Turnabout Resurrection

[sharp_belief]

Who: Gregory Edgeworth & Manfred von Karma
When: Early Friday morning to late evening
Where: Diamond to Sector 3
Summary: Gregory arrives amidst the pandemic, urgent to find his son, but finds a foe instead.
Warnings: Mild Violence/Angst

I am Gregory Edgeworth... I have been killed...

The one who shot me... was the bailiff... Yanni Yogi.

A drab-coated body of a man lay supine atop the soggy pitcher's mound in the early misty morn after the last threads of Darkness bled away. His pallid skin was as motionless as the stricken cadaver he once was. Yet as the overcast of cloudcover began to thicken, raindrops fell in soft pitter-patters to bring him to life like a wilted funeral lily. Shut eyes flinched as the rain trickled down, before a shallow gasp rasped out. His respite was hitched and uncoordinated... as if he had forgotten how to breathe.


Tell me your name? What has happened to you?


The last memory he recalled was the figure of a woman, a spirit medium, Misty Fey, she had said she was. From the darkness of whatever realm of the dead he had been sent to, she had called out to him—Whether it was Heaven, Hell, or Purgatory—He knew not of any of those things, only that his pain had ended with the trigger of a loaded pistol. She asked of him for the truth. And nothing but the truth.

...He would never forget the flash of gunpowder that lit up that cramped elevator space for a fraction of a second; he had looked into the eyes of his only son who, with all his little heart, wanted desperately to protect his father from his assailant.

For a man who had sworn an oath of unvarnished veracity it was the first time that paternal fear had overthrown all he had ever believed in.

The Truth, something he had fought desperately for in court time and again, was suddenly the most unbearable thing he could ever experience. Gregory panted through labored pangs that throbbed intensely from his wounded heart. He clutched at it in a futile manner, as if he could crush it and send himself back to the dark netherworld where nothing hurt. But all bitter hope aside, he knew whatever the agony of this new world was, all logic pointed to a penalty for his false testimony.

He stood on unsteady legs that weren’t ready to stand. But he was a resolute man, taking his physical and mental blows with an air of dignity. He dusted himself off, picked the sand out of his dark hair, and righted his glasses on his face. It was as if it all had been a bad dream. A nightmare.

Soon he would find that terrifying reverie had only just begun.

Exchanging bewildered words with the scant Greeters who dared to go out in the apparent epidemic left him at a loss. Yet he was none-the-less polite and grateful for what little help they could give; asking only, with every ounce of conviction he had, if they or anyone had heard of his son, Miles.

"...He’s 9 years old, 4 foot 1—Excuse me, let me show you a photo." He fished into his coat for his pocket-book.

Upon the moment it opened an accordion of embarrassing baby photos spilled out, detailing everything of Miles’ childhood; from first steps to first day at school, and about a dozen or so of him doing nothing but reading textbooks, with the exception of the last where the young tussle-haired boy is seated in the middle of his room and surrounded with hundreds of multicolored paper-cranes.

Comments

[makethemguilty]

The clouds hang low in the atmosphere on the day Gregory Edgeworth arrives in Port; The murky morning skies as drab and desolate as the soul of the long forgotten man himself.

Though unsteady as a newborn this defense attorney was, still somehow he managed to crawl his way out of the gutter and through the somewhat deserted streets, mingling through the sparse throngs of city walkers in fruitless search of the boy whom he'd once called "son". However...What neither man counted on was that soon their paths were destined to cross, yet again. After fifteen years…

Manfred was quite aware of the plague sweeping the City, and thus, he'd taken precautions…He kept himself away from exposure by avoiding the thicket of any place even remotely crowded, safe inside his black and sleek Mercedez Grand Limousine. The prosecutor refused to submit himself so recklessly to any ailment, even going so far as to keep a wide berth between him and any person he came into contact with. That included his driver, whom he'd instructed to wear gloves at all times. So far it would seem that remained effective. In time, however, he would learn that not even a Von Karma could thwart an illness of this kind.

The cold drabness salted with the mist of a steady morning drizzle and the marine layer descended over the island caused a piercing ache in his shoulder, which only made him long for the warmth of a hot bath and a roaring hearth. He could have easily dismissed it, but somehow that feeling began to permeate the air and he became all too aware, from his tinted window, of something vaguely familiar. It's not immediately forthcoming, but, with his cold eyes wandering out over the streets the throbbing of his shoulder only seemed to increase…As if in forewarning, somehow.

The car rolled smoothly to a mild stop at the corner of a Sector 3 crosswalk as it began to rain, permitting the crossing of passerby while the steady pit-patter of droplets hit the roof. He doesn't like the prospect of dawdling, but nevertheless, he'll allow it, only if to be transported back to his safe haven away from the infectious crowds.

His attention begins to lull a little as he broods…That's when, for the briefest moment, he's met with a vision of a Ghost: A familiar trenchcoat swept up in the brisk wind and sudden rain. Manfred froze, his head turning, having caught it out of the corner of his eye, his heart suddenly squeezing hard in his chest.

"Stop. Stop the car. Pull over!"

He bellows to the driver, who has to do so quickly and nearly collides with the curb, braking rather hard. There's the sound of a distinct 'click' as the door opens and Manfred emerges, stepping out onto the street to try and make out if he'd simply been hallucinating or if this phantasm was somehow real…If there was even a stray chance he had to be certain.

"T-t'ch..!"

But that wasn't possible! It had to be a figment of the imagination...! It simply...Could not be. And yet despite this disbelief he knew now that he had to know for certain. His hand felt sweaty as he gripped his cane with full force, those tailcoats suddenly turning and disappearing around the corner as the hauntingly familiar man streaked ahead of him.

