Chapter 4

Locke's head was pounding in synchrony with the sharp rap of a gavel. He blinked open his eyes, only to squint against the glaring light, far too bright for someone just waking up.

The air buzzed with voices, a mishmash of tones and pitches that made no sense to his groggy brain. A busy marketplace, that's what it brought to mind, except when he finally managed to focus, the scene before him was anything but.

He was sitting, slouched and drooling, in a hard wooden chair. It was rickety, with one leg shorter than the rest. The soft pounding of an encroaching headache doing little to assuage his discomfort.

Raising a hand to shade his eyes, he took in the room stretched before him, grand and solemn, with towering pillars and a ceiling lost to shadows. People—or at least, he assumed they were people—milled about, their faces blurred like images at the edges of one's vision.

A sharp "Order!" cut through the noise, jolting Locke's attention forward. A man, robed like a judge from one of those TV dramas Locke used to binge-watch, sat high up at the front of the room. He slammed a gavel down once more with a finality that made the boy wince.

"Finally decided to join us, Mr. Locke?" the Judge boomed, his voice echoing off the walls. There was something unsettlingly familiar about him, though Locke couldn't quite place it. His reaction, however, was as instinctual as it was Instant; His eyes widened, and he hastily scrambled to straighten himself, the back of his hand wiping at his chin.

"Where—where am I?" Locke managed, his voice sounding far too small and hoarse in the expansive room.

The Judge's lips twitched into a smile that didn't quite reach his eyes. "Welcome to the Court of Self," he announced, spreading his arms as if to embrace the entirety of the bizarre courtroom. "Or, to be more precise, your Court of Self."

Locke's mind raced. Court of Self? It sounded like something out of a psychology textbook, not... whatever this was.

"This is a manifestation of your quirk's consciousness," the Judge continued, as if that explained everything. "We're here to decide if you're worthy of awakening your dormant quirk."

Dormant quirk? The words struck a chord, sending a jolt through Locke. He'd spent his entire life believing he was quirkless, an oddity in a world where quirks were the norm. Yet here he was, apparently on trial in his own mind to unlock something he'd never known he had.

Locke's first reaction was an outright denial, a laugh that bordered more on disbelief than amusement. "A quirk? Me?" He couldn't have sounded more incredulous if he tried. The notion was absurd, laughably so.

Locke turned his gaze away from the judge, half-expecting the grandiose walls of the courtroom to crumble away, to reveal a hidden audience, their faces alight with mirth at his expense. He could almost hear the collective snicker, the curtain pulling back to unveil rows upon rows of spectators, each one clearer than the last.

But the reality that greeted him was far more mundane—an unamused judge, his expression one of utter disinterest as he propped his chin on his hand.

A flicker of irritation crossed Locke's face, his fleeting smile vanishing as his eyes narrowed into a sharp glare. "Don't mess with me," he said, his voice low. The words hung in the air, heavy and unyielding, as an intense silence fell over the courtroom. It was the kind of silence that made you aware of every heartbeat, every shallow breath.

"I assure you, I'm not," the judge replied, his voice slow, drawing out each word with deliberate care. He gestured towards a desk parallel to Locke's, prompting him to turn his attention. Locke's eyes landed on a man with blonde hair and striking blue eyes, an appearance unsettlingly similar to his own.

"We represent an amalgamation of your current values, morals, and ethics," the judge continued, his finger now pointing squarely at Locke. "Fueled by your emotions."

He paused for a moment, allowing the weight of his words to sink in. "Why now, and not then, you may ask." He raised a finger, "A mother's early demise." he raised a second, "and expectations no four-year-old should bear." he stared down at Locke, bringing his two fingers together, "Do you understand what this has to do with your quirk?"

Locke's eyes went wide, a ghost of disbelief flickering across his face. "You—you're mistaken," he stumbled over the words, his voice barely above a whisper. "There's no precedent for—"

"—Trauma, and the myriad ways individuals cope with it, remains inherently unpredictable," the blonde man cut in sharply, pulling Locke's attention towards him. His tone brooked no argument. "Don't be so arrogant as to think you understand it all, boy."

He jabbed a finger down on his desk with such force it seemed to echo through the courtroom. "This quirk of yours... it demands a mind that operates with precision, control—like a finely tuned engine."

