The interpretations where Doom actually just took a small scar to the face
end up with him horribly disfigured anyways
because when he gets the metal armour forged
he has it put on him when it isn't finished cooling yet.
Doom: letting his ego hurt him since literally forever.
I'm pretty sure he's healed bigger injuries with magic, even, so I get the impression that if he wanted his face to be flawless again, it would be five minutes. But he's too prideful, or it wouldn't be the same, or whatever.
I'm pretty sure he's healed bigger injuries with magic, even, so I get the impression that if he wanted his face to be flawless again, it would be five minutes. But he's too prideful, or it wouldn't be the same, or whatever.
I'm pretty sure he's healed bigger injuries with magic, even, so I get the impression that if he wanted his face to be flawless again, it would be five minutes. But he's too prideful, or it wouldn't be the same, or whatever.
It's not even his original body. But through his own stupidity and arrogance, he always ends up with the scars back. Usually while trying to humiliate Reed. And after the last time, at least one God-tier being (Gods, as opposed to gods. It's an important distinction in Marvel) got so annoyed at being dragged into his schemes, they declared his face would always show the withered and ruined nature of his soul no matter what. So I suspect that at the moment, he looks like the bad guy out of the Mummy.
Wasn't part of the plot there "because of [Stereotypes against Roma women] Cynthia von Doom sold her soul to demons for reasons" which he knew because he could see the past?
I feel like there are definitely multiple stories and we're all assuming the one we know is the only one.
Wasn't part of the plot there "because of [Stereotypes against Roma women] Cynthia von Doom sold her soul to demons for reasons" which he knew because he could see the past?
I feel like there are definitely multiple stories and we're all assuming the one we know is the only one.
I must admit I prefer the version where doom is super duper arrogant and idiotic about it because it combats some of the doom fanboyism that you get in a lot of discussions on marvel.
I must admit I prefer the version where doom is super duper arrogant and idiotic about it because it combats some of the doom fanboyism that you get in a lot of discussions on marvel.
Doom could be the greatest hero and Great Man in the history of humanity. If only he was absolutely anyone other than Victor Von Doom. IMO, that's the entire point and appeal of his character, someone with such insight and potential to catapult an entire species to intergalactic dominance alone if he could stop being such an absolute egomaniacal prat.
as i recall Dooms mom sold her soul to mephistopheles. to save her son as her family were all being killed by some kind of insurection and she and her son were fleeing and looked like they weren't going to make it.
Doom could be the greatest hero and Great Man in the history of humanity. If only he was absolutely anyone other than Victor Von Doom. IMO, that's the entire point and appeal of his character, someone with such insight and potential to catapult an entire species to intergalactic dominance alone if he could stop being such an absolute egomaniacal prat.
The most popular versions of Doom tend to run like the best versions of Deadpool: An interjection into an existing story to briefly disrupt the status quo, Doom talks in his quintessential manner, gets a few lines, shows off a shortlist of his abilities, and leaves when he thinks he has the unrelated item he needs or realizes that this is now a dead end. The welcome isn't worn out, a big but brief change is had that shows a bigger world with people having their own stories, and people get to experience a fun, dangerous, and thrilling antagonist.
The most liked versions of Doom are when he gets the "If Lex Luthor was good and achieved all his dreams" Elseworlds treatment, because No Gods No Kings nonsense.
The most liked versions of Doom are when he gets the "If Lex Luthor was good and achieved all his dreams" Elseworlds treatment, because No Gods No Kings nonsense.
I just like the fact he's a giant ham who chews the scenery. Nobody opposes the Ruler of Latervia, DOCTOR DOOM. Magneto was that in the early days, but I like the more sophisticated Eric we get in more modern portrayals.
Doom's entertaining because he's crazy. Oh, sure, he's self-destructive and skilled enough to go about it in a way that hurts everything around him in the process, but he goes about it with panache. And honestly, his insanity is the reason why even half the outrageous stuff he pulls works in the first place: Victor von Doom sincerely believes he's the greatest being in the universe.
The following chapter contains a realistic depiction of the onset of a panic attack – or at least, how I experience them – near the tail end of the third scene. This is simply to act as a warning for those who may be sensitive to such depictions.
I made three phone calls during the brief recess.
The first, I made to the secretary I shared with two other associates at the firm. She assured me that yes, she was recording the trial, and was already in the process of getting someone else to make a copy of the VHS tape.
My second call was to Sam Lieberman. It was approximately ten minutes of cursing, yelling, muttered planning, and insults to Judge Andrews' character that I wouldn't want to repeat within a one mile radius of the man. But what it boiled down to was that Sam was busy calling allies and soliciting amicus briefs for the appeal that we would hopefully never need to file.
And the third call… was the one I didn't want to make.
But I was not about to take a risk.
Time waited for no-one, however, and we were all back in the courtroom before long. The show must go on, so sayeth the judge.
"Ladies and gentlemen of the jury."
And it recommenced with Lou Young posturing before the jury, an unlit cigarette once again standing in for a baton. Three members of the jury had their eyes glued to the cigarette, at which I suppressed a scowl only by gripping harder on the pen in my hand.
"You've seen our evidence. You've seen the defense's excuses. All of that, all of this information, comes together to make a clear picture, clear as day."
I failed to see how anything came together to make a clear picture in this case, but that statement alone gave me a good idea of how he wanted to approach this.
"Four young Brooklyn men saw something. They saw something that couldn't, shouldn't be allowed to stand. They took actions to make sure that it didn't happen, to repair the harm done, and they paid the price for it. Mr. Samuelson, a young man with the rest of his life ahead of him, is a cripple. He is maimed, lamed, and left limping until the end of his days. Why, I'm no spring chicken, and I could run circles around him now."
