I... don't want to say goodbye

[takethestairs]

WHO: Miles Edgeworth, Jonathan Crane, James March
WHERE: James March's swinging retro hotel
WHEN: The night of the 27th and into the wee hours of the 28th
WHAT: After Crane's latest, totally innocuous network post, Edgeworth decides to check out his latest place of residence. It doesn't go well for him.
WARNINGS: Character death.



It wasn't particularly difficult to find out where Jonathan Crane was staying. After all, how many imPort run hotels are there? Only one, and a rather extravagant one at that. For a moment, Edgeworth wonders what's more at risk: his personal or his financial safety.

No matter. One night or two should be enough to find out what he needs. Besides, he's spent so much time inside his house that he's sick of the sight. After weeks of self-imposed isolation, it feels good to be out in the real world again. However, for all the luxury the hotel provides, it can't prevent the poor sleep that's plagued him since childhood. Uncovering his secrets has done little to lessen his dreams, and after a failed attempt at going back to sleep, Edgeworth begins to roam the halls in hopes that he'll be able to rest again after his walk.

Comments

[restingstitchface]

Jonathan Crane had been visiting the bar habitually for a few nights; indulging in a nightcap of blended malt scotch. It gives him a routine, reminds him of the man he had been; able to act without flaw among sheep and cattle. He doesn't say anything for the full hour, not till he leaves the barman politely, with a tip unmemorable for its average sum, and strides through the hotel to get to bed.

Through a number of empty corridors. He remains very much in control of himself, feeling more in touch with the aesthetic of his nightly hobby than anything else. Though he has taken to carrying his briefcase with him lately. He can hear a sharp, cackling voice through the material. His own voice, yet different.

[takethestairs]

Would the bar still be open? Perhaps a drink would help him get some rest. Edgeworth considers it, and realizes that he doesn't know the answer to either of these things. So he continues to wander aimlessly until he hears that laugh. That sickening, stomach churning, all too familiar laugh. Edgeworth stops in his tracks, frozen to the spot, until he finds the will to take a step forward. He walks slowly, carefully, quietly towards the source of the noise, keeping his ears and eyes sharp. Is his mind playing tricks on him? Has he finally snapped? Or is he unfortunate to be sharing the same floor with the infamous Scarecrow?

[restingstitchface]

Is his mind playing tricks on him? Has he finally snapped? Or is that Jonathan Crane wearing the same burlap sack he'd worn before? It certainly looks like it, as he tightens his noose - securing it around his neck with a little bit of fiddling. He tilts his head, only wonders if there's someone behind him. Then he picks up his briefcase and inhales deeply. Hell, it feels better to walk around in here, like this, than to stroll amongst the cattle looking like himself.

He strolls on, spinning on his feel around a corner with more of a spring in his step.

[takethestairs]

Edgeworth's hand reaches for his pocket, ready to pull out his communicator. However, his aim isn't to call for help. No, it's to gather evidence. He could get a photograph, or even a bit of video, perhaps. His hand hovers for a moment, before he balls it into a fist and forces himself to turn around. The last time he snooped into Crane's affairs it ended poorly for him, and he does not dare to repeat his mistakes without actual backup at his disposal. Besides, despite the implications of Crane's identity, it's no crime to wear a mask. The only thing he would gain from this would be to disprove his latest claims, but nobody in their right mind had believed him, anyway.

So Edgeworth does the smart thing and turns around. He keeps his steps soft and his movements silent and he turns around. When he gets to his hotel room, he'll tell a few trusted comrades what he saw. He'll ask them for advice. But he will not act until then.

[idesof]

The Master of the house is always on call, never far away from where he's needed, and now he's at hand.

It's a logical thought process, really. When faced with one potential lunatic, retreating to safety is not the poorest of ideas. The flaw is not in Miles' mind making the wrong choice. The flaw is in daring to think, for even one second, that a hotel operated and haunted by James Patrick March holds anywhere that could be feasibly considered safe.

He knew when Miles Edgeworth checked in. He watched. He waited. He thought of the man's glowing reviews while nursing wine.

He's absolutely insufferable and is willing to walk all over people and burn all sorts of bridges if he thinks he knows best.

You know how the True Believers latch onto justice -- or rather, Justice capitalized. That would be Miles Edgeworth. He has suffered in his time here, you know. It is something of a tragedy.

He had no reason to insufferable after his stay. He had no more reason to suffer such tragedy. March had just finished putting together another apron and mask damn near the same as the one he'd had back home. What better time for a hunt?

So Miles Edgeworth displays restraint and intelligence. He turns from a madman. He makes to get away from the deranged.

And so his tragedy continues, for when he turns away from one crazy bastard, he walks into another. Literally. No footsteps to signal alarm, no warning. Miles Edgeworth is simply rounding a corner when he rounds it right into March, mask and apron and the knife that hides in cane.

