Gregory Edgeworth (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
sharp_belief) wrote in ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png)
sirenspull_logs2012-05-18 12:57 am
sharp_belief) wrote in sirenspull_logs2012-05-18 12:57 am
Entry tags:
Turnabout Resurrection
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
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.
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.
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.
no subject
"....!!"
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.