Lou Young stepped closer to the jury here, free hand cupping his elbow as he pointed at the jurors with the end of his cigarette.
"The other three may seem to have come out of it unscathed. But talk to any soldier, any police officer, anybody who has ever been under the gun. They did not walk away scott free. For the rest of their lives, they are going to look at people on the street and wonder. 'Am I safe?', they're going to ask. 'Is that person a threat to me?', they will think, looking at Jane Doe and John Q Public.
"Because that is the crux of the issue here," Lou Young said, gesturing widely now. "Ladies and gentlemen, you are here today because we are afraid. We are afraid that just walking down the street is a risk, and that the right expensive suit or silver-tongued vixen will have everyone around us saying it's our own fault."
This time, I didn't bother suppressing the frown. An attorney's or firm's motivation for taking a case pro bono was generally off limits in closing arguments, just by virtue of it being a bit of a cheap shot. Yes, a sufficiently expensive team of lawyers could get most anybody off of charges, if given sufficient time and litigation. But this was not one of those cases.
And if he wanted to open the door to talking about motivation, I thought as I hastily scribbled something in the margins of my planned closing, then he was going to regret it.
"But that's why you, members of the jury, are here. You are the last line of defense between order and chaos, between the rule of law and letting our streets devolve into anarchy!" Lou was pushing towards the hyperbolic, if I was going to be honest, but at this point I was fairly certain he'd stopped bothering to give a closing argument and had transitioned into something else entirely. "You are here today to offer a deterrent, to give people like us some teeth against this threat. It all comes down to your choice.
"Soon, ladies and gentlemen, you will deliberate. And there, you will be asked to answer two questions. One: did the defendant commit the crime of which he was accused?" Lou paced backwards, turning his back towards the jury for a moment. "This is the easy question. This is the obvious question. This is the only question that you will actually be asked. But!" He turned now, holding his unlit cigarette aloft. "There is a second question. An unwritten question, one which has been hovering over this entire trial. And that question is simply: 'where do we draw the line between the normal and the extraordinary'?"
Attorneys are not supposed to object during closing arguments. There are very few exceptions to this, and unfortunately for me, while Lou Young had gotten incredibly close to the line… he hadn't said the magic pair of words.
And I had no doubts that unless the words 'jury nullification' left the DA's mouth, I'd be charged with contempt of court before I finished standing up straight.
"I have done what I can as your District Attorney, but finishing this fight isn't in my hands. It is in yours. This is your charge, members of the jury: to protect the fair city of New York, and with it, the rest of the country. I have every confidence you will do what must be done."
Lou Young bowed to the jury, then went back to his seat at counsel's table.
As far as closing arguments went… well. The jury would be hearing my opinion of this very shortly.
"Permission to approach the jury?" I asked Judge Andrews.
"Permission granted," he said.
I left my notes and prepared statements at my desk. I'd practiced this enough times over the weekend, and even with adjustments resulting from the prosecution's closing argument, I wasn't worried about stumbling over my words.
"Before anything else." I turned to the prosecution's table and offered Lou Young a soft, slow golf clap. "Bravo, District Attorney, on a riveting campaign speech. There are two problems though," I continued. "One, campaign season is three weeks away. And secondly?
"Sir, this is a court of law."
I waved him off, and turned back to the jury.
"Whatever grandiose statements, empty smiles, and false promises the District Attorney wants to offer to you, he can wait a few more weeks. Because this is not the podium outside of city hall, ladies and gentlemen of the jury. This is the New York City Supreme Court. And the only currency worth any good here is cold, hard, facts. So let's go over them, shall we?"
I brought up my hands and began to count off, starting with my right index finger.
"One: St. John Allerdyce has put forth an argument that he was merely defending himself. In a self-defense argument, a person has to not be the aggressor, and they have a duty to retreat. This means they can't throw the first punch, and they have to run away if possible. Per the testimony of Micah Samuelson, he and his cohort chased down and caught St. John.
"Fact two." The middle finger joined it. "Micah Samuelson struck St. John Allerdyce on the far left side of his forehead with a glass bottle. The tiniest bit in the other direction, and St. John would have been dead. You have seen the glass bottle that did this, the bloodstains on it, and Mr. Samuelson's fingerprints on its neck.
"Fact three." I raised my ring finger, and stepped closer to the jury. "Despite being a mutant with the ability to control fire, and despite using that fire to defend himself, St. John inflicted absolutely zero injuries on any of his assailants. None of them had any burns, and the one incidence of 'burnt clothing'? Well, there's good reason to believe that it was torched after the fact. Was it to save face? To provide an excuse?" I shrugged. "Whatever the reason, it does not matter. The only important thing is that it's pretty impossible to conclusively say that St. John burnt those shorts. That is to say, there is reasonable doubt about how they were burnt.
"Fact four." I waggled my fingers a bit, drawing attention to just how much I was putting on the table. "The only injury the supposed 'victims' suffered in this whole debacle, and the only one you may consider in light of the charges, is the broken leg suffered by Mr. Samuelson. A broken leg he suffered fifty feet away from St. John Allerdyce, resulting from his own inability to pay attention to where he was going. And while I sympathize with his disability, it is important to remember that he was ultimately responsible for his own condition.
"Ladies and gentlemen, these are the facts," I said, showing them my hand. "That is it. This is all that matters. Your job here is to answer one question: Is St. John Allerdyce guilty, or not?"
I sighed, and shot a dirty glance at DA Young. While I absolutely meant everything I felt in that glare, it was performative. Nothing more.
