attention... look past the expensive suit... real person here...), "...then why are we even here?" She spreads her arms to the side and smiles invitingly, making eye contact with the last holdout, Cynical Man, and smiling a little as he nods. And that makes twelve. Time to move on...

"We're here because none of that has anything to do with this case." Her voice turns crisp and compelling as she straightens up and moves to face the jury directly, and she's pleased to see them straighten up a fraction in sympathy. Got 'em!, she thinks. And now that she's gotten their attention and their sympathy, she moves on to the actual meat of her opening remarks.

"We're not here because Isabel Duskmoor is a mutant.
We're not here because she's a woman.
We're not here because she's white.
We're not here because she's young and pretty.
This case is not about minority rights, or women's rights, or mutant rights.
Not at all.

We're here because Isabel Duskmoor is a murderer... a cold-blooded killer.
And that's the only reason we're here."

She lets herself unbend a little, and the jury relaxes microscopically in sympathy, and she walks casually away from the jury box. "We're here because we're a nation of laws," she continues, "Mostly good laws. 'Don't kill people'. 'Don't take things that don't belong to you.' 'Don't stab people's internal organs with sharp objects.' Laws that apply to blacks and whites, women and men, mutant and baseline human alike." She lets her voice emphasize the rhythm of the opposed pairs, almost sing-song, as she approaches, then turns abruptly and adds: "Isabel Duskmoor has broken those laws, and the law demands that we hold her accountable!"

Her stroll had, seemingly coincidentally, led her to the judge's bench; she delivers that line with the judge seated behind her, in a ringing, oratorial voice her preacher father would have been proud of, and the jury sits up and takes notice again. One thing she had stocked the jury with was practical types; 'accountability' would resonate with them.

"We're here because we've been chosen to stand up for the men and women she killed and demand justice!" And that should be good for hooking the idealists.

"If we let Isabel Duskmoor walk out of this courtroom free, she'll kill again. And again. And again. We're here because of the many, many innocent men and women who depend on us to provide protection." She doesn't shout that one, doesn't do anything to emphasize the underlying message: her next victim might be you, or the people you love. She doesn't want to make them scared of Issie, not this early in the game... she just wants to plant the seed. So she moves on, quickly.

"Later, I'll introduce you to the families of the police officers Isabel Duskmoor killed. I'll introduce you to the one surviving officer and let him tell you about the night Isabel Duskmoor killed his colleagues and maimed him... without compassion, without remorse, and without hesitation.

And when you listen to his story, as you listen to other witness' testimony, as you see the facts of the case, I want you to remember why we're here." She counts off the three points on her fingers as she continues, her voice firm and strong and powerful.
"Remember: the law looks to us to hold her accountable.
Remember: her victims and their families look to us to ensure justice.
And remember: every innocent man, woman and child in this state looks to us to offer protection."

She steps back, spreads her hands to the side, what she thinks of as "stepping down from the pulpit", and concludes with the same friendly, mellow, conspiratorial voice she'd started out with.

"It's not a comfortable place to be.
It's not a pleasant place to be.
It's not fun.
Believe me, I know.

But it's important.
It's even, if you don't mind my using such an outdated word, noble.

Put Isabel Duskmoor in prison for her crimes and for the rest of your lives you'll know you did something that matters.
That you stood up to power, and held it accountable.
That you served justice.
That you saved lives.

Not many get that chance. I hope you'll make the most of it."

There's actually tears in her eyes as she sits, and she realizes that she's selling herself on this just as much as she's selling the jury. Well, why not? It's all true.

That's why she'd become a criminal prosecutor in the first place, after all.

> "I hate to sound ungrateful, but whose side are you on, exactly?

Sonya/Doug grins at the question as they trot down a corridor. "My own, mostly. The State of New York pays me a salary to treat you guys like shit – or, well, I guess I should say “paid me”, since I’m guessing this probably counts as being let go…" it’s unclear from his gesture whether he means the chaos going on around them, or his defection, or what, "…but that really wasn’t working for me as a career plan, you know? Even with our foreign policy being what it is, there just aren’t that many executive-track positions for “torturer” available in today’s job mark – get down! "

Another guard runs toward them, fleeing from the massacre ahead of them, blood pouring from a nasty-looking gash in his shoulder. Unlike the first one, though, he isn’t stopping to talk or listening to anything about non-existent command points, he’s just fleeing. Which, unfortunately, leads the guard right around the corner past Sonya, to where Maya is hiding.

Sonya could trip him up, she supposes. Or shoot him. But she’s actually curious to see what the cloud-girl is capable of, so she does neither.