OOC: [Memory 003]: Hell Bent
Memory Reference: Sound and touch. Canon implied, occurring immediately after Case 3 of Phoenix Wright: Ace Attorney. Memory is based on a scene from one of my fics, because I am a cheater.
-------
Darkness, complete and disorienting. He wanted to blink against it, to look around desperately for some light; to reach up and remove whatever covered his eyes, the urge strengthened by the panic building rapidly in the pit of his stomach and demanding release. But there was nothing he could do, his body not under his control as he moved, walking purposefully across soft floors with the unmistakeable breath of conditioned air stirring the hairs on his neck and the back of his hands.
His head was down, and there was the feel of something soft around his throat - the warmth of smooth wool and linen against his body as he moved. His footsteps made no sound, but he could hear a ringing noise faint in the distance - a telephone? - and the occasional murmur of human voices dulled by some barrier that prevented him from making them out.
More voices approached, these clearer - the words coming in to focus as they drew closer - a woman, her tone incredulous and irritated. "...and so I told him, there's no way the Judge'll let you suppress that, short of a miracle or a home win for his fucking hockey team." A sudden pause then as they passed him, before a second, masculine voice responded - low and quiet. "I hear the prodigy met his match. He's had it coming to him for years, but I'm sure glad I'm not in his handmade shoes today." A quiet snort of derision from the woman and something else indistinguishable as the voices faded into the distance, blending into the ambient murmur of machinery and people.
But this is wrong, his conscious mind interjected, pulse clanging like a warning bell in his head. Memories were seen, not heard - smelled, not felt. And outside of the memory he inhaled sharply - a desperate attempt to ground himself - straining to distinguish something in the darkness or scent something in the too-cool air. But there was nothing, and back inside the memory his body abruptly halted, turning slightly to the left before ceasing to move completely.
The terror rose again, a distinct sense of dread - of being confined. Quiet settled around him almost eerily, broken only by his own breathing, steady but shallow, and the too-fast beat of his heart that he was unsure was real or imagined.
There was a sudden shift forward, and the feel of cold metal under his hand, just as in his nightmares. But this time is was smooth, rounded, and it twisted in his grip, moving away from him with a weight that informed him of its attachment to something larger.
A door.
There was only a moment to consider the abruptness of it - the absence of a warning knock, before he felt himself step forward, the feel of the air on his skin changing subtly - now warmer, less artificial. The soft but unmistakeably heavy sound of something closing behind him confirmed his guess, and he halted, suddenly aware of something in his hands as he shifted it, his left hand clutching it tightly as he pressed it to his chest.
What is it? Outside of the memory he might have frowned, focussing on the familiar textures. Files. Paper, card, and... something else - something soft that snagged against his fingers. Ribbon to seal them, perhaps?
"Come in."
He knew the voice. He had heard it in his dreams many times since his birth and it echoed in him, the panic returning in a wave of recognition that repulsed and attracted him equally. Deep, older, and yet not gruff - each syllable clearly formed and needing only a change in volume or inflection to make it a command.
There was silence, and he remained still, save for clutching the files a little harder to his body.
"Sit down, Miles." It was quietly spoken, the voice carrying no hidden order, but slightly muffled as if the speaker were turned away from him. He was so intent on it that he almost missed the implication of the words,
Miles. Is... that my name?
Miles Edgeworth. His name. He had wanted to hear it ever since he had arrived in the Sphere with no memory of his life or his identity. It had burned at him, that loss of such a basic and fundamental human need to be able to look into a mirror and know, for certain, who was looking back at you. But now that he had heard it, it felt alien and yet familiar all at once, as if he were unaccustomed to speaking it even in his own head.
"I need to get back to my office to finish up this paperwork..."
His own voice dragged him back into the memory - the sound of it strange in his ears. It was younger and yet duller, more weary, as if it had almost been an effort to form the words at all.
“Sit down, Miles.” The other's tone changed only slightly as it interrupted him, but now there was an unmistakeable undertone of command. And his body responded obediently - as if the habit of obeying was ingrained too deeply to allow for any continued protest.
Two steps and then he lowered himself into a chair, right elbow coming to rest on something hard, the unmistakeable creak of leather under him as his weight settled into the seat. He did not sit back, and his grip on the files intensified, almost crushing them to his body as his right hand felt out the arm of the chair, closing around wood carved into a shape that he could not identify.
The room was silent again, only the soft rustle of fabric at a distance before the voice spoke again, this time clearer, but just as unreadable.
"Explain to me what I just saw."