"The burden of proof in a case like this is what's known as 'beyond a reasonable doubt'. Essentially, this means that in order to convict, you need to be about as certain about this as you could ever expect yourself to be. There is no room for waffling here. This is not a 'probably', or a 'maybe', or a 'most likely'. This is an 'I am as certain as I realistically can be'. Ladies and gentlemen, this is an incredibly high bar. Ask yourselves: did the prosecution meet this bar?"
I waved the four fingers again.
"Their own witness admitted to starting the altercation, and took the Fifth Amendment rather than lie under oath. The police investigator responsible for this case did not find the bottle with St. John's blood on it because he didn't even bother to look. None of the prosecution's witnesses can definitively lay any injuries that occurred at St. John's feet, not even those of their star witness. Who, again, had no choice but to invoke his right to remain silent rather than commit perjury.
"Keeping this in mind, I ask you again." I stepped towards the jury once more. "Is St. John Allerdyce guilty? By this point, it should be clear that the answer is no. Not in a million years."
With my piece said, I headed back to my seat after offering a small bow to the jury.
It was in their hands now.
"S-so how long does this part usually take, anyway?" St. John asked, fidgeting in his chair, one hand tugging at the tie around his neck.
The jury had only been in deliberations for an hour and a half so far, and it was clear that the Allerdyce's were all feeling the anxiety. The consistent pacing and twitching, the whispered half-conversation that I wasn't supposed to be able to hear, the pallor of their complexions… with the end so close, the stress was getting to them.
I'd seen dozens of other clients in this position before.
But none quite so young as St. John, or in such dire of straits.
"I'm sure you're getting sick of hearing me offer this particular answer," I started, poking at the salad in front of me with my fork, "but that depends. I've had jury deliberations that lasted thirty minutes, and had another that lasted two full weeks. It generally comes down to two things." I reached into my briefcase to fish out a notepad and a pen, turned the notepad sideways, and drew two columns. "The first one is how complicated the facts are. You have relatively simple things like X punched Y, A hit B with his car, that sort of thing. Then there's the kind of fact patterns that need experts to come in and testify, such as in medical malpractice cases."
"Or like on Thursday and Friday for us?" St. John asked.
"Exactly," I said. "Now, the other half of this is the specific thing the jury needs to decide. In criminal law, this is the elements of the crime. These are the conditions: if X action meets conditions A, B, and C, then it is crime Y. Think about it this way: if the facts are the images on a puzzle piece, the elements are the pieces themselves. If the pieces don't fit together, it doesn't matter how pretty the image they make is."
"So then which one is this?" Linda Allerdyce asked, from the other end of the conference table. The slice of pizza in front of her had gone completely untouched, and I noticed that Jonathan's had managed to find its way onto St. John's paper plate instead. "How long do you think this one will take?"
"In my professional opinion… well actually," I paused. "Matthew, what is your take on this case and its relative complexity?"
Matt froze, the tip of his second pizza slice just bare moments from entering his mouth. He seemed to me to pause for a moment before setting it down, and took the napkin he'd tucked into the collar of his shirt to clean his fingers.
"Ah, well…" Matt took his time, probably to think things through. "I mean, I don't know. I think it's going to depend on the jurors themselves, really."
"What Matthew is getting at," I said, taking over now that he'd (thankfully) gotten to the point I was trying to make, "is that it's not always a matter of the facts and the elements meshing or not. Sometimes, it's purely on the people of the jury. Most laws tend to use a hypothetical 'reasonable person', who always makes the right decision."
I frowned, and stabbed a crouton with my fork.
"The problem is that there's no such thing as a 'reasonable person'. They don't exist. What we have instead are people, and people come with biases, preconceptions, and beliefs that we can't change. This is a particularly large issue when your defendant is a foreigner, non-white, gay… etcetera."
"Or a mutant," Jonathan Allerdyce said, glumly.
I sighed, and felt the deep burning of shame for a moment. I could have shared that I was a mutant with them. It would probably have cost me nothing. The odds of them sharing my secret was slim to none. But…
But I was afraid. Of what might happen if that got out. Of what might happen to my career – of what might happen to me.
Was it cowardly? Maybe. Heck, it probably was. But I didn't care. I was entitled to a little bit of selfishness.
That didn't stop the feelings, though.
"Or that," I agreed. "Regardless—"
A knock on the door interrupted my line of thought, and I frowned. What interrupted me, and I couldn't help but frown. If that was the DA coming in to offer a plea deal with anything other than maybe a token slap on the wrist, I was going to throw a fit.
"Yes?" I asked. "What is it?"
The door opened, and one of the court police officers peeked his head inside.
"Judge Andrews sent for you," he said. "Says the jury came back with a verdict."
The breath caught in my throat. Already? The jury had a verdict so quickly? In a case like this?
They hadn't even been out two hours!
"Let the judge know we'll be there shortly," I replied. The police officer closed the door, and I turned to look at the others in the conference room with me.
All three Allerdyces had gone white as sheets, with St. John even dropping the last half-eaten slice of pizza onto his plate from suddenly-numb fingers. His parents converged on him, identical expressions of terror on their faces, and it was for them that I tried my hardest to keep my own expression as calm as possible.
"W-what does that mean?" Jonathan asked. "That they're d-done so soon, I mean. Is t-that good?"
"It means that they saw very little to talk about," I said, closing the styrofoam container with what was left of my salad before I took a makeup compact out of my briefcase, to make sure I didn't need to touch anything up before appearing in public again. "Take a couple minutes if you need it. I'm sure the judge will understand."
The Allerdyces nodded, and retreated behind the divider St. John used to change in as much privacy as he was afforded by the criminal justice system. I stood near the door, where Matt joined me after a moment.
"You sound nervous," he murmured, quieter than a whisper, barely audible even to my hearing. "Your heartbeat went a little wild."
