Open RP | Voicetesting & Etc.

[jurisprudence]

𝑫𝒐𝒏'𝒕 𝒍𝒐𝒐𝒌 𝒂𝒕 𝒎𝒆 𝒍𝒊𝒌𝒆 𝒕𝒉𝒂𝒕. 𝑶𝒇 𝒄𝒐𝒖𝒓𝒔𝒆 𝑰 𝒌𝒆𝒑𝒕 𝒕𝒉𝒆 𝒅𝒐𝒈.

Comments

DENNY'S MEME

[jurisprudence]

ROSE-COLORED BOY Paramore rose-colored boy / i hear you making all that noise / about the world you want to see / and oh, i'm so annoyed / 'cause i just killed off what was left of the optimist in me / but hearts are breaking and wars are raging on / and i have taken my glasses off / you got me nervous / i'm right at the end of my rope / a half-empty boy / don't make me laugh i'll choke / just let me cry a little bit longer / i ain't gon' smile if i don't want to / hey, man, we all can't be like you

[subpoenah]

[It's the middle of the night. Or early morning, depending on the kind of person you are, honestly, but Phoenix considers it night if he hasn't fallen asleep yet. They're at the nearby Danichan's, kind of crappy coffee being shared, and Phoenix is absently nudging his hotcakes and tamago.

You'd think a guy like Edgeworth would prefer fine dining, but the rumors are true: he's a sleepless cryptid.]

Hey...

(I know if I say something he'll probably just brush me off, but...)

Are you okay?

[Since it's like. However past midnight and they're eating "food."]

[jurisprudence]

[Leave it to a complete idiot like Phoenix Wright to — to — well, where does he even begin with the man's faults. What about the fact that his investigative skills in court have clearly been a fluke, since he can't even seem to assess that this is hardly the time for asking such ridiculous questions — not that there's ever a time for asking ridiculous questions to begin with. What about the fact that the topic he's chosen to press on is something like feelings, which he should know better than to think he'll get a satisfying answer on, which means he could only be pressing the issue for the sake of watching him squirm, or falter, or worse.

Then there's the fact that he's pushing his food around his plate instead of eating, which puts Edgeworth himself in an awkward position from not wanting to be the only one at the table shoveling food into his mouth, when really all he wants to do is stave off the sharp unpleasantness grumbling in his stomach with a quick and mindless dinner (breakfast?) so that he can get back to work.

How can one single man possibly be so utterly infuriating? It seems inexplicable.

He sighs, setting his fork aside in favor of pinching the bridge of his nose, as much for the sake of covering his expression as to make Wright wait for an answer an extra few seconds out of sheer pettiness.]

What an absurd question.

[Dodgy answers hold up in court so long as you don't press on them!!!]

A case that went unsolved for fifteen years has finally been closed. I've been reinstated at the prosecutor's office. And I've been entrusted with the responsibility of reviewing Prosecutor von Karma's forty years of work to identify and correct any...errors.

[There's a careful undercurrent of cold satisfaction running through that single word choice, even though Edgeworth's expression never changes. Instead, he reaches for his coffee and takes a sip, letting the nearly-too-hot liquid burn pleasantly down the back of his throat.]

Everything is back to normal. Why shouldn't I be, as you say, "okay"?

[subpoenah]

(Okay, okay! I get it. Jeez.)

[Phoenix sighs and takes a moment to refill his own coffee. At least the waitress was nice enough to leave them the pot. They probably looked like they needed it. He's on his own second cup now, and he'll be surprised if they leave a single drop by the end of this... whatever it is.]

Not to mention we're out here in the middle of the night.

[just the two of them!! It's not like they didn't try to invite Gumshoe or something, but he made some weird excuse about leaving his microwave on and nearly broke the door to escape them. VERY SUSPICIOUS but it's not like he could press the detective on the details if he wasn't present.]

