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
( ... )
"Never met a Dolmacher, and if this is a game I'm not in on it," he answered honestly, waiting for S.T. to finish before heading back out of the room and closing the door behind them. The time it took to get started down the hall gave him an opportunity to weigh his words, albeit a brief one
( ... )
Phoenix had put himself between S.T. and the open hall, a point guard shifting to man-to-man after a wild throw. He backed off on his walking speed, letting Phoenix lead him down the hall. He knew the look Phoenix had given him. The one that said you're an asshole, and you're not going to listen to a damn thing I say, are you? He gave people that impression a lot. Time to man up and show that he wasn't too attached to his own ego that he couldn't admit that he'd lose any information-based pissing contest they could get into.
He ignored the comment about Phoenix's conscience, or tried to. It was like every time he had tried to explain about toxin concentration in bottom-feeders. Even using small words, he'd come across as nuts, or at least such an ivory-tower duck-squeezer that the scientific explanations had been indistinguishable from tall tales. People had died, because he couldn't explain well enough.
"Fire away. Everything you know."
He put on his best lecture-hall listening face and shut the fuck up.
Okay. Time to make this the simplest crazy-person story that I can manage. Nothing too impossible. Now, which first? Monsters or defiance of time and space? In the end, he decided on monsters. There were probably places in South America that weren't strangers to super-sized arachnids. He couldn't say the same for time travel
( ... )
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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He ignored the comment about Phoenix's conscience, or tried to. It was like every time he had tried to explain about toxin concentration in bottom-feeders. Even using small words, he'd come across as nuts, or at least such an ivory-tower duck-squeezer that the scientific explanations had been indistinguishable from tall tales. People had died, because he couldn't explain well enough.
"Fire away. Everything you know."
He put on his best lecture-hall listening face and shut the fuck up.
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