Interlude: Glenn Chambers
Glenn turned the chair to where he could see out the three-quarter window and smiled. Neither the local director, a woman known for being a hard-ass, nor really anyone outside of Public Relations knew this, but the initial relations offering was always a test to see what was most important to the parahuman in question. There were effectively three types of parahuman and PRT Management, the first were people who went with the offered package and were usually only interested in their image. This was not a bad thing necessarily, they were the ones meant to be the faces of the Protectorate and Wards, the ones that were shown to the cameras and given flashy but empty positions.
The second and third types started with questions and usually wanted to be effective as opposed to approachable. The difference between the two was in their PRT management. Type two members would bow to the pressure of the PRT directors and either go with the offered package, or at best force minor amendments to the proposed overall theme. Type twos were rare amongst the Wards because parents usually went along with the approved idea regardless of the Ward’s ideas simply because the parent wanted them “safe”.
Type threes were practically unheard of amongst the wards because the parents usually could be counted on to fight their children in the name of the child’s safety, and their PRT management usually aided in that. This, as miss Takamachi had pointed out, was Brockton Bay, a city that arguably shouldn’t have a Wards presence at all because of how dangerous it was, and here of all places he had found not just one, but two type threes. They were type threes because not only did they disdain the arguable safety of the Ward’s position, but had managed to talk both their guardians and the local PRT management into backing them. At this point his options were to either sign off on the teen’s ideas and let it go, or go to the Youth Guard and the Chief Director and get them to fight it. Looking out over the city’s skyline he could almost see the line in the streets, the point where things went from being passable, livable and arguably safe, into a steaming pile of crap. “Alright,” he muttered to himself, “what do I do this time?”
**
“Emma Barnes and Madison Clements,” The two girls raised their heads from where they had been seated for the hearing. The female guard guided the pair of them toward the defense table as a man that Emma noticed was not her father stepped forward.
“Michael Foster for the defense your honor,” the man stated as the two of them reached where the guard wanted them to stand. Looking back over her shoulder Emma could see her mother in the audience near the center aisle along with Madison’s father.
Turning back to the judge, a stern looking black man with a bald head, Emma could see the state attorney step forward with a pair of case files as the clerk read the charges. “The accused are each charged with ten counts of assault and battery, one count of attempted murder with a biological weapon, and conspiracy to commit the same.”
As the clerk read the charges Emma’s eyes grew larger and the sound seemed to fade as her mind whirled, Attempted murder, conspiracy to commit murder, what the hell are they talking about? she thought, I mean yeah we roughed her up, that would be assault, or battery I can’t remember which, but we never tried to kill her. Her lawyer, who’s name she remembered her father mentioning as an associate at his firm was talking, trying to get her bail she thought, at least that was the plan and the reason they were in front of the judge today. The problem was she couldn’t hear what was being said. Now her mother and Mr. Clements were stepping forward to speak to the judge and apparently answer the DA’s questions.
Suddenly her lawyer had turned to her and trying to say something, then someone shook her and sound returned along with the world coming back into focus, “What?” she asked.
“The judge asked if you understood the conditions Miss Barnes,” her lawyer said.
“Conditions?” she asked turning back to the judge who was frowning.
“Yes Miss Barnes,” the judge answered. “If I release you on bail there are going to be conditions to your release. First, you will have absolutely no contact with your victim Taylor Hebert or her family. Second, you will wear an ankle monitor and through it be monitored at all times during your release. If you are released after the trial the monitor will be removed at that point. Removing the anklet will send out an alarm and will see your bail revoked and you returned to juvenile detention to await your trial. Finally, you are restricted to either be at school, or at home, and by that, I mean your home. You may not go anywhere else save pre-approved doctors appointments. Failure to adhere to these requirements will also see your bail revoked and you returned to juvenile detention. Do you understand and accept these restrictions and requirements?”