I'm not ungrateful for leaving the office for awhile. (Actually, it's been kind of horribly quiet since Maya left, so I REALLY don't mind.) I'm not surprised you're up at this hour, just that we'd be here.

[TOGETHER!!]

[jurisprudence]

...It's bright. Here.

[Bright is putting it mildly. The fluorescent lights and wood-patterned linoleum make for a harsh, abrasive visual experience that it's almost impossible to ignore. To say nothing of the ambient white noise of capitalism — the waitress popping her gum, the pans clanking from the direction of the kitchen, the roar of engines from cars driving too fast down the deserted streets outside the window.

It's a liminal space, of sorts. Isolated from the world. And outside, it is very, very dark.]

If there's something you'd rather be doing, nothing is keeping you here.

[Still, his hand stills instead of reaching again for his coffee — his only outward sign of hesitation before he seems to amend his thought and try again.]

Your assistant, Maya... [...] She...doesn't drag you to places like this? Often?

[subpoenah]

Bright, huh?

[That sort of makes sense. Even with all of the lights on in the office, it still seems kind of dim by himself.]

(It may very well be that he was looking for someplace else to be for awhile. I can't really blame him.)

Not in the middle of the night. [He says that a bit wryly.] I really don't mind, Edgeworth.

(I can't exactly help you with your paperwork or anything, but if this is how I can help then I seriously don't mind.)

[jurisprudence]

So even that girl has her limits.

[That had been her excuse for her presence at the scene of the crime in the case involving her older sister, he recalls. Something about meeting for hamburgers. He remembers reading it over and dismissing it as worthless excuses almost instantly. Something he could knock down in a matter of seconds — so flimsy it wasn't even worth the time and effort to prepare for it.

His old methods. Von Karma's methods. Thinking of it now makes his skin feel too tight.

The right thing to do, he thinks suddenly, would be to set aside his paperwork and make an impassioned attempt to engage in...small talk. But somehow the thought of setting his casefile aside feels like lowering a barrier he's not quite prepared to release his hold on, not just yet.

Still, after a moment, he sets the folder down and closes it, leaving his hands resting on the cover. It's not...much, but it's a start.]

I suppose I shouldn't be the only one working. [...] I'm surprised Detective Gumshoe hasn't rejoined us. It's not like him to miss an opportunity to eat on someone else's dime. How long could it take to sort out a microwave?

[iobject]

The trial was a sham, ultimately. 'Iris' took the stand and implicated Maya Fey as the actual murderer, but nothing in her testimony withstood Edgeworth's scrutiny. She couldn't explain how she moved the body from one side of the canyon to the other without a bridge, but more importantly, she couldn't explain how SHE made it from one side to the other without a bridge. Prosecutor Godot made a wild accusation that Iris wasn't Iris, but her dead sister, and of course she burst into inconsolable tears on the stand. There wasn't anyone there to give Prosecutor Godot's conclusions the benefit of the doubt, no one who had complete faith in the reality of the Kurain technique. The judge was furious, on the edge of declaring Godot in contempt of court.

Despite her obvious perjury, it was still clear that Iris couldn't have committed the crime, and the trial couldn't go on without testimony from Maya Fey herself. Court adjourned, Iris, eyes still red from tears but face curiously calm, took Edgeworth aside and asked him to please let her visit Phoenix in the hospital.

"I know I've hurt him," she says, resting her hand on Edgeworth's arm. "And I know I haven't been honest. I need to fix this."

And that's how she ends up riding shotgun in Edgeworth's car. Her hands are folded delicately in her lap, and her face is turned away from him, watching the scenery pass. "How is he?" she asks, voice soft. "I know it can't be good if he wasn't in court today. No one has given me specifics."