Locke's forehead creased in bewilderment. "But what does any of this have to do with—"

In a burst of anger, the man swept his hand across his desk, sending papers, pens, and assorted objects flying in a chaotic symphony of clatters and thuds. Locke jerked back, startled by the sudden outburst. "Trauma," the man spat out the word as if it were venom, "is like pouring acid into the fuel tank of that finely tuned engine, corroding it, undermining its efficiency, and by extension, affecting everyone around it."

The man paused, his breath hitching slightly as his fingers threaded through his hair. Locke, meanwhile, was a statue of tension in his less-than-sturdy chair, his grip on the armrest so tight his knuckles turned white. "My mind is the engine, and trauma... it's the acid," he echoed softly, almost to himself, as if trying to piece together a puzzle with missing pieces.

Lifting his gaze to meet the judge's, Locke's voice carried a newfound clarity. "If my quirk is influenced by my current values, morals, and ethics, and it's driven by my emotions... then what you're suggesting is that my quirk chose not to awaken to prevent worsening my situation. Is that it?"

At this, the blonde man let out a derisive snort. "So, the kid does have a brain to damage after all."

"That's enough, prosecutor," the judge interjected with a dismissive wave, silencing the man's scorn.

His focus returned to Locke, his nod slow and deliberate. "You've grasped the concept accurately," he confirmed. "Trauma alters how a person reacts to stress, makes decisions, and processes their emotions. All of these elements are crucial in determining the judgments passed by this court."

The judge leaned forward, pressing his hands firmly against the desk before he rose, casting a towering shadow that seemed to engulf Locke entirely. "After all, what you decide has lasting consequences," he declared, his voice resonating with a depth that filled the courtroom. He clasped his hands behind his back, turning his attention to the rows of benches that flanked him. There, faceless men and women sat, their gazes fixed ahead, embodying the very essence of anonymity. "Fear, joy, anger, sadness... these emotions play a critical role in delivering a fair and just verdict. They form the Jury that presides over your cases. Trauma, however, acts as a corrupting influence, bribing these Jurors and throwing their decisions into chaos."

Locke's acknowledgement was slow, a nod tinged with a growing sense of unease as the stark stillness of the faceless figures around him began to unsettle him. His curiosity then turned towards the increasingly agitated prosecutor. "And what about him?" Locke inquired, his gaze drifting.

The mere question seemed to strike a nerve with the blonde man, veins bulging along his temples as if the words themselves were an affront.

The judge's response was accompanied by a chuckle, a sound that seemed oddly out of place in the solemnity of the courtroom. "Your beliefs and values, your notions of justice, morality, and ethics—he embodies them. He represents your greatest challenge, your fiercest opponent, yet also stands as the steadfast protector who would defend you to his last breath."

"So, a hero..." Locke murmured under his breath, his eyes shifting back and forth between the judge and the prosecutor, trying to make sense of it all.

At Locke's characterization, both the Judge and the prosecutor found themselves taken aback, their eyes widening in surprise. The judge, after a moment's hesitation, gave a stiff nod. "Yes, I... I suppose you could make that leap in logic," he conceded.

Locke's voice was steady, albeit with a hint of defiance, as he spoke, "That just leaves you, then." His eyes lifted to meet the judge's, who was now sporting a grin that was all teeth, unsettling in its breadth.

As the man settled back into his seat, his presence seemed to magnify, ballooning to a size that felt overwhelming, as if his very essence could swallow the room whole. From the depths of his robes, a darkness unfurled like a curtain being drawn, revealing an abyss that stretched beyond the confines of the courtroom.

"I am the consciousness of your quirk, fueled by your memories." the judge proclaimed, his voice echoing with a gravity that seemed to resonate with the very foundations of the space. "I am art itself, creation given form. This court and everything within it falls under my domain, and I hold the ultimate authority over its judgments. Should I find it necessary, I can overturn the jury's decisions with a mere thought." he said with a casual flick of his wrist. "I possess both the judge's discernment and the executioner's finality." His gaze bore into Locke, who felt as though he were a lone leaf caught in the tempest's fury, trembling uncontrollably.

"So, Mr. Locke Lamora," the judge continued, his voice a mixture of solemnity and anticipation, "shall we commence your trial?"