"I'm concerned," I told him, being honest but careful. "This is the part mock trial doesn't show you, Matthew. Juries don't tend to take so little time unless all of them are brought onto the same page really quickly. And given the jury foreman is probably against us?"
"Right." Matt tapped the ground with his cane. "So what, then?"
"We hope," I replied, drumming my fingers on the inside of my briefcase's handle. "And if that's not enough, we move to plan B."
"Has the jury elected a foreperson?" Judge Andrews asked.
Contrary to popular belief, the jury foreperson is not always obvious to anybody in the courtroom, and doesn't necessarily have to stay static. In general, the foreperson will simply default to whoever led the discussions during deliberations, and took on a leadership role in the process.
To translate: it was usually whoever talked over everybody else in the room.
"We have, your Honor." Juror number ten, one of the two finance workers from the very first pool for voir-dire, stood up. I bit back a curse; he had been one of the people I'd worried over from the very beginning, and for him to have been the loudest voice in the room…
I kept the motion I'd prepared underneath my notepad on the table, and hoped I wouldn't have to file it.
"And has the jury reached a verdict as to each of the charges?"
"We have," Juror Ten said to Judge Andrews' follow-up question, and produced a set of papers from a manila folder.
"Bailiff?"
At Judge Andrews' request, the bailiff approached Juror Ten and took the papers from him, before depositing them on the judge's bench. Andrews took his time going through the pages, flipping through them with his left hand (and licking his fingers to help pick up each page… I hated that habit) as he took some small notes with a pen in his right. This went on for only a couple of minutes.
But when the entire courtroom was dead silent, despite being packed to the gills?
Those two minutes threatened to stretch into eternity.
"Very well." Judge Andrews' voice broke the silence. "The defendant will rise and face the jury as it delivers its verdict."
Much as I wanted to stand in solidarity with St. John, only three people in the well of the court had permission to do so: the bailiff, the clerk of court, and the defendant. St. John looked back over his shoulder to his parents, hands shaking where they sat clasped on the table. I put my hand over St. John's for a moment to draw his attention, whereupon I signaled him with a slight nod.
St. John stood, and faced the jury.
The bailiff moved to stand just to the side of and behind St. John.
Lastly, beside Judge Andrews, the clerk of court stood, and Judge Andrews passed him the verdict paperwork.
"In the case of The People of the State of New York v. St. John Allerdyce, as to the first count, Assault in the Second Degree against James Boothe, we the jury find the defendant, St. John Allerdyce... Not Guilty."
St. John almost collapsed back into his seat, had both Matt and the bailiff not each reached out to hold him upright. All three Allerdyces gave muffled sobs of relief.
"As to the second count," the clerk of court continued, "Assault in the Second Degree against Theodore Nielson, we the jury find the defendant, St. John Allerdyce... Not Guilty. As to the third count, Assault in the Second Degree against Patrick MacEahern, we the jury find the defendant, St. John Allerdyce... Not Guilty."
It was very hard to keep myself looking forward, and to not turn towards my client. I knew what I would see when I looked at his face. I would see hope, relief, exuberation… he was an innocent man, and he heard the jury recognizing that.
I did not share in their exultation, though. The essential element for assault in the second, an injury suffered by the victims, had simply not been present. The jury instructions had been clear: no injury, no charge.
The same could not be said for the last 'victim'.
So no, I did not allow myself to hope.
Instead, I merely slid aside the notepad covering my motion paperwork, and picked it up in my hands.
"As to the fourth count, Assault in the First Degree against Micah Samuelson, we the jury find the defendant, St. John Allerdyce… Guilty."
Nobody spoke.
Nobody moved.
Nobody even breathed.
It was as though all of the air had been sucked out of the room. The clerk's proclamation hung on the air, suffocating all beneath the weight of his words.
The click of camera shutters slamming closed did not so much break the silence as punctuate it. Click-thunk-whirr, the cameras went, every second marking the passage of time as film canisters unspooled.
Out of the corner of my eye, I saw St. John's legs give out. His knees never met the floor, as the bailiff bodily lifted him and laid him out halfway across the table. St. John offered no resistance to the handcuffs that encircled his wrists, nor to the pair of court police officers who came to take him away.
I took a deep breath and composed myself. This wasn't the first time a client of mine had received a guilty verdict, despite my best efforts. It was certainly the first time I felt it was truly wrong, that it was as undeserved as anything I'd ever seen… but I had stood in this position before.
And so I tuned it out.
"My baby, my baby!" Linda Allerdyce cried, her voice half-muffled at the end as she buried her face into her husband's shoulder.
I ignored it.
"St. John! St. John!" Jonathan Allerdyce called out to his son, his broken voice echoing hollow in the courtroom.
I ignored it.
To my right, Lou Young preened at this table, buffing his fingernails against the lapel of his jacket as he looked over at me, horribly-chapped lips pulled back as his smug sneer bored into the side of my head.
I ignored it.
"Let the convict be remanded to Riker's Islamd pending his sentencing hearing this Friday," Judge Andrews said, as the bailiff passed St. John to a pair of court police officers, who sneered at and jostled St. John as they removed him from the courtroom.
"Your Honor."
I took my opportunity to stand, moments before the jury could think to do so. I held the paperwork for the motions I'd be filing, the bottom of the papers draped across my right forearm, my left hand on the top to easily turn and hand it over.
"Judge Andrews, the Defense files an immediate Motion in Arrest of the Judgment!" I pitched my voice above the sudden increased volume, as people in the gallery began to stand up.
Judge Andrews held up a hand, palm facing me. The gesture was clear: 'let me finish this first'.
But I was not in the mood for this kind of stalling when the police had already taken custody.