[jurisprudence]

He's not happy about this, is the thing. In fairness, it's not as though he could honestly say that he's happy about any of this, but this in particular is bothering him. There are too many unexplained occurrences, too many impossible things that don't add up except through lies and hocus-pocus. The notion of having Maya shed some light onto matters is really his last hope, but even that brings a bad feeling to settle in his stomach. Somehow, he can't think of anything that Maya could possibly say that would bring this whole mess into clarity. That means there must be something missing, something he's not seeing. That bothers him.

But for all that he doesn't want to take Iris out of lockup, she is technically his client, and perhaps seeing her will help do Wright some good. At the very least, maybe he'll be able to reach some sort of closure about the Dahlia Hawthorne matter, and set his warring feelings to rest after having his questions answered by her lookalike.

So he drives, subjected to awkward small talk as they make their way toward the hospital together, half caught up in thoughts of pink petals and black dahlia, and half listening to the girl at his side when she speaks.

"His injuries are severe," he answers a little guardedly, less out of any objection to Iris's inquiry and more just from wanting to jealously keep as much as possible about Phoenix's condition to himself. "He fell into the Eagle River from a great height, and there have been complications. It was questionable, for a time, whether he would be able to hold on."

He pauses, as a small stab of jealousy prickles him again like petals in his lungs, and then adds calmly, "It may be that your opportunity to visit is short, for that reason. It's all up to the nurses."

[iobject]

Iris spares him a glance. Her eyes hold no hint of her earlier upset at being accused of being her dead sister. Not even upset at hearing about Phoenix's condition. Her face is like the surface of a reflective pool, calm and beautiful. But maybe she's just good at hiding her feelings when she's not being interrogated about her dead sister.

"I don't need a lot of time. I just want to tell him the truth," she says softly. Her voice is somber, but not shocked. Clearly, she expected bad news. "How is he now? Is there still a chance he'll die?"

She looks away from his face again as she says it, focusing on the window instead. Maybe she's looking away because she doesn't want him to see the pain on her face. In reality, she has to hide her face just in case she smiles.

[jurisprudence]

"It's possible," he hedges, his hands tightening just slightly on the steering wheel. He wants to believe otherwise, of course, but — how many times had he just barely managed to get Wright stable, only to have his mind spiral off in some other direction and set back every inch of progress they'd made? No, he's not out of the woods yet. Not by a long shot.

"We'll know more once we arrive," he says finally, and flips on his turn signal to pull onto the street that will take them to the clinic.

[iobject]

Iris folds her hands in her lap. Her face stays resolutely faced towards the window. It'd be a pity to go through all this trouble and be given away by her own expression, wouldn't it?

"We'll know once we arrive," she echoes softly. "Phoenix has always been sentimental. I'm sure he's fighting to hold on at least until he knows Maya is safe."

Iris's eyes flick towards the time displayed on the car's clock. "That lady with the whip said she should be finished with the locks by the end of the day, right? Maybe we'll find out when we're with him."

Iris has about twenty minutes before Franziska opens that cavern and finds the real Iris within. Twenty minutes to do what she has to before Miles Edgeworth is tipped off. More than enough time in her mind.

[jurisprudence]

Phoenix, she calls him. It catches Edgeworth by surprise, just how much such a relatively small thing can grate — but she calls him Phoenix, like she has the right to that level of intimacy, like it's effortless to be so familiar instead of fighting for every inch of it past an impulse to hold everything at arm's length.

"I'll have my phone with me at all times, of course. As soon as there's word, I'll hear it," he agrees

He pulls into a space, parks, and unlocks the doors with the press of a button. "This is it. Come along."

MORE HANAHAKU AU HERE WE GO

[jurisprudence]

[Life continued on, even after the ending of the trial of Sister Iris and the subsequent banishing of Dahlia Hawthorne's specter. The sun rose and set. The final details of the case were wrapped up, mopped up, and filed away to await their eventual entombment in the police department's archives.