Glenn turned the chair to where he could see out the three-quarter window and smiled. Neither the local director, a woman known for being a hard-ass, nor really anyone outside of Public Relations knew this, but the initial relations offering was always a test to see what was most important to the parahuman in question. There were effectively three types of parahuman and PRT Management, the first were people who went with the offered package and were usually only interested in their image. This was not a bad thing necessarily, they were the ones meant to be the faces of the Protectorate and Wards, the ones that were shown to the cameras and given flashy but empty positions.
The second and third types started with questions and usually wanted to be effective as opposed to approachable. The difference between the two was in their PRT management. Type two members would bow to the pressure of the PRT directors and either go with the offered package, or at best force minor amendments to the proposed overall theme. Type twos were rare amongst the Wards because parents usually went along with the approved idea regardless of the Ward’s ideas simply because the parent wanted them “safe”.
Type threes were practically unheard of amongst the wards because the parents usually could be counted on to fight their children in the name of the child’s safety, and their PRT management usually aided in that. This, as miss Takamachi had pointed out, was Brockton Bay, a city that arguably shouldn’t have a Wards presence at all because of how dangerous it was, and here of all places he had found not just one, but two type threes. They were type threes because not only did they disdain the arguable safety of the Ward’s position, but had managed to talk both their guardians and the local PRT management into backing them. At this point his options were to either sign off on the teen’s ideas and let it go, or go to the Youth Guard and the Chief Director and get them to fight it. Looking out over the city’s skyline he could almost see the line in the streets, the point where things went from being passable, livable and arguably safe, into a steaming pile of crap. “Alright,” he muttered to himself, “what do I do this time?”
**
“Emma Barnes and Madison Clements,” The two girls raised their heads from where they had been seated for the hearing. The female guard guided the pair of them toward the defense table as a man that Emma noticed was not her father stepped forward.
“Michael Foster for the defense your honor,” the man stated as the two of them reached where the guard wanted them to stand. Looking back over her shoulder Emma could see her mother in the audience near the center aisle along with Madison’s father.
Turning back to the judge, a stern looking black man with a bald head, Emma could see the state attorney step forward with a pair of case files as the clerk read the charges. “The accused are each charged with ten counts of assault and battery, one count of attempted murder with a biological weapon, and conspiracy to commit the same.”
As the clerk read the charges Emma’s eyes grew larger and the sound seemed to fade as her mind whirled, Attempted murder, conspiracy to commit murder, what the hell are they talking about? she thought, I mean yeah we roughed her up, that would be assault, or battery I can’t remember which, but we never tried to kill her. Her lawyer, who’s name she remembered her father mentioning as an associate at his firm was talking, trying to get her bail she thought, at least that was the plan and the reason they were in front of the judge today. The problem was she couldn’t hear what was being said. Now her mother and Mr. Clements were stepping forward to speak to the judge and apparently answer the DA’s questions.
Suddenly her lawyer had turned to her and trying to say something, then someone shook her and sound returned along with the world coming back into focus, “What?” she asked.
“The judge asked if you understood the conditions Miss Barnes,” her lawyer said.
“Conditions?” she asked turning back to the judge who was frowning.
“Yes Miss Barnes,” the judge answered. “If I release you on bail there are going to be conditions to your release. First, you will have absolutely no contact with your victim Taylor Hebert or her family. Second, you will wear an ankle monitor and through it be monitored at all times during your release. If you are released after the trial the monitor will be removed at that point. Removing the anklet will send out an alarm and will see your bail revoked and you returned to juvenile detention to await your trial. Finally, you are restricted to either be at school, or at home, and by that, I mean your home. You may not go anywhere else save pre-approved doctors appointments. Failure to adhere to these requirements will also see your bail revoked and you returned to juvenile detention. Do you understand and accept these restrictions and requirements?”
Wolf wins every fight but the one where he dies, fangs locked around the throat of his opponent.
Currently writing BROBd
Currently writing BROBd