Darth Malos
SWRP Writer
- Joined
- Jan 23, 2018
- Messages
- 297
- Reaction score
- 76
.
Coruscant Detention Center, Coruscant
March 13th, 6926 BBY
Mood
The Republic had spared no expense in making this the trial of the decade, for reasons unknown. Perhaps Malik was a unique case, an outlier among clean-cut and systematic trials. It was not every day that someone so twisted and manipulative took the stand, and the event had become a scandal, as did most controversial trials.March 13th, 6926 BBY
Mood
The day came like any other. At 0500 military time, Malik Demos was roused from his cell deep in a prison on Coruscant, dragged through a morning routine his captors had established for him, then thrown into another room to wait for the trial. For approximately 12 hours, he was forced to sit there, staring at the walls like an imbecile. This did not upset him, because he had one thing they did not know about: the Force. He was able to spend that time meditating, resting himself mentally and physically for the day ahead of him, and the wait proved to be beneficial.
To him, this was just a formality. He knew he was guilty. The judges knew he was guilty. His men knew he was guilty. This was merely a show, put on for the public to enjoy and rub their chins over.
"Malik Demos, framed?"
"'I...do not recall acting on his orders,' claims soldier commanded by Cpt. Demos'"
"Malik Demos, in an affair?!"
The tabloid titles were intoxicating, as they usually were. Malik was dragged through the mud, cleaned, put on a pedestal, then dragged again, in a process that lasted for the weeks in preparation to the trial. Reporters had dug through his past for anything they could latch on to, only to find that he had nothing for them to bring to light. The Captain's childhood had been as uneventful as his adult years were exciting.
A banging outside brought him back to his senses, snapping him out of meditation. Malik craned his head to look at the door, his white, unwashed hair messying itself even worse than before with the sudden movement. He could feel a stubble had grown on his chin in these few weeks that he had spent imprisoned, a result of the ban on hygiene his captors had pushed on him. Worst of all, his knee still ached. It had been patched up after being shattered, but he had not yet been operated on, and he doubted he would be. The Republic would have left him to rot to death in one of their cells if his trial had not been so controversial.
An armored guard opened the durasteel door, its hinges creaking as it swung. The stranger, his head covered by a mysterious helmet, motioned for Malik to stand. He rose, his shackles clinging together as a reminder of his imprisonment. His arms were grabbed, roughly, and pulled by the guard until the former Captain followed him outside, where he was met by 5 more similar-looking strangers.
Silently, they bound him, tying his hands up and covering his aching head with a black bag. They walked like that for a while, and despite the fact that his legs began to hurt, Malik pushed on. He would not let them humiliate him.