That might have been the first time that Phoenix had body-checked someone, because the way he rebounded off of the solid resistance of the other body surprised him, and it took a few recoiling steps for him to gather his feet under himself again. But the bat came with him, and he turned it as he steadied himself, hands reassuringly solid on the slightly tacky grip tape wound about the handle.
The scream might as well have rendered him deaf; for a few long moments he didn't hear his own breaths shuddering in and out, or Edgeworth, or anything else in the institute. The only thing his body wanted to do was feel, and it wanted to feel the concuss through his hands of hitting something with that bat so hard that the impact shook him all the way up through his shoulders. He wanted justice in a monstrous, life-or-death, adrenaline-fueled way. He wanted revenge for people he knew he'd never meet, and he wanted it in a world where law didn't exist.
Then his tunnel vision began to broaden, bit by bit, and the first thing to creep in was the blue of flesh tone and gray still against the wall. He sidestepped gradually, like a man facing down a wild animal, and a few steps brought him between the two men. If he'd been thinking clearly, he would have known that Edgeworth would hate him for the gesture -- it was presumptuous and overprotective and full of stupid and thoughtless bravado. But Phoenix wasn't going to take a chance and give von Karma a clear path to finish what he'd started. He had to see this through. Edgeworth wasn't going to die tonight.
None of them were going to die tonight.
He swallowed against a throat that stuck to itself with sour dryness, grasping the implement in his hands less like a baseball bat than like a sword. His teeth skittered against one another, trembling-tense. "Get out," he ordered, voice low, and somehow, two simple words were infinitely more difficult than hauling the bat over his head and bringing it down would have been.
no subject
The scream might as well have rendered him deaf; for a few long moments he didn't hear his own breaths shuddering in and out, or Edgeworth, or anything else in the institute. The only thing his body wanted to do was feel, and it wanted to feel the concuss through his hands of hitting something with that bat so hard that the impact shook him all the way up through his shoulders. He wanted justice in a monstrous, life-or-death, adrenaline-fueled way. He wanted revenge for people he knew he'd never meet, and he wanted it in a world where law didn't exist.
Then his tunnel vision began to broaden, bit by bit, and the first thing to creep in was the blue of flesh tone and gray still against the wall. He sidestepped gradually, like a man facing down a wild animal, and a few steps brought him between the two men. If he'd been thinking clearly, he would have known that Edgeworth would hate him for the gesture -- it was presumptuous and overprotective and full of stupid and thoughtless bravado. But Phoenix wasn't going to take a chance and give von Karma a clear path to finish what he'd started. He had to see this through. Edgeworth wasn't going to die tonight.
None of them were going to die tonight.
He swallowed against a throat that stuck to itself with sour dryness, grasping the implement in his hands less like a baseball bat than like a sword. His teeth skittered against one another, trembling-tense. "Get out," he ordered, voice low, and somehow, two simple words were infinitely more difficult than hauling the bat over his head and bringing it down would have been.