Edgeworth, for his part, has hung around in Japanifornia longer than he'd really meant to when he'd arrived, but confessing to his hospitalized love of several-odd years has a funny way of keeping a man grounded in one place. Sooner or later he'll have to head back to Germany and see to his affairs there, but for the time being, the Gatewater hotel serves just fine as a landing pad and home base.

Except for the part about Franziska being in the room next door, but you know.

Regardless, Phoenix continues to recuperate from his hanahaki poisoning, and Edgeworth is trying to keep himself busy in such a fashion that he's not a constant presence at the hospital, lest the doctors and nurses get Wild Ideas™.

Of course, thanks to the miracles of technology, that doesn't mean the two of them aren't still in near-constant contact, regardless...]

Miss Fey has insisted I treat her to hamburgers for the third day in a row. Do you put up with this, or is she taking advantage of me?

[iobject]

I try not to put up with it, but she always convinces me in the end. I'm really bad at saying no to her.

[Phoenix hasn't been able to breathe this easy since... well, since before he was nine years old. It's almost strange to not have any weight in his lungs. The last few days in the hospital has been mostly spent coughing up a whole root system, purging the years of confusion and heartache and denial from his body, and with a battery of antibiotics for the pneumonia, Phoenix's doctor says that he should be able to leave the hospital in a few days.

He wouldn't trade it for the world. Every time Edgeworth texts him, he can't help but smile, butterflies fluttering in his stomach. His texting is slow since he has bandages on the hand Dahlia clawed--plus on his chest where she fused Maya's hand over his heart--but he barely notices. The pleasant haze of knowing that Edgeworth is there and that he returns Phoenix's feelings blots out any unpleasantness like having an aching gouged hand.]

Maya is probably the worst thing that's ever happened to my wallet.

[jurisprudence]

Evidently so. Her favorite excuse is "But Nick ALWAYS..." and I'm quickly getting the sense that you do not, in fact, always.

Luckily, my finances are somewhat more robust than yours.

[iobject]

She's conveniently forgetting to mention that she bullies me into 'always' half the time.

Careful, or she's going to latch onto you next. Just imagine at the end of every trial, a very happy medium volunteering you to get burgers for everyone.

[jurisprudence]

Loath as I am to admit it, for Maya I doubt I would refuse.

We get along surprisingly well, on our own. I...wouldn't have guessed that.

[iobject]

I would have.

Maya has a way of making people feel cheerful. It's like she has so much cheer that she just hands it out to everyone else. And you have a way of making people feel steady and like the world makes sense. You complement each other.

Plus, Maya just really likes you. Helping to save someone from an assassin kidnapper does that to people.

You know what we're about

[iobject]

For the record, Phoenix thinks he's been really good about holding things together. It's not his fault that he has a really perceptive daughter.

The day was bad from the start. His client is accused of killing a teenage girl, which means he has to investigate the murder of a teenage girl. She had been Trucy's age. She had big blue eyes like Trucy.

That had been enough to start the cravings, niggling in the back of his head, but he fought them off. And then he had to interview the victim's stepfather. He acidly said that the only ties that mattered were biological, because the victim had never really been his even though her biological father was an abusive bastard and the stepfather had looked after her for years. She'd always forget about her stepfather as soon as her biological father deigned to show an interest in her.

Maybe even that wouldn't have been enough, but then a former drinking buddy marched into his office, stinking of scotch, asking for some money now that Phoenix was 'back to making the big bucks'. Phoenix had curtly told him that the only thing he could do for him is give him legal representation. The man had laughed at him, goaded him, telling him that no one ever actually stayed on the wagon and he'd best not convince himself he was better than his old friends just yet, because he'd come crawling back to them once everyone else realized he'd never stop for good. Apollo had to help Phoenix wrestle the man out before he broke something.

Maybe. Maybe he could have managed all that, if he just hadn't discovered an old bottle under his desk.

