InsaneJournal

To Each A Tempo -- Chapter 8 (PG-13)
Title: To Each A Tempo -- Chapter 8
Fandom: Phoenix Wright: Ace Attorney/Elite Beat Agents crossover
Completion date: November 2nd, 2007
Rating: PG-13
Wordcount: 1860
Characters: Agent Morris, Agent Derek, Edgeworth
Summary: An Agent's work is never done.



     Of all things, Agent Morris never thought he'd pass for a lawyer.

     His smile bounced back to life; he couldn't help it, the memory of grey-dour hallways and distracted interns kept replaying for him. Anyone in a suit could just wander into the prosecutors' offices -- go figure.
     But good gravy, did surveillance jobs make him twitch, just sitting by himself in a dusty closet of a records room, watching the transcorder's tiny wheels turn. Draping a forearm over his knee, leaning onto it, Morris pressed the earbud in tighter, straightening its bent cord between his fingers. No, Prosecutor Edgeworth was still at his desk, rustling paper occasionally. Completely unhelpful for Mr. Wright, not to mention dull: how could anyone stand the quiet?

     So Morris wandered, -- no worries, he'd be right back. He closed his eyes and forgot the dull cardboard of filing boxes, music sense swirling back, showing him a world humming with rhythm. Edgeworth was most obvious, only a room away: orange-bright with irritation, sitting rigidly straight, reading endless parading words. A headache began slow drumbeat in his head -- poor guy, with any luck he kept aspirin around.
     On through the building, to the people sweeping through their daily lives, thinking and grumbling and wondering. They marked out a map: people walking the lines and corners of hallways, resonating with each beat so Morris could nearly sound-see, follow the vibrations and know how their hands moved. More rustling paper, more reports and documents. Boring. But that was surveillance.

     It wouldn't hurt to check up on his partner, either. That one was trickier -- city blocks spread rumbling-thick, thousands of rhythms blurring to mud -- but Morris searched, back and forth and outward. And there he was, river-calm, the beat Morris knew like his own.
     "Hey bro," Morris murmured. He swung his feet, and drummed fingers on his box perch. "Anything interesting yet?"
     Derek paused, his rhythm cooling. He was near a crime scene, maybe lurking in a shadow's safety, maybe guaging the chaos around him. And he tapped reply -- beats more feeling than sound, stringing Morse letters together.
     Someone tampered w. secureity camera. Broken wires.
     Spelling had never been Derek's strongest suit. But whoever meddled with security like that would have a reason. Morris palmed his fedora into place -- prosecutor's paperwork whispered in his other ear.
     "Yeah? At the restaurant?"

     Distraction pulled Morris's attention; he saw walls, a desk the same, always the same. He blinked, and circled back to Derek's even beat.

     J's alley. Maybe evidance. Waiting f. shot, police talking lunch plans.
     Even if something looked like useless junk, Mr. Wright could work miracles with it -- or so Missy insisted. Morris nodded.
     "Cool. I'm just--"

     The pull returned; frustration, distance-blunted. Walls looming and deadlines and endless busywork, it never stopped.

     Morris straightened. Unease hummed in his chest and he knew exactly why.
     "Hang on," he said, hopping to his feet, tugging out the transcorder earbud, "I think I got a target."
     Derek was silent. His rhythm shifted like feathers -- maybe he gave his options a grim look, and reevaluated.
     Guilt stung Morris as he dragged a paper-heavy box over, hiding the transcorder from anyone just happening in. The poor gadget would be all alone and he was hardly on surveillance if he was off chasing a target, but the Commander's code was very specific: people in need came first. That code was his law and his world. With a quiet prayer to anything listening, Morris left the records room looking exactly how he found it, and slipped out into the hallway.

     The worry lapped a little higher out here, with no one around and the halls standing silent. Morris glanced behind -- another stretch of hallway, no one there either -- and moved, his shoes clattering on the waxed floor and grey walls. He was nervous but the feeling wasn't his.
     "Talk to me," came Derek's mutter in his ear.
     They'd definitely need to triangulate -- all the walls blurred sound, muffled vibrations. The target threw up his hands, maybe, or some other gesture and the window called, a bright spot in the middle of the grey.
     "Murphy, I think we got a jumper," Morris hissed, "Ten floors up, east side of the building. Target's in his office, I'm gettin' walls and paperwork."
     He reached the end of the hall; the rhythm hadn't changed, hazy and frantic, maybe it had gotten weaker? Derek's presence grew, determined as the frown he wore.
     "Target's below you. Not far."
     Of course, on another floor -- that explained it. The faltering beats called Morris, back the way he came but not exactly. He passed through the glass-panelled doors, heard them clunk closed as he flew down concrete stairs, felt the tight-knotted strain of hunching over a desk.
     "He's a desk worker, he's all worked up over ... backlogged work?" That had to be right, he knew as soon as he said it, and the notes sang clearer, the rhythm emerged. "North-east side, looking out the window."
     Another wave, another memory-glimpse of presence in the corner of Morris's vision, Derek's suit and bright red hair. Life called in them both with heartbeat and breath and sharp-edged hopelessness -- help, it cried -- and Morris turned a corner, the target drew closer.