As Locke gives a tentative nod, the courtroom undergoes a surreal transformation. The once solemn and static environment bursts into life, its walls seeming to stretch and contort. A murmur grows into a cacophony of voices as seats behind Locke magically fill with faceless spectators, their presence a palpable force pressing in on his back. In stark contrast, the jurors morph before his eyes, each adopting distinct, vivid features emblematic of Locke's sprawling range of emotions. Anger manifests as an elderly man, from whose ears, steam billows out like a locomotive on the brink of explosion. In another corner, a woman shrouded by a personal raincloud sobs, her words stuttering out amidst the downpour.

With a forceful bang, the Judge's gavel demanded silence, the sound resonating through Locke's very bones. "Let the trial commence," he declared.

"Ho-hold on a sec—" Locke blurted out in slight panic. Everything was moving too fast, he remarked to himself.

He watched as the prosecutor stepped forward against his wishes, the embodiment of Locke's harsher judgments and insecurities. "Ladies and gentlemen of the jury," he began, his gaze sweeping across the motley crew of emotional representations, "we are here to evaluate whether Mr. Lamora, a boy of merely ten summers, possesses the maturity and ethical compass necessary to wield his newly awakened quirk."

"The defendant," he pointed at Locke, his voice dripping with a mix of disdain and pity, "is charged with being unfit to wield his quirk." He turned then, his eyes locking onto Locke with an intensity that felt almost invasive. "It is my contention that Mr. Lamora, despite his youth, exhibits traits distinctly at odds with the heroic ideals our society cherishes."

Lock was left speechless, watching as the man's face contorted with feigned sadness. "His arrogance, self-absorption, and, most damningly, his narcissism stand as barriers too great to overcome."

Locked blinked in surprise.

The prosecutor launched himself into a frenzied pacing before the jury, with a zeal that mirrored the intensity of his convictions. "Let's examine the defendant's character," he implored, his gaze sweeping across the jurors. "His arrogance and self-focus not only diminish his capacity for empathy but also pose a direct threat to the very fabric of our society. Can we, in good conscience, entrust such power to someone whose moral compass is so skewed by self-interest? To do so would be to court disaster, paving the way for villainy and endangering innocent lives."

Locke, bewildered and feeling very much his age, could only muster a weak retort. "But I don't want to hurt anyone," he protested, his voice barely rising above a whisper.

The judge slammed the gavel down, causing Locke to flinch. "Mr. Lamora, I must ask you wait your turn."

"Intentions," the prosecutor shot back, "are but whispers in the wind when weighed against actions. And your potential actions, young Mr. Lamora, could wreak untold havoc."

"In light of this, your Honor, esteemed jurors," the prosecutor continued, his voice rising with passion, "we must consider the implications of entrusting such a significant responsibility to someone still wrestling with the basic tenets of ethics and morality. At ten years of age, the defendant's grasp of these concepts is understandably limited. However, the very nature of his quirk demands a maturity and selflessness that he has yet to demonstrate." He bowed slightly, before steadily making his way back to his seat.

Locke caught the prosecutor's smug look, a self-satisfied glint sparkling in his eyes like he'd just pulled off the greatest magic trick at a party.

And it irked Locke to his core.

"The defendant may now give his opening statement," the judge announced, voice booming across the courtroom like thunder over a quiet village.

Oh, great, Locke thought, scrambling to his feet. His knees felt like they were made of something less sturdy than jelly, maybe the same material they used for wobbly gelatin desserts. He cleared his throat, which suddenly felt as dry as the Atacama Desert.

He glanced at the jurors, each one a larger-than-life embodiment of his emotions, and felt a mix of awe and dread. How do you argue with your own feelings?

"Um, so, hi," Locke began, his voice a decibel too quiet. The courtroom's acoustics, however, seemed to be on his side, amplifying his hesitant greeting into something that sounded almost confident. Almost. "I'm Locke. Locke Lamora." It sounded like he was introducing himself at a school assembly where everyone already knew his name.

A pause, filled with the expectant looks of the emotional jury—a jury that seemed to hang on his every stutter. Anger's steam had subsided into a simmer, and even the weeping woman's raincloud had lessened to a drizzle, as if they were all giving him a moment to collect his thoughts.

