Death is not a hunter unbeknownst to its prey; one is always aware that it lies in wait.

[mentis_reae]

Who: The Ghost of Christmas Grouching and YOU.
When: The nights of December 31st and January 1st, 2010 and 2011.
Where: All over the city.
Summary: Edgeworth, having been killed, has been mutated into a creature of the darkness and is now operating along the lines of his old instinct, seeking out evildoers and punishing them for their misdeeds.

Comments

Outside Edgeworth's apartment

[underachieves]

[His bags are packed with what few possessions he'd brought to the apartment. It was all hastily done. In and out in less than ten minutes. He needed to get out of Sam's way, leave him to mourn in peace, so now he's walking out into the Darkness alone. He stops just a few steps out to glance back as he lights himself a cigarette. This isn't how he imagined this departure, but somehow none of this is a surprise.

Where the hell should he go now?

He turns his gaze to the ground and listens to the sounds of the night. Not as closely as he should be. He can't help being distracted. Cigarette smoke and thoughts of revenge comfort him, only barely.]

[mentis_reae]

[Miles Edgeworth was always a creature of habit. He had, every day, worn the same suit; once the temperature had dipped below fifty degrees, he'd pulled out a coat of a similar cut, every year, and worn it until the temperature averaged above fifty again. He ate the same food nearly every day, woke up at the same time, and worked on cases in the same order. And on the nights he came home, he always came home along the same path; one could always look out between three and five minutes before sirens at the exact same road to see whether he would be coming home that day.

It's up that familiar road the ghost now walks. His footfall sounds at it ever had, and his figure walks, as ever, with familiar posture, head down as though in pensive thought, briefcase in his hand.]

[underachieves]

[By the time Shikamaru hears the footsteps, that figure is close enough to be clearly in view. His head jerks up, his voice catches before he can even make a sound of alarm, and the cigarette slips out of his mouth to hit the sidewalk with a scatter of glowing ashes.

Is he hallucinating? Is it real? He's all too familiar with the idea of the dead returning to life, but if he's imagining this... No, he doesn't want to get his hopes up only to have them shattered.

He stares, waiting for something more.]

[mentis_reae]

[The footsteps slow fifty yards from Shikamaru. Twenty yards, they stop. That head remains lowered, the face obscured by those hanging bangs, and someone observing with an impartial eye would be able to see other oddities: the way the hand tenses and then unclenches on the handle of that briefcase, the grime on that normally impeccable suit. The shoulders that rise and fall with breaths quicker and harsher than the usual slow, easy pace of Edgeworth's respiration. The slight jerk of the shoulders.

But he doesn't move. He doesn't act.]

[underachieves]

[Those oddities are overlooked. He remembers returning from his own deaths. He remembers the sickness that came with the process. He doesn't expect to see Edgeworth in good condition. He only sees Edgeworth.

He squeezes his eyes shut for a second, blinking back the tears that suddenly well up. And he waits until he's sure his voice won't crack before calling out:]

It's okay. You're home.

[He starts walking forward. There isn't much he can do if Edgeworth's in pain, but Shikamaru can at least help him inside.]

[mentis_reae]

[The ghost reacts to the emotion in that voice. The lowered head swings slightly to one side, the chin turning up just a little to reveal the slightest hint of a jaw spotted with corruption. Then it droops back down once more.

And the ghost speaks, a single word:]

Slaver.

[underachieves]

[He stops dead.]

Wh...

What?

[mentis_reae]

[The head lifts to reveal a corruption-darkened face. The expression is one that has never before been directed at Shikamaru. Edgeworth had, previously, been angry with him; he'd been outraged; he'd been insulted; he'd been worried; he'd been irritated: each of these expressions had been written on that jaw and in those eyes, and none of them had resembled what his face now wore:

Pure hatred.]

A slaver and a murderer.

[underachieves]

[That paralyzes him. More than anything, it's those eyes. That stare, so full of loathing for him. Shikamaru's face pales and the chill of the night seems to reach straight into his bones. He's frozen completely and all thought collapses under the inner anguish he feels at that too-correct accusation.]

[mentis_reae]

[One step forward, two, three, four, slow and deliberate, and then the ghost is within arm's length of the young man Edgeworth had so adored. The ghost is privy to this memory, but knows it as apart from him; the ghost, after all, cares nothing for remorse or good intentions, or the fumbling, difficult path that was the only one open to children of misery and abuse. He cares nothing for Shikamaru's self-sacrifice. He cares only for his guilt - and, though it is guilt tempered with grief and sorrow and regret, guilt offered on the altar of life and protection, there is guilt aplenty.]

How many are dead by you?

[underachieves]

[Countless. But he can't speak. His shoulders only give a slight tremble.]

[mentis_reae]

[One last step forward, and a heavy hand reaches out to his shoulder. It's a mockery of the awkward brotherly contact each had given the other, the kindly, uncertain not-quite-hugs, the pats on the shoulder, all the more meaningful for their mutual discomfort with closeness. This touch is firm for but a moment before it turns into harsh, pinching, painful. The ghost leans in.]

What harm have you done this world?

[underachieves]

[He sucks in a sharp breath, his gaze moving to the hand on his shoulder. The touch is familiar; not because it reminds him of Edgeworth (it doesn't, it's nothing like the way Edgeworth would hold him) but because he has been held like this before... by others.

It spurs his mind back into operation. He suspects-- no, he recognizes what he's dealing with. It doesn't hurt any less, but he at the very least understands it. That gives him the strength to respond:]

You want a confession?

[mentis_reae]

[The silence is confirmation enough. Those cold eyes don't leave his face.]

[underachieves]

[It's going to execute him. The eyes, that grip-- they tell him enough that he's certain of it. He doesn't look up again. It'll only cripple him to look at Edgeworth's face. But this is his only chance, while the creature is distracted by its expectations. He remembers that Shadows must either be destroyed or weakened at least to a point where the true self can regain control. For Edgeworth's sake, he can't afford to hesitate.

In a blur of movement, he slaps his hands together to form a seal. He'll capture it first.]

[mentis_reae]

[The ghost, however, is fast. The hand leaves his shoulder immediately to capture Shikamaru's, the fingers curving around the right palm in a grip that would be warm and affectionate if it weren't for the damp chill of the flesh. The hand keeps that firm hold for a moment - and then it squeezes.

And it laughs.]