#writinged

She’s not a planner, not a thinker, but he believes she might have been. She’s torn all of that away to make room for the anger that drives her, that allows her to reach into the world around them and set a house on fire. She might have been, though. There are remnants of it in her bloodshot eyes when she is physical enough for him to see her. Remnants of a mind that schemes. If, in death, he hadn’t stripped himself of fear, he might be afraid of her. He might be afraid enough to realise he is becoming like her.

She’s glad he’s here, because he makes her goal both more attainable and more delectable. A death by fire is not nearly so satisfying as by poison. She thinks she might have liked the idea of poison in life, but now she is a fire, so she takes what is in reach and hopes that when the time comes he can supply the poison. If he can’t, she can burn him too. He is rarely physical. He doesn’t have the raw power for it. But when he is, she wants to touch him, just to hear him scream when her fingers leave charred black marks.

She is malevolent. She is entirely malevolent, even towards him. She is in his head, and he doesn’t even think she realises it. He thinks a lot, these days, because really that’s all he can do. She’s an engine and he’s the wheels. He knows she doesn’t like him, and allows him to follow her because that is the only way either of them get anywhere. She’s not fond of his hitchhiking, but her passenger has a knife to her throat. Neither of them can leave and get what they want. Although, he notes, it is no longer a want for her. She is hungry for it. She is starving for it. She will be forced from even the small pieces of the world she still clings to if she doesn’t get it soon. She is dying as only the already dead can.

She is so angry, and it eats her from the inside out. Her head hurts. She’s so angry. Her cousin, the one she’d care enough to kill, is already dead. It makes her burn. Why should her vengeance be taken from her? She deserves to hold her cousin’s lifeless body and watch it turn to ash. But she can’t. She can’t even hunt down her spirit. It’s already gone. So she settles for the next best thing, and very well because it’s what brought him to her. He’s in her head, and he is angry too. Ice creeps lines down the pavement where he walks. He’d like to freeze everything just in place where it works for him. He can’t. She can see the way his skin rots off of him. He doesn’t even know it. It might have made her laugh when she was alive. Now, she just rages.

There’s something thick and heavy in his chest when he talks, and he never expected death to be so cold, though he thinks maybe he should have. She was definitely a thinker, he knows now. He can see it in the way she looks at him. She might still be. Again, he feels no fear, but objectively he thinks he’s supposed to. He speaks to her out loud because it makes him feel more alive. She never speaks. Sometimes she will claw the ground until her fingers are bloody, and he will sit with her and wait. Sometimes she will scream, not like a woman but like an animal, and he will cover his ears and he will be bored because he can’t be afraid. He waits for her to stop. She is postponing their mission. She is stupid, he thinks, and he will never become like her. She was too much anger and not enough dedication, but he will not make her mistake. He’s so damn dedicated, so rock-solid. He’s the coolest defense in the west, and his goals are frozen in ice.

They’ve reached HIM . He does have the poison, she knows. It’s inside him, festering. He’s festering. They’re not strong enough yet to touch HIM , so they just follow. HE makes her burn so white-hot that he stays even farther away from her than he had before. She melts the ice in his lungs, the ice that means his insides do not rot. He might not make it through to killing HIM , and if he can’t than she will do it herself. He’s in her head. She hates HIM , and she hates him. She hates. She hates and she hates and she hates and she hates and she hates and she hates and she hates and she hates and she hates and she hates and she hates and she hates and she hates and she h

HE’S ROTTING, HE’S ROTTING AND SHE’S KNOWN. She’s been in his head, and he’s finally figured what to do with the information he gets back. HE’S ROTTING, but he’s also so close to killing HIM. HE will die with HIS daughter at HIS side, crying and trying to figure out what’s wrong with HIM , and it will be delightful to see HIS wretched spirit enter the little space in which the two of them inhabit, even if with HIMdead he will be letting go soon enough. She burns so bright and so close. He knows she hates him. He hates her.

She hates and she hates and she hates and she hates and she hates and she hates and she hates and she hates and she hates and she hates and she hates and she hates and she hates and she hates and she hates and she hates and she hates and she hates and she hates and she hates and sh

They’re both parasites. The realization comes as a shock to him, somehow. She’s killing him, burning him, infecting him with her anger, and he is killing her, in her head like she’s in his, holding her underwater, drowning her, keeping her locked in one emotion (anger, it’s always anger). He watches from some faraway place as water pools around him. Fascinating. He’s not scared to die, and so when he takes his last breath he is inexplicably bored.

e hates and she hates and she hates and she hates and she hates and she hates and she hates and she hates and she hates and she hates and she hates and she hates and she hates until he is gone, and HE could be just within reach if she hadn’t turned herself to ash. She’s tired, but even as she is pulled into the consuming darkness of some kind of sleep she knows, and she hates.

Phoenix Wright sits on his old, beaten down couch with his daughter curled up against him and feels something change. He hums under his breath and prepares to go to sleep himself, in a way that is his own, and a way that will have him wake up feeling content.