Desire's Prisoners (Captain Syverson/Henry Cavill Fancast Fic

Part 1: The Trial

"I have done my best for you," your attorney Mr. Brent nods as he clicks off his hologram accounts of the case and closes his briefcase.

"Right," you nod curtly rolling your eyes, not sparing the man a direct look. On Luna III, everyone knew the ultimate law: women had no power here. You know the trial is joke. You look around the courtroom at the angry men who watch you and the women who avert their eyes like looking at you is a curse. No friends here, and you don't want any of them. "Whatever."

"Why can't you understand the depth of what you've done?"

"Why can't you understand the depth of what he tried to do?" you hiss, snapping your head in Mr. Brent's direction. You watch his face began to flush, making his hair look whiter than it did. "Do you think I'd just let him—"

"Sebastian Marette paid a bridal offer."

"Not to me, to that stupid Planetary Matrimony Commission!" You hear your voice rise, but you don't care.

"When your father and betrothed died in the accident, you had a year to marry or lose your property and freedom according to law–"

"My father stipulated I didn't have to—"

"Law is law!" Mr. Brent stands and slams his fist on the table, anger in his angular features, his glasses almost coming off his nose.

You mimick his action, bringing gasps and other sounds of outrage from people around you. "And bull is bull!" You find yourself being handcuffed by guards for your outburst within seconds, and your gray space suit is ripped in the process.

Mr. Brent quiets himself, taking a deep breath. "I tried to extend your time-"

"By admitting me to the Women's Galactic Psychiatric Institute to analyze my anger outbursts?" You make sure your words had not lost their heat, though you keep your voice just above a whisper as you partially recline in the chair with your hands behind you. "No thanks–"

"All rise!"

You are the first to the officer's call, you make sure of it. You are going to be defiant to the end showing it with a raised chin as you look over the magistrate's head to the clock, remembering everything your father taught you, all the love he'd given. It would keep you sane. It had to.

The grim faced judge reads your name and bites out his next words. "You are guilty of the man slaughter of Sebastian Marette." He pauses for reaction; there is none. "Women like you are a terrible example and threat to our society. The need to make an example of you is clear. You are hereby sentenced to Luna IV until you reform or for five years—" The crowd voiced amazement and began to chatter; even your mouth drops, causing the judge to continue loudly, "whichever comes first!"

"She won't make it out alive!" Someone yells above the noise.

"If she does, I'm buying her!" Another male voice calls out.

You turn a deaf ear to the outbursts and laughter. You keep your composure, swallowing your fear and any tears that might give you away. You tilt your chin defiantly again. No woman had ever gotten a sentence like that. You choose your next words carefully and say them loud enough for all to hear. "Go to hell!"

Gasps arise from the crowd.

"Get her out of here!" the judge fumes, slamming his gavel. "Get her out of my court!"

The guards grab you none too gently, and jostle you between them out of the courtroom into a holding room. You hold the judge's gaze as long as you can, and smirk as he pales at your silent threat. Good. Lose sleep, old man.

You are stripped of your prisoner jumpsuit and given a white wrap around dress that ties at your waist. You request the rest of your clothes, having not gotten underwear, and the guards laugh and cuff you again.