A loud crackle of static overhead was what woke him up. Headquarters didn't have fancy things like intercoms; mostly because they didn't need them. Everyone knew where they were supposed to go and where they were supposed to be and when they were supposed to be there. All thanks to oh so wonderful supervisors, like William, who just happened to be complete bores about keeping to schedule. Grell groaned as he remembered the beating he'd only just received a day or two ago and the mountain of paperwork still ahead of him. He was to be placed on "leave" to retrain him into "proper behavior" or some load of
( ... )
Now I’m going to tell you one last time. Get. Out. Of. My. Head!A torrent of data ripped free from his mind, temporarily blinding him and shorting out several sensors, leaving him aware of nothing but a white fog which slowly began to fade
( ... )
A quick search of the room turned up a primitive Earth device which, after a moment of searching through his memory, he identified it as a flashlight, another ancient Earth object which proved to be a radio, a blank book as well as a collection of writing implements, and several sets of clothing all featuring the same yellow logo.
“All items from 21st century Earth,” he mused aloud, privately glad that the Legion’s interest in that time period as well as Superman’s time with the team had given him enough reason to learn about the distant past; otherwise he would have had little chance of identifying the items at all.
Deciding that the flashlight was the only item he would really need in order to find his way around, Brainiac 5 switched it on after a moment of examination and pushed open the door. The hallway beyond was empty, but as there was only one direction to go there was little choice but to head that way, examining the area with vague interest as he went and keeping an eye out for other people.
Groaning, Kon blinked up at the ceiling, feeling no small measure of relief to see that the worlds had finally stopped spinning. Sitting up, the first thing he noticed was that the hypertime jacket - along with the rest of his costume - was missing
( ... )
Sangamon Taylor rolled over, and fluffed his pillow in an attempt to dislodge it from the tree branch or rock or whatever Debbie had apparently pitched the tent on. He slid over, trying to find her. Whether it was to whine at her about the accommodations, or just for some old-fashioned sharing the warmth, he hadn't quite made up his mind. But she wasn't there. And it had been months since the last camping trip. Besides, he'd sworn he wasn't going anywhere without room service and a honeymoon suite without a really good reason
( ... )
Phoenix followed New Guy back down the hall. That reminded him -- people usually introduced themselves to new acquaintances, evil mental hospital or no. He had no doubt that the man would call him insane, but it wouldn't be the same kind of insane as the bag lady who insisted that she was Mother Teresa. More like a tinfoil hat kind of insane. It was an important distinction.
"My name's Phoenix Wright, by the way," he introduced himself, nodding as a substitute for the handshake that would have been awkward while walking. He lifted the beam of his flashlight to scan down the hall, but it seemed pretty empty. "I'd say it's nice to meet you, but saying that kind of thing between prisoners probably sounds a little weird."
"Sangamon Taylor. From GEE, International." Phoenix -- that was a new one on the list of hippie names the 60's had inflicted on his generation (the last new entry had been a poor bastard saddled with "Side", which wouldn't have been so bad if his last name hadn't been "Rhodes".) He made a mental note to himself to be completely sober if he ever had to name a kid. Then he made a second note by the first note to never reproduce. He'd probably twisted his genes beyond recognition, anyways
( ... )
The way he introduced himself, terse summaries and anticipation of error, combined with the wholly unfamiliar company name to make Phoenix wonder first if this person wasn't a businessman wherever he came from. But he had a feeling that wasn't the right job at all. S.T. carried himself like someone who was used to moving himself from place to place, beyond walking to the train station or stepping in the way of traffic on his way between office buildings.
The phrase "trained attack lawyers" elicited a smirk that he tried very hard to wrestle back down immediately, fueled by the thought of yeah, I'm pretty sure I know a couple of those. He followed him inside the room and leaned in the doorjamb, turning off his flashlight and resting the head of his bat against the floor. There was something paradoxically relaxing about the tense, demanding energy the man emitted. It was honest
( ... )
He tossed his flashlight, still on, on the bed and went back to the closet he'd pulled the shirt out of. There weren't any more shoes in there than there had been before. Maybe he should just go to bed and sleep this off
( ... )
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“All items from 21st century Earth,” he mused aloud, privately glad that the Legion’s interest in that time period as well as Superman’s time with the team had given him enough reason to learn about the distant past; otherwise he would have had little chance of identifying the items at all.
Deciding that the flashlight was the only item he would really need in order to find his way around, Brainiac 5 switched it on after a moment of examination and pushed open the door. The hallway beyond was empty, but as there was only one direction to go there was little choice but to head that way, examining the area with vague interest as he went and keeping an eye out for other people.
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Phoenix followed New Guy back down the hall. That reminded him -- people usually introduced themselves to new acquaintances, evil mental hospital or no. He had no doubt that the man would call him insane, but it wouldn't be the same kind of insane as the bag lady who insisted that she was Mother Teresa. More like a tinfoil hat kind of insane. It was an important distinction.
"My name's Phoenix Wright, by the way," he introduced himself, nodding as a substitute for the handshake that would have been awkward while walking. He lifted the beam of his flashlight to scan down the hall, but it seemed pretty empty. "I'd say it's nice to meet you, but saying that kind of thing between prisoners probably sounds a little weird."
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The phrase "trained attack lawyers" elicited a smirk that he tried very hard to wrestle back down immediately, fueled by the thought of yeah, I'm pretty sure I know a couple of those. He followed him inside the room and leaned in the doorjamb, turning off his flashlight and resting the head of his bat against the floor. There was something paradoxically relaxing about the tense, demanding energy the man emitted. It was honest ( ... )
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