It doesn't hide in his cane any longer. Now, before he's even had a chance to react to anything past a body in his way, it hides in his chest just an inch above his heart. March's hand is sure and steady, buries the blade to the very hilt, holds it in place for two seconds, and pulls it out, head tilting as though waiting for something more incredible than a fall, a yelp of surprise. Silent but deadly with a hefty side of curious. Fortunately...

"Doctor!"

There is a doctor in the house. The lawman has no need to worry. Medical expertise is on its way!

[takethestairs]

Edgeworth startles when he sees the man in the mask, stopping in his tracks with a little jerk, and his mind doesn't process the knife in his hands until it's sunk in between his ribs. There is a scream, yes, shorter and sharper than the ones that Crane became acquainted with last year, and he stumbles back as soon as the blade leaves his chest. The pain subsides quickly, replaced with a dull throb and blurred vision, and Edgeworth crashes on the floor as he trips over his own feet.

If March is looking for something more interesting than Edgeworth's lack of balance, though, then he's in luck! Edgeworth breathes harshly and, his movements rough and shaky, he places his hand against his chest. He can feel blood against his fingers, sticky and warm, and terror arrives soon afterward. However, it's halted by the same glass door that blocks his pain, his shock separating his mind and his instincts from the reality of the situation. Instead of pulling his hand away, he presses deeper, feeling rough skin instead of an open wound. His flesh stitches itself together with superhuman speed, though how quickly his internal injuries will heal is unknown, even to Edgeworth.

He should call for help. And he can call for help. He doesn't even need to pull out his device; with a single thought and a blink of an eye, he can cry for assistance from any and all heroes in their little community. However, the problem with a mental connection is that it requires a mental focus, and his head is still swimming from the wound he suffered mere seconds ago. His breaths are haggard and desperate, but he forces himself to his feet, and his mind is ready to bold even if his body (his weak, shaking body) isn't. One word stops him, though: Doctor. His brow furrows in confusion, his hesitation dooming him once more.

[restingstitchface]

Crane doesn't answer right away. He turns on his heel and resumes strolling - the energy of his spin returning him where he'd came from. He has a knack for moving silently around corners and through narrow hallways, because to operate beneath everyone's noses back in Gotham had demanded a very specific set of skills. Here? The straws in his head begin working, and he correlates that call of "doctor" with "work". And as it turns out a scarecrow with a love of work has an awfully poor ability to talk.

"What?"

He stops, stares at the bloodstained man ready to collapse on the floor. Then he glances at the man wearing his mask, but not for long, as he's more intensely focused on Miles's situation. Bleeding out on the floor, struggling more, scared. Unfortunately, the mask hides the rarest of things - him giving a small, amused smile.

"I see. Do you think a man fearful of earthquakes might suffer from Taphophobia?" he says, without elaboration.

[idesof]

Well now, that's interesting. That masked head tilts, clearly more intrigued by Edgeworth's abilities than the fact that he's, like, in line to die. Totally healthy views of humanity being played out before him. As intriguing as it is, however, it's something of an obstacle. One that can be overcome, of course! Stab a man enough and something will happen. Destroy his organs, his flesh, rend him in pieces, yes. There is a way. Something must take hold.

He turns away only when the Scarecrow appears, raised eyebrow visible behind all the stuff covering his face. There's a sense of ease, effortlessness running through him, even when long words into the foray.

"Possibly!"

He doesn't even care what it means at this point, it must mean something terrible and therefore he is all for it. Why else would the thing be mentioned if not to put Edgeworth in an even worse state of fear? But in the vein of things being worse, March won't stand for any rapid healing leading him to a disadvantage. So just after he answers, he punctuates that further by plunging the blade into Edgeworth again. Except from behind this time; March is in front of him at one moment and right behind him the next, no warning, just blink and he's gone front to back. Makes it easier for distrust falls, since his arms are right there and ready to catch. Ready to drag him into his office, knife still in place. It'll be very useful later to hack him up. Or whatever Tap Hop phobia is.

"Come on now, big boy. We've got a much better place in mind for you than your room."

[takethestairs]

Edgeworth thought he had overcome his fear of Jonathan Crane. His earlier retreat? Nothing but reasonable caution. But once he sees that rotten mask, once he hears that raspy, familiar voice, he realizes that he thought wrong. His eyes go wide and he freezes, completely paralyzed-

Until March plunges the knife in his back, and Edgeworth screams as stumbles into the arms of his attacker. Every movement he makes disturbs the blade, bringing new pain as it moves against muscle and fat, clouding Edgeworth's mind. Rational thought crumbles into dust, but he has enough presence of mind to hear March's words. He struggles again, kicking and pushing away, tears welling away in his eyes as he bites back his agony. The only thing dulling his pain right now is blind, animal panic.