"At this time," Judge Andrews spoke loudly into his microphone, "the Court would like to thank the jury for its service. Members of the jury, while you are under no obligation to speak to the press about this case, you are well within your rights to do so. However, whatever private goings-on happened during deliberation must remain private."
Either he hadn't heard my motion, or he'd ignored it.
"Your Honor!" I raised my voice, reaching almost to a yell. "Let the record show that the Defense files an immediate Motion in Arrest of the Judgment!"
"Wait your turn, counsel," he bit back at me before turning back to the jury. "You will be eligible for jury service again in four years," Judge Andrews continued. "But until then, thank you for your service, and enjoy your reprieve from this duty. The jury is dismissed."
"Judge Andrews!" I screamed, slamming my small stack of papers down on the table in front of me. I repeated this three times, to ensure that I couldn't simply be overlooked.
Judge Andrews turned to glare at me, and I glared back, letting my scowl play out across my face. I raised my papers another five inches off the desk, and slammed them back down.
"I will repeat. The defense files an immediate Motion in Arrest of the Judgment!"
The judge did not reply. He simply turned towards the bailiff and nodded at the man ever so slightly. The bailiff, for his part, started walking through the well to the bar of the court, eyes fixed on the doors at the back.
"Your Honor—"
I wasn't able to finish what I wanted to say, so shocked was I when the bailiff reached around me to rip my motion paperwork out of my hands, slammed it down on the table, then wrenched my arms behind my back and pulled me out from behind counsel's table.
"Wh—let go of me!" I yelled at the bailiff, straining against his grip, almost tripping over my own feet. But try as I might, I could not get him to let go – the bailiff was over a foot taller than I was, his one hand large enough to hold both of my arms together, the other pushing me forward by my shoulder and into the well of the court.
I tried to push against him, to struggle out of this manhandling—Matt looked for all the world like he wanted to help, but he couldn't – he was blind, he wasn't supposed to even be capable of knowing what was happening –
And that was when it happened. Something I've been afraid of for – for I don't know how long.
In my struggles, I ended up pushing my head back against the bailiff's chest. Which jabbed him with the points of my horns. Which were obscured by my glamour.
My flimsy, fragile glamour.
The world cast itself in sharp relief the moment my glamour shattered, the familiar crackle of sugar-glass and television static accompanied by rainbow fuzz. The bailiff yelped and leapt away from me. I stumbled forward, catching myself on counsel's table, and looked down at my hands.
Or more specifically, the bone-white scales visible on the back of my hands.
I'd known this day would come. For a very long time now, I'd mentally steeled myself for the eventuality that something would happen to expose me. That somebody would bump against me just the wrong way, that I would have to push back against something too hard, that somebody's arm or leg would catch on something that they couldn't see.
I thought I'd been ready for that, I thought as I gathered up my motion papers, and caught my hands shaking.
"Defense motions," I said, feeling suddenly breathless as I looked up at the bench, and caught sight of a wide-eyed Judge Andrews staring down at me, the color draining from his face. "Defense motions for… for an, uh…"
I took a deep breath, struck by the sudden feeling that there wasn't enough air in the room. An acrid burning sensation threatened to crawl up my gorge, and my clothes suddenly felt too tight, too hot, itchy and cloying on my skin where they had been fine mere moments before.
A sudden clamor picked up in the courtroom, but it sounded distant, far away, strangely metallic. Like I was hearing everything through a tin can. But that was silly, I thought. My hearing was better than a normal human's. Why did everything sound so funny?
Why did my voice feel so quiet?
"D-defense files a motion," I said, barely managing to form the words, holding myself up with one hand as the world lurched on its axis a little, "in arrest of, of the judgment—"
[Outside the Courthouse]
[John Jonah Jameson]
The verdict had had John Jonah Jameson digging his teeth into his cigar, doing his damndest not to bite straight through the wrapper. Guilty? Guilty!? Jameson had interviewed some of the finest legal minds in the state, let alone the country in preparation for tomorrow's headline! He knew a sham trial when he saw it; the only way that decision could have come from any more of a kangaroo court was if they'd been in Australia!
His current favorite attorney's response had been expected as well: cool, calm, collected, and with a contingency in her back pocket. Or her briefcase, as it were.
"So, is this anybody else's first time hearing about one of those motions?" Heads turned from all the other news trucks, gathered as they were around the portable televisions running on their various news vans' cigarette lighters, to the young new hire from CNN. The kid – what was he, fresh out of journalism school? He had the badly-shaven peach fuzz for it, Jameson thought – raised his hands in protest. "W-what? I've never heard of it!"
"A motion in arrest of the judgment," a reporter from CBS whose name Jameson had wiped from his mind after the man's third accusation of plagiarism got smoothed over and hushed up behind closed doors, fielded the answer, "is basically asking the judge to say 'so what' to the jury verdict. The judgment gets entered, but nothing happens after. No sentencing or anything."
"But it doesn't look like the judge is having any of it," another journo, this one from NBC, piped up. "Damn, is she crazy? She's interrupting the judge!"
"So?" Jameson asked, taking a puff of his cigar before pointing it at the television screen. "That's a shit judge. He honestly probably deserves it. But you, quit interrupting!" He knocked on the top of the Bugle's little tv set, injecting some fuzz into the picture for a moment. "We're watching."
And watch they did. They watched in stunned silence as the judge decided to throw his weight around, the bailiff began to manhandle the defense attorney—
And they saw as whatever had been covering her fell away, revealing her to the world as a mutant.
"Holy shit, the bitch was a—"
"Keep your opinions to yourself!" Jameson yelled, silencing anybody who would have dared speak. "You can think whatever you damn well please, but you do not get to say shit about her. You want to talk, you interview first."