It was empty, thank God, but it was hidden where it wouldn't be visible from the door. One of the many bottles he'd hidden, like somehow hiding the true extent of the problem from Trucy would somehow make it okay that he was so frequently coming home inebriated. There are dozens of empty bottles like this, he knows. Scores even, hidden in cabinets and behind books and under the sink and in vents, hidden in so many places that even he doesn't really know where they all are. And in that moment, in that lonely moment staring at an empty wine bottle, he feels them all around him, closing in, whispering that they're there and maybe he can ignore them for now but he can't ignore them forever and they know, they know that even though he has a suit and a badge that he's still rotten and drunk and manipulative on the inside, and eventually everyone else will know too.

He's struck with a sudden desire to tear the office apart, to find every single bottle and break it. Let Trucy and Apollo break them too, let them throw them all against the wall until they're a million jagged pieces and Phoenix can cut his hands as he cleans them all up and throws them out in the trash to be forgotten forever.

But one thing leaves him paralyzed, staring at the bottle, wordless.

What if one of them isn't empty?

The thought shakes him, and he throws the bottle out, covering it up in the trash with old papers lest Trucy see it and suspect he's started drinking again. His heart pounds in his throat, his muscles trembling like a tiger is stalking him and he's ready to run for his life.

He thinks he's gotten himself under control by the time work is over and he picks up Trucy from school. He thinks he's at equilibrium again when she cheerfully tells him that she wants to sleep over with a friend tonight, and he doesn't think of the case, refuses to think of the victim's big blue eyes as he says that of course she can have a sleepover, that he's so happy she's getting along better with the kids in her class. He thinks he has it together... until Trucy's brow knots with unusual concern.

"Daddy... why are we going this way?"

He pauses, and only then does he realize he's diverged from their usual path home. Instead of the straightforward route, they've twisted a little, and now they're passing his former favorite liquor store.

Phoenix's heart beats faster, but he manages to keep his smile, manages to just squeeze her shoulder. "I just wanted to take the long route. I like walking with you, sweetie."

They hurried past the store without looking at it, but Phoenix could feel it there, and he could feel Trucy's all too perceptive eyes on him.

Once they're home, Trucy asks him if he's really sure that she should sleep over with her friend. Worse, she starts saying that she's not feeling so well, so she should probably stay home tonight anyway. It twists something hard and painful in Phoenix's gut to see her feign illness so she could sacrifice more things to care for him, and he kisses her head and insists on her going to see her friend. He keeps it together for her, chatting about her friend and how much fun she'll have and helping her pack an overnight bag before calling a car to take her, because maybe he's not thinking of the victim's big blue eyes but why should Trucy have to walk to her friend's house alone anyway?

The house is too quiet when she's gone. With quiet comes trouble.

Trucy is the one to call Edgeworth, telling him quietly that she thinks her daddy is having a bad night and he won't let her stay to look after him, so would her Papa please check on him? She doesn't think Daddy should be alone right now.

[jurisprudence]

It's rare for Trucy to call like this, but that's just all the more reason that Edgeworth sits up and pays attention when she does.

He knows better than to mince words, but even within the confines of his own mind, he still struggles with calling the issue what it is: an addiction. It feels wrong to say it, almost. A man capable of such great things shouldn't be able to be brought so low by something as middling as a bottle of alcohol, but that's just it. The alcohol doesn't care who he is. The addiction is all the same; there is no leniency offered for character or good behavior.

Phoenix Wright is a recovering alcoholic, and he'll be a recovering alcoholic for the rest of his life, whether he ever touches another drink again or not.

It's unfortunate that Trucy even knows the signs, much less felt compelled to call him. Still, he's grateful she did. For better or for worse, it means he's got information that he can act on, and time to stage what sounds like a much-needed intervention.

He doesn't bother to call. Not if Trucy is worried enough to call him first.

He simply packs up his things, gets in his car, and heads for Phoenix's apartment, making his way up to the shabby front door and knocking because he's not altogether sure whether the bell will even ring to announce a visitor or not.