He felt himself turn his head slightly, away from the direction of the voice, his hand tightening on the chair and fingers curling against something carved into the wood that felt almost serrated, like teeth. He inhaled before he replied, as if the words were difficult to force out.
"He is innocent. Justice was served."
Justice. In the memory his tone was still flat, dull - almost clipped - and outside of it the word mocked him. The name he had chosen for himself now seemed ironic, given the information Phoenix had gleaned from Medium and his subsequent determined scanning of Crow's heavy, black-bound dictionary .
There was silence, and he did not move, but he could feel every muscle tensing against something, and there was a stab of fear at his inability to see or sense any threat. But nothing followed it save for another rustle of wool and silk and the slight creak of a floorboard.
"Is that all?"
The tension did not ease, the wood almost cutting into his fingertips as they gripped the chair.
"Could the defence have proved that point? Unassisted?"
Still he did not answer, and outside the memory he strained every sense in a desperate attempt to see something, anything - to put a face to that voice which stalked him into unresponsiveness.
"Well?"
More movement, this time closer - the unmistakeable warmth that came from the proximity of another human body. But it was not welcoming, and he could feel his nerves protesting against it, even as his head turned back in the direction of the speaker, although he made no attempt to look up.
"I... don’t know."
The uncertainty of his admission was underlined by a soft exhale of a breath he had not felt himself holding, and his brow wrinkled slightly as if he were ashamed of the stumble.
"It is not your job to make the defence’s case for them, Miles. If they cannot prove their client is innocent, then how can we be sure that there is no guilt in the matter?"
"The Vasquez woman confessed."
The name meant nothing to him - there was no shred of recognition, only the awareness of a defensive edge that had crept into his voice in response to the questions.
"Ah, yes. A mob whore already proven to have lied both under oath and to the police."
There was no mistaking the condescension that had crept into the other man's voice - he had heard it in his nightmares enough to know it - that slight air of mockery that made him feel ashamed and stupid. Almost as if on cue, he felt heat rise in his face and neck, and his hand shifted slightly on the files where they pressed against his chest.
"Is there something between you and this... Phoenix Wright?"
The abrupt change of subject caught him off-guard, and it seemed that the response was echoed in the memory as he felt himself look up, sharply, his pulse hitching for a moment and the heat of his skin draining away into an unnatural coolness.
"When you started work here I warned you about your personal life and your... inclinations."
"Personal life? I have no personal life, Manfred."
Manfred. But he did not have time to consider that, his fingers tightening even more against the serrated wood. It was not sharp enough to break the skin, but there was pain there nonetheless, and for the first time his voice took on something other than that empty and emotionless tone that seemed to be his normal speaking voice. This time bitterness edged it, and he could feel a smile twisting the corner of his mouth that did not spread to the rest of his face.
"Wright is merely an attorney. We were friends as children, but he means nothing to me now."
There was a long pause, and he could hear the other man shift his weight by the faintest creak of leather from his shoes.
"Friends make you weak, Miles. Remember that. Fawles and White... well - what can one do if people insist on killing themselves or confessing impetuously on the stand. But this? Today? Would you have sacrificed your conviction record for anyone else? If this... Wright is a weakness for you, you must learn to overcome it. I will only allow one mistake."
More names, none of them familiar. He half-opened his mouth to reply, but the words did not come. Instead, there was a sudden change of temperature as the other man moved inside his personal space, and the cool pressure of long fingers closing over his right wrist, lightly but firmly. It took his breath, and he felt his body relax automatically under the touch.
"I'm concerned about you, Miles. You've been working too hard. Dedication is a virtue, but not when it affects the quality of your work... or your judgement. Go home."
The voice was completely sincere, and he felt his head tilt, as if to adjust itself to the new angle that the speaker had assumed. He was not tall, then, despite the depth of his voice - and the fingers felt bony; the skin soft.
"I have cases to deal with."
"Have them sent over to me."
"I... will be fine. But... thank you."
"It wasn’t a suggestion, Miles. Go home. Remember why you’re here.
"Remember who you are."
There was a slight emphasis on the last, and then suddenly the hand on his wrist was gone, along with the suffocating sense of closeness - another rustle of silk and wool and that floorboard creaking again some distance away. If there had been a dismissal, it had been a visual one alone, and he felt himself rise from the chair, shifting the weight of the files in his hand as cramped muscles protested the sudden movement.
The impression of the wood against the skin of his fingertips still lingered even as he turned to leave, and the coolness of the metal door-handle was a welcome relief when he reached out a hand to grasp it.
As he moved to turn it and swing open the door, that voice broke the silence again, settled back into the quiet, impassive tone that had invited his entry.
"They all lie, Miles. You know that."