He took the cigar out of his mouth, and pointed at every single reporter present in turn, one by one.
"If I hear about a single one of you making unfounded statements or baseless conjecture, or dragging that woman's name through the mud for doing what all of you would have done in the same situation?" Jameson stared pointedly at one reporter from Fox, who knew Jameson had destroyed audio of the man drunkenly proclaiming his love to his sister's husband. "Very little happens in this town without my hearing of it, mark my words."
The threat lingered on the air, drowning out any further attempt at discussion. There were no more words to be said, after all. John Jonah Jameson had put his money where his mouth was.
And nobody else was willing to do the same.
Unfortunately for all involved. This distraction from Jameson meant that all of them missed the camera feeds from inside the courtroom cutting off abruptly, one by one.
"Hey, what gives?" "Someone page Matthews, tell him to get the feed running!" "I swear if Smithers tripped over the cords again, I'll—"
"Hold up!" Another reporter pointed to the top of the courthouse steps, where a single pushed open the door to the New York Supreme Court. It was not District Attorney Louis Young. It was not Judge Philip Andrews.
No. Instead, it was another man; tall, well muscled, dressed in a suit that had gone out of fashion before Jameson had smoked his first cigar. And when he took off his trilby hat, Jameson wasn't the only one who felt his heart skip a beat… and then immediately get closer with a microphone, dictaphone, camera, or whatever recording equipment they had available.
"Forty-four years ago," the man began, looking out over the press corp's heads and to the city behind them, "I gave my everything for these people. The people of the United States. Of New York City. Of Brooklyn." He paused for breath, and sighed. "I gave it willingly, never once second-guessing if I had done the right thing. If the people I was laying down my life to protect deserved it. I had hoped to never have those thoughts.
"Which is why it is with the deepest sorrow that I say that today, I am ashamed to be a New Yorker."
Captain Steven Rogers frowned, and brought his hat to his chest. He looked down, down at the press, who held their peace in stunned silence.
And in that moment, the wrapper of Jameson's cigar finally gave up the ghost.
"For the past week, I've sat in that courthouse," Captain America said, gesturing behind him with hat in hand. "I listened as a fellow kid from Brooklyn went on trial for what was clearly a sham. I listened to the witnesses, saw the evidence, drew conclusions. And I may be working with science that's forty odd years out of date, but even I understood what I heard. There was only one real conclusion to be drawn. That boy was innocent."
Steven Rogers brought his free hand up to his face. He pinched the bridge of his nose and rubbed at his eyes, then inhaled a long, shaky breath.
"I fought against the Nazis," Captain America continued. "Against people who would slaughter and crush and wipe out simply because somebody was other. I fought them because the world deserved better — because we deserved better."
The long, mournful horn of a prison van pierced the odd quiet as it pulled out from the parking lot beneath the courthouse. The corrections department van, bound for Riker's, that Jameson would bet a case of cigars had the Allerdyce boy.
"That truck is carrying an innocent kid to hell, for the crime of being born different," Rogers said, pointing at the van. "If that's what I can come to expect, if that's the new normal? Then I wish I'd stayed in the ice, because the America where this is the standard is not the country I was willing to die to protect."
"Well said, Captain Rogers!"
The voice seemed to come from everywhere and nowhere, echoing off of both the steps below them and the buildings around. Jameson looked up, used to this kind of reverberation, and found what he was looking for atop the courthouse.
A man stood atop the pediment, from which he stepped off and slowly began to descend. He wore an odd getup, a bodysuit of red accented with purple, a similarly purple cape trailing behind him in the wind, and all of that topped off by a weird bucket-like helmet that somehow shadowed the man's face, despite its being completely open at the front.
The man extended a hand, palm facing up, and lifted. Off to his left, Jameson heard the prison van's horn blaring, and he looked over to see the van lifting into the air, slowly rising to join the man floating over the plaza.
"Forty-four years ago, Captain America," the man said, projecting his voice, "you liberated me and mine from Auschwitz. Today, I only ask that you stand aside, so I may act in kind for this young man."
Captain America and the flying mutant stared at one another for a few moments. Nobody dared say anything, for fear of drawing the attention (or worse, the ire) of such powerful men.
Then, after some unspoken message passed between them, Steven Rogers placed his Stetson back on his head.
"I wouldn't be able to stop you if I tried," the Captain admitted.
"Indeed."
With a negligent flick of the mutant's fingers, the back of the prison van opened up, and St. John Allerdyce floated out, suspended by several broken sets of handcuffs and the nightstick of the officer that had been in the back with him.
"Only when this fine city remembers what the meaning of justice is shall my protection cease!" The mutant bellowed. "But until that day, mark my words, this man will be safe, and more importantly, free!"
And with that, the mutant set the van back down on the street before he flew off, with the (in Jameson's opinion, and likely in fact) wrongfully-convicted teen in tow.
Nobody dared to speak. Not after Captain America himself decried his home. Not after they had just been compared to the Krauts. Not after this utter sham of a trial had come to a close in such resounding fashion.
"Well, if nobody else is gonna say something, I will!" John Jonah Jameson said, stepping in front of all the cameras, microphones, and dictaphones. "What we just saw? That may not have been legal, but it sure as hell was right!"
Jameson puffed at his cigar, forgetting before then that he'd ruined the casing, before he pulled it from his mouth and pointed at the rest of the press.
"Mark my words—if that had been that no-good Spider-Man breaking him out? Why, I'd have shaken his hand and called him a hero. True hero!" Jameson exclaimed. "And you can quote me on that!"