     Break through the undertow~
     Your hands I can't seem to find~

     "Got 'im," Morris said, and ducked into a room -- a boardroom's long table and plush chairs, minor things outside the driving beat of the song. He stopped, feet formation-wide, and flicked his mike out of his sleeve. "Three-four time, good bass. You know this one, don'tcha bro?"
     Grunted agreement. "Delta set?"
     Derek liked Delta set's moves -- probably because he had picked most of them.
     "Fine with me." Morris smiled, and raised his mike; Derek was as good as in the same room, present and synched, tall and steady-beating beside him. "Ready? Three, two, one."

     And this had been coming for a long time, this panic like slow drowning that called him -- a short name, common and plain -- to the window, made the concrete draw his attention. His tie strangled, day in and day out; his fists tightened, what had he bothered going to school for? Paper, endless paper and a deep, scolding voice, a flash of desperation.

     Rock bottom's where we live, and still we dig these trenches~
     To bury ourselves in them, backs breaking under tension~

     Delta was an aggressive step set; it cried for defiance, for feet planted fierce as bull hooves. It was a set for the downtrodden, Morris thought as he shifted, turned, snapped his arms upward and Derek matched him -- electric rock built like thunder in the air, and the man's rhythm trembled answer.

     For far too long these voices, muffled by distances~
     It's time to come to our senses, up from the dirt~

     A bright snap of courage; what had he gone to school for ...? He had goals, wrapped tight and cherished, goals he forgot too easily. Coals stirred -- he lit, he faced the papers like so many sneering rivals.

     So wet my tongue, break into song, through seas of competition~

     A hop and slide, two pairs of feet in quick tandem. Step, step, back and his rhythm steadied, his courage rose proud. Move and shake, guide each note. A tremor in Morris's throat -- maybe he hummed, sang, the music soaked everything in.

     So please believe our eyes, a sacrifice~
     Is not what we had in our minds~
     I'm coming home tonight, home tonight~

     A sofa -- hasty movement, rearranging the room and bright excitement, this would hide him from tearing eyes. This would buy him time. The papers vanished under a draped blanket and made a clever sofa indeed. And a face smiled wider in his memory, stirred more pride: he shone and he could do this now. He sat, and he could try again, work until he oversaw the world.

     Today I offer all myself to this, I'm living for my dying wish~
     I give it all, now there's a reason, there's a reason, to give it all~

     The song rippled away, drained from Morris's limbs, stretched a smile wide over his face. And he glanced to-- empty boardroom, Derek was gone. No, he had never been there -- not literally. Morris did the usual: closed his eyes, listened to empty air, remembered the textbook basics of triangulation. The world settled back to ordinary, humming calm instead of rocking glory.
     "Whew." He leaned on the board table's edge, tucking the mike back into his sleeve, and grinned. "Well, that's a new one, makin' furniture. Still with me?"
     Derek grunted -- a dubious note. "We shouldn't have."
     Realization sank in Morris's gut, rock-cool and familiar. His grin vanished. Was it really a successful mission?
     "But we had to." No one deserved to feel that hopeless, that alone.
     A thick pause. And Derek didn't have to say it but he did anyway -- infrasound's hum formed, You know what might happen.
     Of course Morris knew, he couldn't forget any of his failed missions and no Agent could. He looked down to the sleek-buttoned front of his jacket, and tugged it straight.
     "Hey, that was just one guy," Morris said, opening the boardroom door to peer out -- a bustling woman in green vanished into an office, and the hall was empty again. "An' it just ... didn't work for him. Doesn't mean we can't help anyone at a desk."
     It was too close for comfort and Morris knew it: the crisp-edged documents, the deadlines, the desk monkey's peaking stress. He sighed, palming his fedora. The hallway felt endless at a walking pace.
     "Well ... we just won't let J know, how's that?" It would tear the poor guy up at a time like this, telling him would be practically cruel.
     And Derek probably frowned deeper, looked away behind the shades' cover. But he didn't say anything. He'd get over it -- he knew Agent duty just as well as Morris.

     Slipping back into the records room brought back Morris's guilt, like a sweater's itch. The transcorder still sat behind its box shelter, receivers still clinging to the wall and wheels still turning, everything well in the world. He pressed the earbud back in, and tapped silver buttons to call up the playback. White noise roared and then there it was -- Edgeworth's voice, grudgingly polite fragments of it.
     "Missed a phone call, figures," Morris muttered, and thumbed the frequency modifiers.
     Pick it up?
     The modifiers warped Edgeworth's pitch, stretched it like blown glass but the voice on the phone-- Morris grimaced. Just traces, a high-squawking female voice but heaven help him if he could make out more than that. Edgeworth was no help either, calling her ma'am with tight-strained patience -- no name.
     "Not much of it. Maybe Foxx can do somethin' with it."
     But he should have been there to adjust the transcorder's settings in the first place. Well, no regrets: they were all doing what they had to do, as best they could. Morris sat heavy on his box of choice, and pulled off the fedora to rake a hand through his afro.
     "As long as one of us does somethin' right," and he smiled, "It's all you, bro. Find Mr. Wright some miracle-workin' junk."

     Morris didn't need to see Derek to know that he nodded.


~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~


The world needs more Agent missions, amiright? :D 'Specially involving Morris and Derek, they don't get enough fandom credit.

No drabble challenge this chapter, since the lyrics are pretty screamingly apparent. The song here is Give It All by Rise Against -- I've known for months that it had to show up in Tempo somewhere.