Nightshift 38: Recreational Field

[windstwilight.livejournal.com]

[from here]

She almost wished that she hadn't went last night. Because standing in this field again, in the same place she had been when she felt Hitsugaya die, was surreal. There was no one out here this time--no people, no kids, no mourning Shinigami, no virgin-eating birds. Just the chilly wind. She wrapped her arms around herself, shifting her flashlight and spear.

Senna moved close next to the buliding, hiding in the shadows and peering upwards. No birds so far. Maybe they'd be lucky. That guy better not show her up. Though she had to admit, wearing her Shinigami uniform was a lot warmer than the stupid outfit they gave everybody. And at least there was no more damn smiley face staring at her.

[Waiting for Reid down here.]

Comments

[pleading-ngri.livejournal.com]

This was definitely easier to do in real shoes than it was in slippers. Phoenix spared a glance from the corner of his eye, just enough to see that the dog was still chasing the other guy. It looked like he had enough of a lead that he'd get to the shed in time, though. Phoenix felt a little relief sink into him at that, especially as he neared the entrance to the next hall. Good. Neither one of them would be getting mauled by a monster dog.

He skidded to a stop in front of the door and, barely looking, fished his hand for the handle. It just missed, though, and he glanced in harried confusion at the door just in time to see a blur of painted white rushing at his face.

. . . not again.

He stumbled back, hand coming up to his head (practically the same spot, why did it have to be the same spot?!), hissing through his teeth.

[hotbitterproof.livejournal.com]

[From here! (http://community.livejournal.com/damned/546382.html?thread=44968526#t44968526)]

Question. What sort of lawyer would be foolish enough to get hit in the face by a door?

Answer? Ha! As if that wasn't obvious. Godot might have said it was as obvious as a door hurtling towards a man's face, except that the lawyer in question hadn't seen it coming, had he? But what did he else could he expect of the one and (thankfully) only Phoenix Trite? Wearing the same dumbfounded look, and the same unfashionable suit. Even the smiley faces were more in style.

"Ha! Have you made a habit of running into doors, Trite?" Maybe he was trying to knock some sense into his own head. Godot would call it an admirable effort, if utterly futile. "Somehow I'm not surprised to run into you of all people in this little maze. Guess I really did walk right into a trap."

Godot was as smug as ever, despite having no idea what was going on. Perhaps part of it rested in the belief that whatever he didn't know, Trite was bound to have figured out even less. Yet he'd just been wanting a credible witness. For all his flaws, even Godot had to admit that Trite was nothing if not well-intentioned.

And just look where they'd ended up.

"I can tell you for certain that this place isn't Hell, though it's trying its damnedest to be." Godot narrowed his gaze at the lawyer in front of him. He hated relying on Phoenix Wright, even this much. The words that left his mouth were mocking, but left an unpalatable bitterness on his tongue all the same. "Should I bother asking if you have a clue as to what's really going on here?"

[pleading-ngri.livejournal.com]

Everything came at once -- the voice, the taunt, the ember glow of red. Phoenix supposed he shouldn't have expected anything else. A good percentage of the time, Godot was less an individual than he was an experience. He straightened, wincing only partially because of the dull throbbing that had returned to his head. Trite. That wasn't a name he'd ever expected to hear again, not since-

His train of thought stopped at the sight of the dim light from the glasses shining off the edges of neat black sutures, thread pulling thin the red line of a cut running from the edge of one high cheekbone to the other, and it only took the second between when Phoenix saw the wound and realized what it symbolized for his gut to sink. Whenever he was from, specifically, it was sometime during the Iris case. This wasn't Diego Armando, with his unflinching honesty and sober self-recrimination, a man Phoenix knew he'd never be able to defend and still wanted to more than he ever would have imagined. This was Godot the prosecutor, with all of the smirking, mocking, condescending animosity that name implied. It was Godot at his most righteous, his most decisive, right at the peak of the event that outlined every reason he had to hate and wish suffering upon Phoenix. And, without a handful of hours a courtroom that would never even exist in this world, there was little chance that his convictions would ever change.

A sensible man would have probably given up then. But when people were asked to give three adjectives describing Phoenix Wright, 'sensible' usually wasn't one of them.

"A clue?" He recovered his tongue at the question, expression of subtly dreading recognition giving way to direct answer. "Yes. Not many answers, yet, but definitely clues." He looked over his shoulder, finding that the dog seemed to have wandered off. He didn't feel like waiting around to see if it planned on coming back, though. "Can we go back inside, first?"

[icy-pole.livejournal.com]

An icy mist began to spread across the recreation field to surround the two men in the doorway, dropping visibility to just a couple of feet.

Hopefully that would be enough to deter them from venturing further into the field where she stood.

[hotbitterproof.livejournal.com]

So Trite was actually going to pretend he knew what was going on; even if it was only to a degree, that still left enough room for Godot to doubt him. The crime of obliviousness was what Godot had accused him of, and what lessons would he could he have learned in the span of those few short hours since? Or would he have even bothered? With his flippant attitude, ignoring the weight of his actions as he skipped along, pushing away pebbles that fell into landslides.

The red-burning flare of anger still existed in Godot's world. He saw it now, but held back. Even a bumbler might manage to trip over a sack of gold, if someone left it in an obvious enough place.

Going back inside, for example. Godot might have questioned why a bit more immediately had it not been for the sudden chill. It was a strange occurrence on such a night, when just a few moments ago nothing more than a short-sleeved shirt seemed to be enough against the weather. But Godot hated the cold, and without coffee or a purpose, even he saw no reason to suffer through it. Trite's request could be mocked on the inside, away from the fog.

"It seems the weather wants me to agree to the defense's request. I'll hold the door so it doesn't viciously attack you again." Ever the gentlemen, Godot stepped aside, doing as he said for the sake of Phoenix's mental facilities. He wouldn't let the lawyer cry 'brain damage' in court when they got there.

[pleading-ngri.livejournal.com]

Though his expression didn't communicate exactly the same sentiment, Phoenix murmured a 'thanks,' stepping through the door and away from the unexpected cold snap.

You're a true gentleman.