He felt himself hesitate, but he did not turn his head, instead stepping forwards through the door and letting it close softly behind him.
-------
Darkness, complete and disorienting. He wanted to blink against it, to look around desperately for some light; to reach up and remove whatever covered his eyes, the urge strengthened by the panic building rapidly in the pit of his stomach and demanding release. But there was nothing he could do, his body not under his control as he moved, walking purposefully across soft floors with the unmistakeable breath of conditioned air stirring the hairs on his neck and the back of his hands.
His head was down, and there was the feel of something soft around his throat - the warmth of smooth wool and linen against his body as he moved. His footsteps made no sound, but he could hear a ringing noise faint in the distance - a telephone? - and the occasional murmur of human voices dulled by some barrier that prevented him from making them out.
More voices approached, these clearer - the words coming in to focus as they drew closer - a woman, her tone incredulous and irritated. "...and so I told him, there's no way the Judge'll let you suppress that, short of a miracle or a home win for his fucking hockey team." A sudden pause then as they passed him, before a second, masculine voice responded - low and quiet. "I hear the prodigy met his match. He's had it coming to him for years, but I'm sure glad I'm not in his handmade shoes today." A quiet snort of derision from the woman and something else indistinguishable as the voices faded into the distance, blending into the ambient murmur of machinery and people.
But this is wrong, his conscious mind interjected, pulse clanging like a warning bell in his head. Memories were seen, not heard - smelled, not felt. And outside of the memory he inhaled sharply - a desperate attempt to ground himself - straining to distinguish something in the darkness or scent something in the too-cool air. But there was nothing, and back inside the memory his body abruptly halted, turning slightly to the left before ceasing to move completely.
The terror rose again, a distinct sense of dread - of being confined. Quiet settled around him almost eerily, broken only by his own breathing, steady but shallow, and the too-fast beat of his heart that he was unsure was real or imagined.
There was a sudden shift forward, and the feel of cold metal under his hand, just as in his nightmares. But this time is was smooth, rounded, and it twisted in his grip, moving away from him with a weight that informed him of its attachment to something larger.
A door.
There was only a moment to consider the abruptness of it - the absence of a warning knock, before he felt himself step forward, the feel of the air on his skin changing subtly - now warmer, less artificial. The soft but unmistakeably heavy sound of something closing behind him confirmed his guess, and he halted, suddenly aware of something in his hands as he shifted it, his left hand clutching it tightly as he pressed it to his chest.
What is it? Outside of the memory he might have frowned, focussing on the familiar textures. Files. Paper, card, and... something else - something soft that snagged against his fingers. Ribbon to seal them, perhaps?
"Come in."
He knew the voice. He had heard it in his dreams many times since his birth and it echoed in him, the panic returning in a wave of recognition that repulsed and attracted him equally. Deep, older, and yet not gruff - each syllable clearly formed and needing only a change in volume or inflection to make it a command.
There was silence, and he remained still, save for clutching the files a little harder to his body.
"Sit down, Miles." It was quietly spoken, the voice carrying no hidden order, but slightly muffled as if the speaker were turned away from him. He was so intent on it that he almost missed the implication of the words,
Miles. Is... that my name?
Miles Edgeworth. His name. He had wanted to hear it ever since he had arrived in the Sphere with no memory of his life or his identity. It had burned at him, that loss of such a basic and fundamental human need to be able to look into a mirror and know, for certain, who was looking back at you. But now that he had heard it, it felt alien and yet familiar all at once, as if he were unaccustomed to speaking it even in his own head.
"I need to get back to my office to finish up this paperwork..."
His own voice dragged him back into the memory - the sound of it strange in his ears. It was younger and yet duller, more weary, as if it had almost been an effort to form the words at all.
“Sit down, Miles.” The other's tone changed only slightly as it interrupted him, but now there was an unmistakeable undertone of command. And his body responded obediently - as if the habit of obeying was ingrained too deeply to allow for any continued protest.
Two steps and then he lowered himself into a chair, right elbow coming to rest on something hard, the unmistakeable creak of leather under him as his weight settled into the seat. He did not sit back, and his grip on the files intensified, almost crushing them to his body as his right hand felt out the arm of the chair, closing around wood carved into a shape that he could not identify.
The room was silent again, only the soft rustle of fabric at a distance before the voice spoke again, this time clearer, but just as unreadable.
"Explain to me what I just saw."
He felt himself turn his head slightly, away from the direction of the voice, his hand tightening on the chair and fingers curling against something carved into the wood that felt almost serrated, like teeth. He inhaled before he replied, as if the words were difficult to force out.
