The Trial of Malik Demos

[Darth Malos]

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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.

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.

 

[Darth Malos]

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Coruscanti Tribunal, Coruscant
March 13th, 6926 BBY
Mood​

Click, click, click, click

"Malik, what were your motives? Did your father tell you to do this? How do you plead? How long have you been training for this? Do you have any other combat experience?"

Questions poured from the mouths of reporters like machine gun fire, an endless barrage beating at Malik's ears. As soon as the chamber door burst open, the cameras had begun taking pictures, and the reporters started asking things. They kept throwing inquires at him as though he cared enough to respond, as though he would bother himself with formulating a response for them. The bright lights blinded him, and he merely focused on the path ahead.

A long, crimson carpet lead from the entrance to the center of the large chamber, where a table and bench had been set up. That was the spot where Malik would sit for the next few hours as he was questioned, disassembled, and scrutinized. He knew what lay ahead, but the 20 year old ex-Captain grinned, a toothy grin that revealed his yellowed teeth. Pictures snapped more intensely.

The shackles around his wrists and ankles clanged as he stepped with his right, then left. He grew used to the sound, which resembled bells. Was this his funeral, or his wedding? His wedding with what exactly?

As he reached the bench, the six guards around him released their grip, and he stood there, feet planted in the carpet. Malik took a moment to survey the large room, adorned by balconies where high-profile characters and the highest bidders sat, hundreds of Coruscant's bourgeoisie, their eyes poised, absorbing every single one of his movements. His father was among them now, one face among many.

He took a deep breath as he stood, closing his eyes and lifting his chest to absorb as much air as he could. Then, he breathed out, nodding to himself. Malik was forcibly propped up on the bench, his hands and feet still bound.

A voice rang throughout the room, originating from the judge himself, a man with a white wig and spectacles, sitting behind his stand hundreds of meters away from Malik. In his hands, he held a manila folder, which he began reading from.

"We will now begin the trial of Malik Demos, convict number three-six-four-seven-nine-eight-eight of the Coruscanti detention center. Demos has been charged with taking hostages, torture, unlawful destruction of property, depriving prisoners of a fair trial, directing attacks against civilians, killing a surrendered combatant, misusing a flag of truce, settlement of occupied territory, using civilians as shields, using child soldiers, firing upon a combat medic, and murder."

The wigged judge risked a glance at Malik, his eyes peering over his round spectacles as they slid down the bridge of his nose. The convict nodded in response, and for the first time today, he spoke.

"If you plan on listing my crimes mind you do not die of asphyxiation," he replied into the microphone, throwing the room into ruckus once more. The judge's face reddened, and he slammed the gavel down on its stand three times.

"Silence! I said silence!" he bellowed. The chatter simmered down. "Captain Malik. You stand before us today as a convict accused of war crimes. Your fate rests in your own hands, and I hope you know what to do with it, for your own good."

Hundreds of eyes glued themselves to him, and Malik could feel the hairs on the back of his neck rising. He said nothing in response. The judge stared at him from his stand a few hundred meters away. Malik stared back, his gaze burning a hole into the judge's soul.

After a long, silent pause, the question came:

"How do you plead?"

The room erupted into chaos once more.

 

[Darth Malos]

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Hyperspace
March 13th, 6926 BBY
Mood​

"Malik, are you aware that had it not been for your father's status, you would have been sentenced to death?"

He was stoic as he was escorted out of the court house. Malik's shackles were kept on as he exited and was shoved into a Republic-owned shuttle. He fell onto the metal bench, pain shooting up from his elbow, his senses on high alert due to malnourishment. He said nothing and made no sound.

The craft picked up seconds later, the doors shutting him off from the outside. The durasteel walls had no windows, and he simply sat there in the fluorescent light of the cheap and outdate lightbulbs. Malik leaned against the cold metal, resting his head on it.

He was not sure for how long he had slept, but when he came to, he was on another transport, sprawled across the floor. The metal plates were uncomfortable, but he had been so tired it had not bothered him in his desperate slumber.

Malik noticed that his shackles were off, and his wrists were red and scarred by them. He looked up to see a window, and white lines streaking outside. The former Captain rose to see that they had entered hyperspace. He had not even gotten to say goodbye to Coruscant, not that he had wanted to.

Exilement to the Outer Rim. A fate not better than death, but it was still a second chance. The 12 founders of the Exiles had been exiled to the Outer Rim as well, and they had built an Empire, like he, too, would. Not a bad trade.

He walked through the tiny ship, finding his way to the pilot's cockpit. The pilot, an aging Twi'lek, seemed as though he wanted no trouble. "Where are we headed?" Malik murmured hoarsely, his voice dry from thirst.

"Nar Shaddaa."