Lawyerbox

An air of utter boredom emanates from the booth Edgeworth occupies in the corner of the quiet wine bar. He’s been in this city too long—long enough for his fury and frustration over his captivity to wane, long enough that the strange people (human and otherwise) that reside there elicit no interest from him. He’s so very bored with this place, and judging by his wandering gaze and idly tapping fingers he wants the entire bar to know it.

Who: Edgeworth, Shelly de Killer
What: Running afoul of the mob can have bad repercussions, even if you're a prosecutor or one of the world's best assassins.
Where: Unknown
When: ??? :|a
Warnings: Violence/aftermath


Waking up was perhaps one of the most physically painful things he had ever experienced. Of course, that didn't mean as much when physical pain wasn't commonly a part of his life. Edgeworth had never been overly active or engaged in any violent sports, and almost all of the scars he carried were mental. But even beyond those standards he thought this pain was rather extreme. An ache suffused his entire body and came to a head right in the center, along his chest and abdomen. He could only imagine the alarming colors his skin must be turning by now.

A quiet moan escaped him as he slowly rolled over onto his side. At that point he discovered how difficult it was to move with one's hands tied behind one's back. He also discovered the pain he was experiencing could in fact get worse, and his moan became a quiet string of curses when fire began shooting up his arms, through his shoulders, and into his neck. For several moments he lay with his eyes squeezed shut, his breathing shallow as he waited for the worst of it to pass.

Things didn't change much when he opened his eyes, but eventually they adjusted enough that he started to make out vague features in the dark. There were boxes and lots of shelving along the walls. A small, thin window high above, near the ceiling, allowed moonlight to filter in. The room smelled of paint and the artificial citrus stench of an industrial strength cleaner. And several feet away, between Edgeworth and the closed door, was another person slumped on the floor. Their back was turned to him, making identification impossible in the darkness. Edgeworth awkwardly propped himself up on one elbow.

"Are you conscious?" he asked. His voice was oddly calm.

He couldn’t have said what possessed him to do it. Prayers hadn’t crossed his lips or mind since he was nine years old. Even prior to that praying had been more of habit than an act of belief. So it was especially strange when, in the deepest depths of his nocturnal Hell, fueled by several holiday-induced weeks worth of nightmares and exhausted by a near-deficit of sleep, his desperate thoughts turned to the angel.

'Even you,' some rebellious corner of his mind cried. 'If you could take all of this away I might even worship you, you sanctimonious prick.'

He regretted the thought the moment he thought it. He was disgusted by the very idea of praying to some unfeeling, self-righteous tyrant or any other being that thought themselves above him. Doing something so damnably foolish helped to drag him from that moment of extreme weakness. Chest aching, he rolled over in bed, curled in on himself and struggled to control his haggard breathing. At least he could take comfort in the fact that only he would ever know how pathetically low he had sunk.

((OOC: Continuing this thread omg.))



Luck wasn’t with Edgeworth that night. His workload, the interruptions of co-workers, his own distraction (and, perhaps, trepidation) all conspired together to keep him in the office even later than anticipated. By the time he finally made it to his car it was almost 9:00, and he was feeling simultaneously drained and high with the sickly kind of nervous energy he often felt after concluding a particularly trying trial.

Not quite ready for direct contact, he texted Wright instead; it was a short, polite text, apologizing for the late hour and asking if his partner was still up for dinner. Then he rifled through his briefcase while he waited for the reply, fiddling with papers and struggling mightily with the urge to keep looking at his phone.

Who: Edgeworth, Belial
What: First meeting
Where: The courthouse
When: Late afternoon/early evening
Warnings: None as far as we know? :|a


Wherever Edgeworth went, he had a tendency to go with purpose. So while he may linger around the courthouse for hours after a trial, cornering witnesses or defense lawyers or performing dozens of undoubtedly crucial tasks, when he was finally ready to leave for the day he didn't waste any more time. He moved smoothly towards the exit, briefcase swinging heavily at his side and ears perked, listening for any important individual who might need to grab his attention at the last minute. That sort of interruption seemed unlikely, given how few people were left in the building at this hour, but there were a few judges who haunted the courthouse even later than him.

He made it to the exit without a hitch; there he paused before the grandiose doors, glaring at the sheets of rain pouring down on the marble steps beyond. There had been no hint of inclement weather that morning, and, being from Southern California, he was woefully unprepared.

Who: Edgeworth, Luck Gandor
What: Time to schmooze.
Where: The annual policeman's ball in Los Angeles, CA
When: Middle of a winter's weekend evening, December 2021
Warnings: None.



The Policeman's Ball seemed to get more insufferable every single year. Given the way the previous year's event had ended, this didn't bode well for Edgeworth's evening.

Of course, the fact that he went into it expecting to be miserable may have had something to do with the boredom he was wallowing in thus far...or perhaps it was his aloof demeanour and those cool stares that kept all but the most determined partygoers at bay. Either way, he wasn't enjoying himself and he seemed hellbent on making the rest of the world aware of this fact.

That is, until he was cornered by his superior, who asserted that he owed the department a debt over the fiasco he had a hand in the previous year and isn't this the perfect opportunity to pay them back? Despite his vehement protests he was shuffled from one knot of people to the next and forced to 'play nice' with the department's chief benefactors under the threat of severe repercussions. By the time he thought he would be released from duty, he was a hair's breadth away from fleeing the party altogether, which was apparently just fine by his supervisor...provided he schmoozed one final guest first.

Left alone, Edgeworth discreetly watched the man from a short distance, studying the cut and quality of his clothes, his company, his grooming. He nursed his champagne (the fourth glass of the night), and once his assigned target was himself alone Edgeworth finally approached him.

A few minutes. Just a few minutes of civil conversation, then he could excuse himself and retreat to his castle and his dog and his own bottle of rich, red wine.

"Mr. Gandor?"