[iobject]

Phoenix finds that he's not able to do much more than just lie on the couch and stare at the ceiling, paralyzed. His brow has broken out in a cold sweat, and the craving is biting, stronger than he ever thought it would be when he'd finished detoxing. His mind spirals, his thoughts scattered more than they'd ever been since he got his license back, different tails of attention dedicated to visions of big blue eyes and bitter stepfathers and screaming drunks and bottles so many goddamn bottles--

If he trusted himself to move at all, he'd try to call Edgeworth himself. But a part of him is afraid of showing this to him, pulling off the band aid and revealing the festering wound inside, the fact that he can still be so pathetic when everything's supposed to be fine and looking up for him. Another part, a bigger part, is afraid that if he moves from this couch at all, that his feet will find their way to the liquor store again, and he won't have Trucy there to bring him back to his senses.

So he's there, pale and clammy, when someone knocks sharply on the door. He flinches back to life as if he were sleeping and not just paralyzed, pushing himself up from the couch to walk to the door.

"David, I swear to Christ, if that's you again--" But when he opens the door, it isn't his leech of a former drinking buddy, but Edgeworth. Phoenix's reprimand dies on his lips, his eyes wide and surprised. "Edgeworth? I didn't know you were coming over." Not that Edgeworth ever really has to tell Phoenix when he's coming over, but he always does anyway. It's one of those little formal things he seems to cling to, like calling Phoenix 'Wright'.

[jurisprudence]

"Hello, Wright," he answers pleasantly, albeit with an edge of concern that betrays his inner turmoil beneath his outward calm. Phoenix looks, simply put, like he's been hit by a truck; it's apparent from a glance that he's having a bad night, and a survey by a more scrutinizing one is more than enough to pick out just how bad it really is. Trucy wasn't wrong in calling him. It's a little disconcerting that Phoenix didn't do it himself, but there could be any number of reasons for that.

No matter. The point is, he's here. He's here, and Trucy's father will make it through another night, so help him.

"I would've called ahead, but I didn't want to give you the impression that you needed to tidy up for me. I'm not seeking to put you out."

He watches Phoenix carefully. Stands still, and calm. Makes himself an enticing rock for a drowning man, and waits to see if Phoenix will try to swim toward salvation on his own.

[iobject]

An attractive rock indeed. Phoenix doesn't believe for a moment that Edgeworth didn't call ahead because he didn't want Phoenix to feel the need to clean--after Edgeworth put up with Phoenix for his seven years disbarred, Phoenix doubts that his home's usual state of cluttered magic tricks and paperwork could put him off--but he finds he really doesn't care about why Edgeworth is there. What matters is that he's there at all, and Edgeworth has always been good about taming all the turmoil in his head. Edgeworth won't let his feet take him to the liquor store, and Phoenix doesn't have to hate himself quite so much when Edgeworth is the one managing him.

"I'm glad you're here." Phoenix manages a smile, genuine even if weak. He reaches out to Edgeworth, taking his hand and leaning in to give him a peck on the lips. "Don't stand out there all night. Come in."

[jurisprudence]

"Yes, very well," he says, and accepts the kiss with affectionate dignity before letting himself be led into the apartment. The fact that Phoenix is warming to him at all is a good sign; if he were really badly gone, he would be scrambling to hide his own shortcomings and mitigate disaster by trying to make the situation seem less critical than it was. At present, he's not hiding anything, which means it's likely that so far nothing worth hiding has happened. His presence here can be a diversion rather than a redemption. That's good.

He waits until the door shuts before rounding on Phoenix, taking him gently by the neck and pushing him back against the vertical surface the now-closed entryway presents. There's no aggression or demand in the motion; his fingers don't grip or bite. But there's no ignoring it, either, and no mistaking the element of control he asserts by doing it.

"You'll be on your best behavior for me tonight, won't you, darling?" he murmurs, smooth and gentle.