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

[troublesmells]

[A wild Larry has appeared! He forgot to buy stuff for celebrating New Year's as well as food for his new defective attack kitten. And bandages (because defective attack kitten is very defective and her idea of saying I LOVE YOU is using her master's hands as a scratching post). Currently the orange and white kitten is tucked away into his coat pocket, fast asleep, and he's taking a few shortcuts (READ: DARK CREEPY ALLEYS) to get home ASAP.

Unfortunately, perhaps he should have gone with the longer, safer routes instead...]

...m-maybe I should go back.

[mentis_reae]

[There was a figure at the other end of the alley. From a distance, the silhouette was no doubt familiar: perhaps the posture was a bit off, or the way he was standing odd, but the height, the shape were all right. And, from a distance, perhaps it looked like Edgeworth. And, in response to that voice, it looked up.]

HAPPY NEW YEAR it is already 1 AM here /stays up for this

[troublesmells]

[Larry stops in his tracks. He didn't expect anyone to be taking the same route as he was. Suddenly it was as if everything was colder and scarier...he reaches into his pocket as if seeking solace from the furry creature slumbering within.

The man bites his lip and tries to get a good look at this person without actually approaching them. Which is hard, considering the darkness.

Something about this figure seemed familiar. Very, very familiar.]

H-hello? I'm only passing by...

MERRY 2011 TO YOU

[mentis_reae]

[His head is lowered once again when he steps close enough for the weak light of a muted streetlight to fall upon him. But the hair will be familiar, the shoulders - even that cravat. He stops perhaps fifteen feet short of Larry, and just waits.]

[night of December 31st, before his shift at the Lux]

[idontregret]

[Heat isn't in the best of moods as he makes his way toward his place of employment. He hadn't even been able to be the one to kick Grimmjow's ass (not that he probably would have been able to manage that anyway, but it's easier to complain when it's no longer an option).

Cape pulled a bit more tightly around himself, he doesn't even go out of his way to track down a food source, but instead lets the creatures come to him as he walks.]

[mentis_reae]

[As he passes Maple Street, he'll find his footsteps doubled. There will be the sound of another step coming just the barest fraction of a second behind each of Heat's.]

[idontregret]

[It takes a few moments for Heat to realize this, and he eventually stops, not yet turning around.]

[mentis_reae]

[Those footsteps, however, continue.]

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.]

[Some time after midnight January 1st?]

[killswithapen]

[Light is lingering near a window, using the light from the courtyard outside to work. The low light affords no distractions, so he's concentrating hard on his work - trying to establish theoretical ways of improving the police department on no budget.

On a whim he checks his watch, realising he's somehow sat through the change between years, something that would never happen at home. With a sigh he stands, reaching for his coat. Time to let the old year out, wasn't it? Sure, he had no family here to celebrate the holiday with, but in a way he was celebrating it with them just by continuing the tradition. Despite the Darkness, then, he pulls open the window, setting his work aside.]

OOC:Can work with that, yes? I think Edgeworth knows Light's crimes by now, incidentally.

[mentis_reae]

[But a small opening is all the Darkness needs to come inside. It happens subtly, of course, creeping inside with nothing more than the slightest ripple of corruption sliding along the window-frame. Yet, in the manner that a disease can be heralded by the subtlest progression of symptoms, that light grime fails to indicate just what has come inside.

There is no pause for thought or consideration. The monster remembers well Light's crimes, and it strikes immediately. Its shape is obscured by complete darkness, a complete absence of light, but the hand that clamps around Light's neck is clearly articulated into human digits, knuckles and skin. But it's stronger than a human hand, and it's subject to no human hesitation.]

(OOC: Absolutely!)

[killswithapen]

[Perhaps another night, when the Darkness hadn't been hunting him specifically, Light might have stood a chance, but this time it had been watching, waiting, ready to strike, and the hand that closed tight around his throat was powerful, unyielding, and very, very sudden.

Instinct tells him to turn around - he can't see anything in front of him so whoever is responsible must be behind - but turning under that grip is suicide. He moves his hands instead in an attempt to wrestle free, nails biting into the monster's hand.]

[mentis_reae]

[The voice speaks low and harsh near his ear. It's a voice that's spoken to him many times with equal fury and equal reproach, but never equal coldness. Edgeworth's anger always ran hot and passionate; it was an anger born of a short temper, and born of a desperate desire to help others, and born of frustration at his inability to communicate. It was an anger born of want and need, of care that came across awkwardly and with difficulty. It was often judgmental, and often harsh - often needlessly so - and often even cruel. But it was never cold.

This voice is as cool as a gavel, as cold as a brass scale.]

This is merely just punishment. It's a crime in and of itself to resist that.

December 31, sector 4

[pullsheavendown]

[He's feeling a little restless tonight, and he hasn't gotten much combat exercise in lately, so Roxas is out for a walk. Not looking for a fight, but not shying away from one either. He takes out a few darkness monsters with the Keyblade, but at the moment he's just walking; maybe not enjoying the stillness and the silence, but appreciating it.]

[mentis_reae]

[The silence, however, is broken by the tap of footsteps behind him.]

[pullsheavendown]

[Normally such a simple sound as that wouldn't bother him, but since news of Edgeworth's murder was released, he's been out of sorts, contributing to the restlessness. Even if they weren't good friends, and even if he didn't understand the man sometimes, he did a lot of good things for the newcomers.

So when the tap tap tap reaches his ears, Roxas turns around just a little too fast, a little too wary about what's probably nothing. It doesn't soumd like a darkness monster.]

[mentis_reae]

[And indeed it's not - not precisely. It's recognizably a man by the bearing, by the clothing - indeed, recognizable as Edgeworth, the same individual who'd offered awkward history lectures to Roxas at that long-ago parade. Recognizable by everything save the face, which is twisted and corrupted, the skin mottled and the expression cold. He continues walking towards Roxas.]