His bottom lip quivered, "I heard what the, um, prosecutor said. About me being...what was it?" He hesitantly counted on his fingers, "Arrogant, self-absorbed... a bunch of other stuff. And, yeah, it sounded super serious and all," Locke conceded, his gaze drifting to his sneakers, as if they held the key to eloquence. "But, I've never wanted to be a villain. Heroes are cool! They get capes and respect and... and they help people." His eyes widened with earnestness, a child's unfiltered admiration for the concept of heroism shining through.

Locke's gaze lifted, meeting the eyes of the jurors, one by one. "Sure, I don't know everything about being good or heroic, but I'm willing to learn. Isn't that what heroes do? Learn from their mistakes and become better?" He looked around, hoping to see some nod of agreement or at least a less stern expression on the jurors' faces.

Locke took a deep breath, his statement winding down as he realized he didn't have a dramatic conclusion prepared. "So, yeah. That's it. I guess I'm saying, give me a chance to prove I can be more than just... me." He ended with a shrug.

The courtroom fell silent, Locke's words hanging in the balance. The judge looked momentarily taken aback by the candidness, a flicker of surprise crossing his face before the gavel came down once more, a bit softer this time.

"Very well," the judge said, his voice losing some of its earlier severity. "The court acknowledges the defendant's statement. Let us proceed with the trial."

Locke sank back into his seat, his heart still racing. He didn't know if his words had made any impact, but he had spoken his truth, clumsy and unpolished as it was.

The judge, still carrying a trace of surprise from Locke's earnest declaration, motioned towards the prosecutor. "The prosecution may now present their evidence," he announced, settling back into his chair with the air of someone about to watch a particularly interesting play unfold.

The prosecutor, smirking like he had just been handed the winning ticket in a lottery, nodded eagerly. "Of course, Your Honor," he said, his voice dripping with a confidence that made Locke want to invent invisibility on the spot.

"As our first piece of evidence, I'd like to present Memories Exhibit A," the prosecutor announced grandly, waving his hand. Suddenly, the courtroom's atmosphere shifted, the walls transforming into screens displaying Locke's past actions.

The first memory flickered to life, showing Locke at his school art show, standing proudly next to his painting—a rather abstract interpretation of heroism. As classmates praised his work, Locke's chest puffed out, his words laced with a hint of superiority. "Well, it's all about having a natural talent, you know?" he'd said, barely masking the gloat. "Not everyone can be an artist."

Locke winced, watching his past self with growing discomfort. That had sounded way cooler in his head.

The prosecutor rose from his chair and rounded his desk, turning to face the jury; his expression solemn. "As you can see, the defendant's arrogance is not just apparent—it's palpable. Even at such a young age, he relishes in his own perceived superiority."

Before Locke could even process the first memory, the prosecutor introduced the next. "Memories Exhibit B," he called out, and the scene changed.

This time, Locke was at a friend's birthday party, hoarding the video game controller, unwilling to share. His logic? "I'm just way better at this game. I don't want us to lose because someone else can't keep up."

The jury's expressions shifted, some with raised eyebrows, others shaking their heads slightly. Locke's cheeks burned with embarrassment. Out of context, it did look pretty bad.

"And so, esteemed jurors," the prosecutor continued, pacing with a theatrical flair, "just these memories alone serve as crystal clear indicators of Mr. Lamora's self-centeredness. His reluctance to share, to elevate others, speaks volumes. How can someone, who places himself above others in trivial matters, be trusted with a power that demands selflessness during the moments that count?"

Locke felt a lump form in his throat. It was like watching a highlight reel of his least proud moments, each one twisting a knife of regret deeper. He glanced at the jury, their faces a mix of emotions—disappointment, anger, and even a hint of sympathy.

"But I've changed since then!" Locke wanted to shout, but one glace at the judge, at the weight of the courtroom's formality, held his words captive.

The judge, observing Locke's turmoil, interjected, "The defense will now have the opportunity to counter these claims. Mr. Lamora, please prepare your response."

Locke nodded, his mind racing. How could he explain that those moments weren't the sum total of who he was? That he could learn from his mistakes?

As the prosecutor rested his case with a smug look that said, "Beat that," Locke realized this was more than just a trial about his quirk. It was a trial about his character, his potential to grow and be better.

And he was determined to rise to the challenge.