“Simon Alistair Blanc, you stand here before judge, jury, and whatever gods you keep, charged with inciting rebellion, murder, treason,” the judge rifled through the reams of paper in front of him, “and more crimes than the court presently has time to hear,” he peered from atop his stand at the accused, “You are responsible for the deaths of hundreds of citizens, Mr. Blanc. How do you plead?”

“Was it really so few?”

“Just answer the question.”

The corners of Simon’s lips twisted into a thin smile, “I’m not here to plead with anyone.”

The judge sighed, leaning back and kneading his brow with frustration, “Do not play games, Mr. Blanc. You know precisely what I mean.”

Simon looked up, gazing gleefully through the reams of dark brown hair that escaped his ponytail and smothered the majority of his face, “But I wish to ensure you know precisely what I mean. I do not seek mercy. I am not entreating you for help. I do not, and will not, plead.”

Percival Armitan groaned internally. He had served the city in his capacity as judge for no less than twenty-eight years, and well he knew that it was always the self-righteous ones who dragged out proceedings.

“You do, then, admit direct responsibility for the deaths of so many people?” the judge said.

Simon started defensively, “Oh no, no. Gracious me! What do you take me for?”

Armitan was not alone in adopting a puzzled expression.

Members of the jury began to speak among themselves.

“Silence!” the judge brought down his gavel with intrigue-fuelled enthusiasm. He gestured for Blanc to continue.

“I never once killed a person. I never once committed murder. My only ‘crime’, as you insist upon calling it, was to eliminate some of the vermin that plagued our precious city!”

Armitan rolled his eyes whilst the jurors and attendant journalists shrugged back in their chairs, one or two echoing such useful insights as ‘typical’. It was becoming abundantly clear that this was going to take some time.

“Mr. Blanc, that is murder, and those were people.”

“I beg to differ. It seems that once again we have an issue with rhetoric,” Simon looked genuinely disappointed, “Let me ask the court a question; if a dog wandered into your home, would you be entitled to defend yourself?”

“This is hardly relevant.”

Simon rose, barely restraining himself from shouting, “It is entirely relevant! These fiends are beasts! They are animals without souls, without morals, and therefore without rights. They feast upon us like parasites, reveling in the taste of innocent blood,” he looked to the assembled masses for the first time, “My brothers and I are not murderers. What we did was to give those innocents a voice. We gave them a blade with which to defend themselves,’ he sat down, his breathing slowing but his eyes still hard.

Scribbling could be heard throughout the courtroom, as pencil and pen nibs raced furiously across notepads.

“You ask if I am guilty,” Simon challenged, “I feel no guilt. I feel no remorse. Guilt is the curse of the wrongdoer. We brought justice where all thought it lost.”

One grey eyebrow rose quizzically on Armitan’s gaunt face, “What gave you the right? What made you think that you could recognise the sinners and set them apart from the pure? Why did this task have to fall to you?”

There was a pause before Simon responded.

Silence enveloped the chamber.

The court was full to the brim with reporters, officials, police, and any citizens who had managed to wrestle their way in. The stalls and aisles were overflowing, and spectators even spilled into the hallways. Not one of them uttered a sound.

Outside, people watched intently on vast screens, usually reserved for garish advertisements. The spectacle had captured the attention of seemingly every resident of the homogenous mass of grey structures they nicknamed Tartarus. The network of steel roadways that interconnected the vast towers of the city swarmed with a myriad of onlookers, who craned their necks to get a glimpse of one of the numerous monitors.

Even in the perpetual darkness of the Pits, the lightless slums at Tartarus’ ground level, citizens had taken to the streets and bars in order to witness this monumental occasion. Still more were tuned in at home, silently assessing the situation and drinking in the words of the fallen vigilante.

Simon Blanc finally had the world’s attention.

“You sit in that seat every day and you pass judgement. You sentence without ever really knowing right from wrong. Laws and regulations are pretty names and appealing concepts, but these are all born of, and into, an ignorant world. They tackle a subject which they do not understand, and, as such, they cannot hope to control,” Simon spoke with the aloof air sagacity; It was as if he were explaining a difficult concept to a child, “It’s not your fault. In a truly scarred world, where no truly pure or just thing or being exists, we cannot be expected to recognise these qualities or understand them correctly. You have no point of reference. No one can be expected to comprehend what they cannot see.”

“Except you?” Armitan scoffed.

“Without justice to learn from directly, we can only infer its nature from the presence of injustice. I think it is fair to say my brothers and I suffered a grave injustice. We were not unique in this. There are many who are burdened with atrocities in their life. Still, it helped us to understand.”

“You refer to the death of your parents?”

“Ironic. Here you use death, when before you were so adamant about terming it murder,” Simon winked, “Now this? This truly was an act of murder. Our parents did not deserve to die. They were taken from us unfairly. Unjustly, you might say,” he chuckled at his own private joke.

“And so you acted out of revenge? You killed to satisfy the memory of your deceased mother and father. Did it make up for your loss?”

Simon met the challenge undaunted, “At first, yes. Yes, it did,” he looked at the jury when he said, “I’ll admit our motivation was questionable to begin with. It was selfish. Blind, even. Can you blame us? What good sons wouldn’t desire retribution for the deaths of those who raised them?”

“The details of your parents’ demise have recently come to light. There are very few who would call it anything other than a complete tragedy, myself included, but their murderers” he stressed this word for Simon’s benefit, “would inevitably have been brought to justice in time. Whilst I can sympathise with your loss, I cannot condone your response to it.”

“My parents’ murder was reported to the police, as many other murders had been before theirs. You seem to have some very misguided faith in our law enforcement.”

“A case had been opened. Before long-”

“A case?” Simon snorted, “What comfort can we take from knowing that a file exists in a cabinet in some basement, tucked away never to be seen again? It has been a long time since the police offered any residents of the Pits any peace of mind. It suits them not to help us. Better to ignore a few murders and maintain some flimsy façade of order than admit incompetence,” he shook his head, “The police would not have helped us. I saw my parents' bodies left mutilated. They were drenched in so much blood that they were barely recognisable. Was I to walk around with that image of defilement hanging over me, knowing that their tormentors walked free?”

Armitan was not alone in looking down at the mass-murderer with pity, seeing in his stead that lonely and horrified seventeen-year-old, and feeling all of the grief and suffering the teenager had on that pivotal day.

Simon’s gaze was far away, “It was only later when we quizzed our dad’s former friends and colleagues that we learnt the reason. He had been struck by debt, and faced redundancy to boot. Our mother had a disability, and so was unfit for most lines of work. In desperation, he turned to one of Tartarus’ many syndicates for cash. What helpful, generous individuals we have looking after us in the Pits,” Simon sneered, “Of course, father didn’t want us to know. He never wanted to appear weak in front of us. If only he had told us, well, perhaps we could have helped,” Simon brushed some hair to one side and leaned back in his chair, “It turns out a so-called friend at the factory had fallen in with these guys after racking up some gambling debts. He sold our father down the river to take the heat off himself. At first it must have seemed like a blessing to father. Cash up front, no questions asked. Of course, then they squeezed. They doubled the amount owed. Then they tripled it. Before long, it was an impossible sum. They made their damn money back twice over, and still they moved the goal posts. They never really wanted the money. That was just a bonus to them. People like that,” Simon chewed on his lip, “they have a sickness.”