I don't remember having left the courtroom this past Monday. The last I could recall, I'd been trying to file my motion again, even after having been outed, and then… and then I was back in the conference room, with Matt hovering protectively at my side. It wasn't just him though; Sam Lieberman had somehow found the time to come down from Central Park West and fend off the press vultures, file the initial appeal paperwork and request for a new trial for St. John, and file formal complaints against both DA Young and Judge Andrew (for prosecutorial and judicial misconduct, respectively).
All in the three, maybe four hours before I came back to myself.
Sam Lieberman himself drove Matt back to Hell's Kitchen, and escorted me up to my condo, where he told me to take the next two days to recover, and that he'd handle things for me at the firm.
Those two days were utterly miserable. I spent them examining every single little detail, everything I'd entered into evidence, every choice I made, every observation I'd gleaned. I just could not understand how the jury could reach its verdict.
But every time I looked at my scales, or felt my tail twitch against the legs of my chair, or brushed my horns against the seat back, I was reminded of what was likely the ultimate cause of it all.
And I hated it, because it was just so wrong. St. John never asked to be the way he was.
I never asked to be what I am.
Two days. Tuesday and Wednesday. That was all the time I'd had to rest and recover.
And so, on Thursday, I arrived at the firm bright and early, to a changed environment.
Where before I had often been met with glances of disinterest or disdain, now it was… something else. People wouldn't meet my eyes, and when they did, most looked away instantly, as though eye contact was suddenly dangerous. Those few willing to stare back sneered, and scowled, steely, hateful gazes following me as I walked down the hall to my office.
I had scarcely set my briefcase down when my phone rang, and when I answered, it was Antonia calling me up to the boss's office.
I dropped everything and went. I ignored the glares and stares as I went five floors up in the elevator, and the frightened flinch from Antonia as I passed by her desk to open the frosted glass door to Lieberman's office.
The door slid closed behind me, and Sam turned around from where he stood at his beverage counter — his "side bar", as he called it. He had two glasses in his hands, which he brought over to his desk, setting one in front of himself, and the other before one of the new chairs at the front of his desk — open-backed ones.
"I figure after seeing the 'real you'," he said, and I could practically hear the air quotes, "you might prefer a different seat." He swirled the glass of amber liquor in his hands, then glanced up at me. "You can look however you prefer in here, Noa. It's fine."
I sat down with a sigh, and released my hold on my glamour. It fizzled away into prismatic static, and even though I know Lieberman had seen me like this on Monday, I still felt a nameless apprehension clawing at my heart.
To his credit though, he didn't comment. Lieberman instead gestured to the glass set in front of me on his desk. One that was oddly free of clutter, save for a single near-empty, unlabeled case folder.
"This stuff is vile," Lieberman said, wincing as he took a sip. "And 7:30's a bit early for drink, I know. But I figure it's appropriate, at least."
I frowned, and reached for my glass, studying the liquid before taking a hesitant sip.
A moment later I was wincing, and probably a moment away from retching.
"Laphroaig?" I asked, disgusted. "Why would you even own a bottle of that?"
"It was a gift," Lieberman said, eyeing his own glass with distaste. "I hate it. And ever since, I've used it as the bearer of bad news, because it'll all taste like ash in your mouth anyway."
I took a shaky breath, and looked down at the glass of scotch in my hands. I was scared to say anything. And afraid to hear it, too.
"If it had just been up to me," Lieberman started, rolling the glass tumbler around in his hands, ice tinkling against the sides, "I would've pushed you to partner straight away after this. The press is on your side, public opinion is on your side, Captain fucking America is on your side?" He scoffed. "It's just a matter of getting the judiciary to stop thinking that Andrews' twenty-plus years on the bench means he knew something we don't, and that's just a matter of time."
Sam Lieberman took a long sip of his bitter, smoky excuse for scotch whisky, then clasped his hands and looked me in the eye.
"But much as I'd wish it, I'm not the only decider. Lewin has a voice, Loeb has a voice, and our largest clients each have their own voices. And after you got outed on live TV?" Sam gestured at my horns and scales, at which I couldn't help but run my fingers over the bone-white patch on the back of one of my hands. "We got calls from some of the firm's biggest clients. I'm sure you can imagine what was said, Noa."
"I walk or they do?" I guessed, eyeing the lone folder on Lieberman's desk.
He nodded.
"I tried," he said, eyes closed, fingers rubbing his face. "God knows I tried. All Tuesday, most of Wednesday. Because you deserve better, Noa," he said, opening his eyes to look at me. "You deserve better than to have small-minded men with billions in their pockets deciding your fate on appearance alone."
Sam Lieberman spun the folder around, slid it towards me, and flipped it open. Inside was what I'd been afraid I would see since the moment I walked into his office.
"And you deserve better than what little I could eke out for you."
Before me lay a severance agreement. One already signed and dated by both Elijah Lewin and Isaac Loeb.
"Bonus pay equal to your share of a generous estimate of what the legal fees would have been, had the Allerdyce case not been pro bono," he said as I scanned the document. "Additional pay equaling the anticipated salary accrued for the expected duration of the appeal and a new trial, and estimated legal fees for both. A release stating that any clients you brought into the firm or served as lead attorney for could follow you to your next firm with no consequence or additional fees paid to this one, so long as no new conflicts of interest prevent it. And your end of year bonus, paid now."
I read the terms, feeling my heart sink as I did. Lewin and Loeb had been careful; this severance agreement also waived any current or future causes of action, including any that did not yet exist, against the firm. Furthermore, it heavily implied that if I didn't sign the agreement, that LL&L could keep me from ever working as an attorney in New York again.
"It's not enough," Lieberman said, his voice barely above a whisper. "It'll never be enough. But even that was all I could get them to give."
"It's not right," I murmured aloud, more to myself than to Lieberman. "I… I just…"
I couldn't look at the severance agreement. Not when it was so raw.