His feet carry him swiftly and smoothly down the upper class walkway, polished shoes and cane in sync as it tap-taps against the neatly swept stones.

He cannot stop himself from the pursuit, sweat forming under his stiff collar as he hurried to catch up.

Had the notion ever struck him before? Never. He was dead! Dead, dead, dead. He'd been the last to see him alive, and the first to see his lifeless body in the elevator...He had swept Gregory's blood and ashes from his hands all those years ago the moment that Yanni Yogi had been named as the culprit. How could he have imagined that he'd now be faced with his old rival once again...? The mere thought of this living ghost appearing before him drives a cold pit into the bottom of his stomach, his face ashen and streaked with cold droplets. And yet, he cannot stand not knowing!

Clutching to himself in the middle of the street with his hair beginning to fall out of place Manfred von Karma was, without a doubt, imperfect, as of that moment.

[sharp_belief]

It went without saying that Gregory's initial reconnoiter had, so far, been less than rewarding. The greeters could only help so much, directing him towards Sector 2 where the government buildings were said to be situated. They had done so quickly so as not to get near, as if he were covered in filth. A pox. A plague, he had heard the populous whisper amongst eachother. Nevertheless, be there some virus epidemic going around or worse, he had trudged the entire way from the 4th Sector in the frigid rain. His only guide was a piece of paper with vague directions that were beginning to bleed into a scrawled mess thanks to the downpour. His only saving grace from the rain-fall was his fedora and the un-tucked lapels of his beige trenchcoat.

Why would Miles be in a place like this? Was someone caring for him? Did he have food? Was he warm? Was he out of this Godforsaken rain?

Worry creased his ever-wrinkled brow, trenched deep from years of staring unflinchingly down the gnashing teeth of corruption amongst the judicial system. But a exasperated sigh left him as the written words finally became illegible, and the street-signs only sent him in circles.

Neither were the locals of any help it seemed. For even as cordial as he was, he was met with either a sneering fear-mongering, cold snubs, and outright vicious profanity.

"Get lost, newcomer rat!"

I'm afraid I have that covered all too well.

Gregory was lost without a beacon to turn to. Not even the broken streets of downtown Los Angeles were this convoluted. Yet there was a sudden dark lodestar in the most unlikely of figures. The red-sea of nonentities divided before his wandering eyes and stopped with a sudden fixation on a searing glare that met his own with all the vehemence and loathing of a fiery serpent.

There was no mistaking that rigid figure of self-professed immaculacy.

"Prosecutor... Von Karma?"

[makethemguilty]

He squared his jaw and stared with intensity despite the steady fall of droplets that seeped through his garments to chill him further, cold eyes fixed unflinchingly on the attorney as though he may very well have been an illusion. The curiosity had lended itself to a strange, unnatural feeling—A bewilderment that left him reeling.

The shock that now carved itself into his granite features would have been visible from where Gregory was standing, the man's voice stirring a deep sense of resentment and hatred towards this mirage-turned-living-nightmare. He was awash with bitterness and shame, a cacophony that threatened to tear through him like the very bullet that had once pierced his flesh.

It shouldn't have been possible..!

And yet flashbacks to that fateful day began to overwhelm him, pulling him further into a state of wretchedness and base loathing. The inert body of the man he had killed strewn at his feet...

". . ."

Silence would greet him while the roar of thunder in the distance descended, rumbling his head and his rigid body, which only seemed to unsettle him more. His water-logged hair begins to allow water to streak down his face, the prosecutor turned murderer blind with rage as he stalked towards the man, unknowing exactly what he intended but only that he needed answers. And quickly!

[sharp_belief]

It was not just the electricity that clawed across the sky, Gregory could feel his heckles rise and every follicle of hair on his neck stand on end as if his very conductive body were standing before a wave of white-hot galvanism.

"....!!"

He had known that glare to be something of ominous legend. That attorneys and men alike trembled at even a momentary yet fierce glance. Yet never before had Gregory felt the foreboding sense that his life was about to be cut short once again. Those truculent eyes spell not just that usual, if not expected spite for his profession.

They spelt bloodcurdling murder.

Stepping backwards at bay as Von Karma drew near with ardent haste, he found himself cornered before the sector square's ornate bell tower.

"Prosecutor. Please."

Before he could ask of him to reasonably explain his apparent wrath, explain why he was here, explain anything at all, he was silenced as the massive hands of the clock-tower above struck 2:00PM, reverberating the coupled clangs of a proverbial death knell.

[makethemguilty]

Could he have just turned and walked away from the specter that haunted his mind and soul, ruined his perfect career with a sanction on his record, and tipped the balance unto a downward spiral of corruption? Would it have been so easy as to forget the crime he had committed in his past and let the dead rest undisturbed? Staring into that deeply lined face he knew without a shred of doubt that it was impossible.

This was the man who had bested him in court, and who had fallen by his hand: Gregory Edgeworth. The father to the son he had mentored and remade into his own image.

So you have found me, my enemy!

Shadow falls upon him like a darkness that would never be sated, the low groan of the bell only adding to the grim atmosphere. He waits patiently until the third clang rings out before making his move, stepping forward with intensity. He had never liked this man. To see him now in the flesh was even more of a reason why his composure began to slip...

A resounding crack sounds through the air, his fisted hand lining the stone mere inches from the other's head, knuckles bruised from the force, his face twisted into a snarl.

Control...Control, Manfred. Would you want him to see you like this? He restrains himself from setting his hands on the other's neck and strangulating him with all the force he could muster, instead managing a somewhat grim smile.

Have you found me - Do you pursue me out of spite? Will you never let me rest? Are you to come after me with your unwelcome reminders and your condemnation of my spirit? I hate you. I have always hated you. It was you...! You who did this to me..!

"....So it is you. You are here."