Our Sonnets // Narumitsu

Twisted Cabaret

Info
Song: Kokopelli - Mild High Club
Note: I tried a new, cheekier, tone/style here inspired by (& from the POV of?) Kokopelli; let me know what you think!

Story
Miles Edgeworth was sat at a desk. A pair of glasses bridged across his nose. Two cabinets filled with pairs of legal nonsense. A fruit-bowl with a ripe green pear perched just on top, precariously balancing, just out of his pair of hands' reach.

He was jotting something down - details of a case? An autobiography? Memorandum, the literature of eyes above? Nonetheless, the nib of his pen was poised just above, hovering humanly. He was pondering. Pandering, to some extent. One would not have noticed, at first glance, what their problem was - the pen and provider, the prosecutor extraordinaire and his pen. Perhaps it would have been more fitting to start with the start.

Here's a preposition: Miles Edgeworth was dead.

Not just in the eyes of others, but dead. Though the post-mortem had never really been performed, the papers were sold on the idea that the ex-man was as icily cold as the bitter, stiff exterior he'd previously portrayed to victims in court. And the papers did sell. Very well, in fact. Nibbling on a leg or two of the deceased was only fair, anyway; especially if they were featured in a front-cover special. Mr Edgeworth had paused, his hand hovering, pondering about this very fact: he had ceased to exist - as Miles Edgeworth, anyway. Whatever he was now was incredibly dishonest.

Actually, that was a lie. Mr Edgeworth wasn't thinking directly about his excommunication, he was thinking about his lost communication. The thing is, we'd all got so caught up in the wanderings of his passing that we'd failed to notice a crucial, essential detail. A pair of earphones, understated in white, dangling lifelessly from the prosecutor's ears. A sound was playing, little more than a profound hum to onlookers, stifling the pedantic scribbling. I could tell that he'd gone by the way his grave face cracked, an upturned curvature - A graph? A perplexing argument? - beaming on his lips, glowing in a startlingly alive way. He looked ten years younger. No, better. It was as though he'd been preserved on a pedestal with plush confectionary for his pupils to gorge on for all eternity. Sort of unsettling - the sort of thing that makes you itch all over, that niggling right knee twitching with the scraping, greedy appetite for attention. Yes, Mr Miles Edgeworth had left the hemisphere, his one hand neglecting the other, delving into a well-concealed zip-pocket, blindly blundering in, spending some brief moments lingering in the sweaty and pre-pubescent anticipation - fidgety, restless - before fingers found what they were looking for with great exhalation. The inky hieroglyphics and surrounding wooden tapestry were soon dismissed as a thin, wavering sheet of card nervously perched above them. It appeared well-loved: grotty fingerprints (no doubt Mr Edgeworth's) and a plethora of splotches in various colours of the known spectrum adorning it tastefully. What had been meagrely camouflaged by the idolatrous marks, their glittering blue eyes naked and exposed to a silver pair, was peeking out prematurely to witness the spectacle. A solitary finger outstretched to caress the earthy folds and creases defining the perfect jawline, fingering and thumbing, deliberating the slender slip of white fabric - cheap cotton shirt - on show. I could personify his fingers in many ways, when clawing so desperately at that image, but the outcome would be rather pitiful - a fruitless longing. That right knee of yours grows wistful.

Yes, Miles Edgeworth was thinking about the person in that image. Blue, startlingly hedgehog-like, but one could see the appeal. Musical notes flowing out of his ears, a perky expression lingering near wandering hands, his lips finally parting;
"Phoenix.." Shallow, breathy, melodic. Happy? Unhappy. There was a discordance to the melody. It felt like more of a weighty ballad than anything else. That was when Mr Edgeworth shifted - even his eyes seemed to promptly shuffle - with glitter pouring from his lenses, showering the blue deity. It was in this blossoming, swaying vulnerability that a straying hand visibly groped for something more. A shivering, shaking, stuttering smartphone. Silvery hair gently swayed as its owner composed. Then, the fingers did the rest of the work - swiping, tapping (frantically), like madmen, stopping the consuming sounds emanating from the earpiece, opening the contacts list. Ah. He seemed to have found what he was looking for. He was gazing, trying to close the distance (in some silly feat), cradling the pixels closer to his furrowed brows, the contact's lively little image under more intense scrutiny than the majority of evidence used in trials. Time seemed to crystallise. Mr Edgeworth stared down infinitely at the beaming blue image, dotingly fingering the pretty smile, doing everything in his power not to look left. Left was where the green elephant in the room remained, glaring. Something resembling a strangled swear word - an unholy, bitter confession - exhaled, filling the room with its discontent, slicing straight through the idyllic silence. Hovering fingers contemplated a precedented death, shivering, before eventually committing. Nothing followed - for a brief moment. Then the incessant ringing - the quivering whims of the sweating future. An age passed.