"He is innocent. Justice was served."
Justice. In the memory his tone was still flat, dull - almost clipped - and outside of it the word mocked him. The name he had chosen for himself now seemed ironic, given the information Phoenix had gleaned from Medium and his subsequent determined scanning of Crow's heavy, black-bound dictionary .
There was silence, and he did not move, but he could feel every muscle tensing against something, and there was a stab of fear at his inability to see or sense any threat. But nothing followed it save for another rustle of wool and silk and the slight creak of a floorboard.
"Is that all?"
The tension did not ease, the wood almost cutting into his fingertips as they gripped the chair.
"Could the defence have proved that point? Unassisted?"
Still he did not answer, and outside the memory he strained every sense in a desperate attempt to see something, anything - to put a face to that voice which stalked him into unresponsiveness.
"Well?"
More movement, this time closer - the unmistakeable warmth that came from the proximity of another human body. But it was not welcoming, and he could feel his nerves protesting against it, even as his head turned back in the direction of the speaker, although he made no attempt to look up.
"I... don’t know."
The uncertainty of his admission was underlined by a soft exhale of a breath he had not felt himself holding, and his brow wrinkled slightly as if he were ashamed of the stumble.
"It is not your job to make the defence’s case for them, Miles. If they cannot prove their client is innocent, then how can we be sure that there is no guilt in the matter?"
"The Vasquez woman confessed."
The name meant nothing to him - there was no shred of recognition, only the awareness of a defensive edge that had crept into his voice in response to the questions.
"Ah, yes. A mob whore already proven to have lied both under oath and to the police."
There was no mistaking the condescension that had crept into the other man's voice - he had heard it in his nightmares enough to know it - that slight air of mockery that made him feel ashamed and stupid. Almost as if on cue, he felt heat rise in his face and neck, and his hand shifted slightly on the files where they pressed against his chest.
"Is there something between you and this... Phoenix Wright?"
The abrupt change of subject caught him off-guard, and it seemed that the response was echoed in the memory as he felt himself look up, sharply, his pulse hitching for a moment and the heat of his skin draining away into an unnatural coolness.
"When you started work here I warned you about your personal life and your... inclinations."
"Personal life? I have no personal life, Manfred."
Manfred. But he did not have time to consider that, his fingers tightening even more against the serrated wood. It was not sharp enough to break the skin, but there was pain there nonetheless, and for the first time his voice took on something other than that empty and emotionless tone that seemed to be his normal speaking voice. This time bitterness edged it, and he could feel a smile twisting the corner of his mouth that did not spread to the rest of his face.
"Wright is merely an attorney. We were friends as children, but he means nothing to me now."
There was a long pause, and he could hear the other man shift his weight by the faintest creak of leather from his shoes.
"Friends make you weak, Miles. Remember that. Fawles and White... well - what can one do if people insist on killing themselves or confessing impetuously on the stand. But this? Today? Would you have sacrificed your conviction record for anyone else? If this... Wright is a weakness for you, you must learn to overcome it. I will only allow one mistake."
More names, none of them familiar. He half-opened his mouth to reply, but the words did not come. Instead, there was a sudden change of temperature as the other man moved inside his personal space, and the cool pressure of long fingers closing over his right wrist, lightly but firmly. It took his breath, and he felt his body relax automatically under the touch.
"I'm concerned about you, Miles. You've been working too hard. Dedication is a virtue, but not when it affects the quality of your work... or your judgement. Go home."
The voice was completely sincere, and he felt his head tilt, as if to adjust itself to the new angle that the speaker had assumed. He was not tall, then, despite the depth of his voice - and the fingers felt bony; the skin soft.
"I have cases to deal with."
"Have them sent over to me."
"I... will be fine. But... thank you."
"It wasn’t a suggestion, Miles. Go home. Remember why you’re here.
"Remember who you are."
There was a slight emphasis on the last, and then suddenly the hand on his wrist was gone, along with the suffocating sense of closeness - another rustle of silk and wool and that floorboard creaking again some distance away. If there had been a dismissal, it had been a visual one alone, and he felt himself rise from the chair, shifting the weight of the files in his hand as cramped muscles protested the sudden movement.
The impression of the wood against the skin of his fingertips still lingered even as he turned to leave, and the coolness of the metal door-handle was a welcome relief when he reached out a hand to grasp it.
As he moved to turn it and swing open the door, that voice broke the silence again, settled back into the quiet, impassive tone that had invited his entry.
"They all lie, Miles. You know that."
He felt himself hesitate, but he did not turn his head, instead stepping forwards through the door and letting it close softly behind him.