Sam Lieberman took pity on me and flipped the file closed.
"They want that signed or shredded and your office cleaned out by end of day tomorrow," he told me. "I couldn't get them to budge any further than that, Noa. And… I'm sorry," Sam said. "I wish I could've done more."
"Yeah," I said. "Me too."
I scooped up the folder, gave Sam Lieberman one more thank-you, and left his office. I walked through the halls of the firm, uncaring that they saw me as I truly was at this time.
It wasn't like they'd care to remember me after I was out the door, anyway. They'd never cared about me before; why start now, when I'd be gone next week?
I returned to my own office… or at least, what would be my own for only two more days.
My eyes scanned along the walls, and I took in the paraphernalia I'd accumulated over my eight years here. My bar certification hung above my J.D., and beside that sat the eighth-page article describing my first solo win in court, with little gold star stickers around the headline. An award from the NY State Bar for Best New Female Attorney hung just above that. Below it sat a commendation from the Junior League, and under that, a framed 30 Under 30 article from five years ago, my name highlighted in bright canary yellow.
All of this, in my eight years, I thought as I pulled them off the wall.
All of this.
And none of it mattered… all because I was a mutant.
I wanted to scream, to cry, to rant and rave at the unfairness of it all. I could yell, throw things, demolish this office while it was still mine. But what would that do? It wouldn't change their decision. It wouldn't do anything to dim that incandescent ball of raw feelings burning in my chest.
All I could do was… take that anger. Take all that frothing, seething rage, that bitterness and sorrow, and use it.
I looked once more at the markers of a career that I'd pulled from my walls, took them in as they lay across my desk. The result of hard work, what little of it was recognized or realized, anyway. This was what defined me, more than my heritage, or my creed, or my species. It was proof of grit, of skill, of competence.
It was proof that I was worth every penny.
Lewin and Loeb wanted me out?
Then I suppose I'd best prove what they were giving up.
I apologize for the delay on this chapter. I meant to have this done a fair bit sooner, but unfortunately, some evolving personal issues got in the way of that. More to follow in the second A/N, but that's being parceled out so y'all don't have to see it if you don't want to.
Anyway.
With this chapter, the first arc of Pound the Table has officially concluded! *cue lone party horn*
So with that out of the way, a brief roadmap of what's coming next:
–Chapters 13 and 14 will focus on setup for the next arc, and indeed the groundwork for the remainder of the entire fic's structure, including introducing 3 new minor characters that will be recurring. They're not particularly plot relevant, but character development is important, and I think that's just as important as plot, if not more so! After all, the best plot in the world means pretty much nil if it's not carried by the strong, developed personalities of well-written characters. Furthermore, Chapter... probably 13, unless things go long? Let's shoot for that. Anyway – Chapter 13 will also contain the next stage of the HYDRA journal subplot that appeared in chapter 1. Which means that yes, Magneto is gonna be doing Magneto things.
–Chapter 15 will get us into the next case, which will be looking at defamation, and how building a civil case differs from the criminal.
For this, I'd actually like to request if any of you, the readers, happen to have an opinion on what the unlikeliest string of accomplishments in a single tennis tournament is. As in, the most ridiculous feats of athleticism you can think of, all performed relatively back-to-back, in the same tennis tournament. Specifically, on hard courts, as the New York Tennis Open is.
This next arc should take us quite a few chapters (though, probably only half of the 10 that this arc took), and then its aftermath will lead straight into the arc immediately after.
Alright, folks. This is the part I really didn't want to do, but I'm in a bit of a corner, and I'm just gonna lay my cards on the table.
When I first started up my Ko-Fi page, I was fully open that it would only exist until such time as I had gainful employment, and that I would be taking every possible step to make that eventuality happen as soon as possible.
Unfortunately however?
Evolving issues and a rapidly-growing-untenable living situation led me to decline an offer of permanent employment, as it would have tied me down to the state of Virginia... and if things continue to evolve the way they have been, it will not remain safe for me to keep living here.
With the upcoming Thanksgiving holiday, and family coming in town, I am hopeful that they actually take things seriously, meaning things begin to improve.
But given past patterns, I am not feeling optimistic.
There is a very real chance things turn south, and rapidly, at which point I will be relying on the generosity of relatives.
I don't like doing this. I really don't. But if there's any kind of help you can offer, I would be appreciative in the extreme.
Because I can't keep living with an alcoholic sibling, waiting for the day he graduates from loud and angry to violent and angry.
I hope y'all enjoyed this first arc, and stay with me as this story continues to grow.
Once again, if you are interested in tossing a coin to your Witcher writer, my Ko-Fi page – more of a tip jar than anything – can be found [RIGHT HERE].
This thread was crowned as one of the "Elements of Sufficient Velocity" during the forum's 2023 "Sufficiently Skeletons" Spring Event! Take a look below!
Forty-four years ago, Captain America," the man said, projecting his voice, "you liberated me and mine from Auschwitz. Today, I only ask that you stand aside, so I may act in kind for this young man
That's a very interesting and well-done bit of rhetoric from Magneto there, isn't it? America (you and yours would have matched me and mine) didn't liberate Auschwitz, the man who just finished speaking out against an injustice did. And having the survivor show up after the speech comparing it to the Reich was an inspired touch.
The master of magnetism might be feared because of his incredible power, but that isn't why he's most dangerous. As a public speaker and a rhetor, he is with few peers, and one of them just implicitly agreed with him.
The longest rally ever recorded in a professional tennis match was 643 shots, so two people going for 650+ in the middle of other athletic stunts would be an easy thing to slip in.
Even when writers fanboy over him, they can't erase his ego.
