InsaneJournal

To Each A Tempo -- Epilogue (PG-13)
Title: To Each A Tempo -- Epilogue
Fandom: Phoenix Wright: Ace Attorney/Elite Beat Agents crossover
Completion date: April 28th, 2008
Rating: PG-13
Wordcount: 3336
Characters: Just about everyone!
Warnings: Vaguely alluded Farewell, My Turnabout spoilers.
Summary: Friends make the world better.



     The lobby crowds muttered like relief -- appropriate enough.

     "We can't thank you enough, Mr. Wright, all of us."
     Phoenix took Stewart's handshake, and they both tried to smile -- Pathos's point still chewed his conscience.
     "As long as you still have your cover," Phoenix said, and tried, "Uhh, but when the Agents assisted us ... What if someone else in the courtroom noticed?"
     "Oh, yeah," Maya chirped, glancing up from rifling through Phoenix's briefcase, "What if somebody else in there had music sense?" She walked fingers through evidence bags and clutter, juggling the briefcase against her knees.
     "Better to take a risk than to sit there doin' nothin'." Shrugging, easy again, Stewart said, "An' if somethin' bad happens, we'll roll with it an' keep doin' our best. That's what I did for Mr. Pathos back then -- the best I could. S'all anybody can do."
     Another clear peal of truth -- Phoenix nodded.
     "Oh, what about Mr. Pathos?" Maya held out the bags carrying Stewart's microphone and shades, her head tipping thoughtfully. "He still hates Agents ..."
     "Thanks. And I'm gonna talk to the Commander." No hesitation in Stewart, just a clench of the bags and a rake at his hair. "'Cause ... I mean, we can help 'im, I'm sure we can, we got the connections. Maybe we can change his mind, even."
     Maya glanced up. "You really think so?"
     "He's not a bad guy."
     Except for the whole murdering-an-old-lady thing.
     Stewart rubbed sheepish at the back of his head. "I know what you're thinkin', but nobody's really bad when you get right down to it. An' just look at Mr. Pathos: he's smart, he's ice cool under pressure, he's got music sense like that an' nobody's even taught 'im what music sense is! I bet he coulda been an Agent."
     If the Agency could inspire a one-eighty like that, well, what could stand in their way? Other than the end of the world.
     Maya brightened, and came dangerously close to dropping the open briefcase -- she could clean it up herself, this time.
     "Everyone'll love Agents someday, just keep working at it, Stewart! And we're always up for dancing lessons!"
     "Speak for yourself, Maya," Phoenix muttered.
     Stewart grinned wide. "Hey, don't kid yerself, Mr. Wright. You're part of the team now an' besides, you got potential. If the lawyer thing doesn't work out, our door's always open."
     Spy gadgets and slick moves? Phoenix rubbed his neck -- he had a hard enough time keeping his pant leg out of his bicycle chain.
     "A-All right. Just make sure it's not a laser-guarded door."

     A familiar shade of magenta caught Phoenix's eye in the crowd; Edgeworth emerged, and -- on cat-cautious steps -- joined them.

     Maya didn't miss a beat:
     "Hi, Mr. Edgeworth!"
     "Hello. I hope I'm not interrupting," Edgeworth said. He cast a dubious eye over the conference circle. "Arrangements have been made for your release, Mr. Lowe, once the final paperwork is done. It should take only a few more hours."
     "Oh!" Stewart blinked, and straightened to attention. "Uhh, thanks."
     "And Wright." And Edgeworth flicked a look at him, smiling with his eyes, "Next time we collaborate on a case, I expect you to share the necessary information."
     It took Phoenix a moment to find his tongue -- he suddenly missed Foxx.
     "I-If I can, sure, Edgeworth. Thanks. For everything."

     Looking between Phoenix and Stewart -- gaze lighting on the shades and microphone at Stewart's side for a petrifying instant -- Edgeworth replied, "If you're worried about Mr. Pathos's accusations, don't be."
     "A-Accusations?" Phoenix managed.
     "Did he make any new ones?" Maya added, worried-shrill.
     "He hasn't said a word since the trial ended." Edgeworth canted his head, considering Phoenix's soul. "And he has no definitive evidence to back up his Elite Beat Agent theories. We proved that already."
     Turning his stare to Stewart, Edgeworth went on:
     "I saw no suspicious events in your records, Mr. Lowe, and you've been found innocent by a court of law. That's all that's relevant here. Mr. Pathos's personal grudge against you is no concern of mine."

     Stewart nodded, one quick jerk.

     "If that's all," Edgeworth said lightly, tension suddenly loosening from the air, "I'll be on my way."
     "Thanks again, Edgeworth," Phoenix murmured.

     He slid away across the lobby. Quiet held for a moment.
     "You got some great backup, Mr. Wright," Stewart murmured.
     And Maya looked to him, eyes full of mischief.
     "What about Mr. Edgeworth? I'll bet he has some smooth moves, think you could teach him to dance?"
     Phoenix sighed. "Good luck, Maya."



     Leaving that defendant's lobby made it final, and the passers-by were minor static in Edgeworth's awareness. However foreign it seemed -- the trust, the forging on blind -- working with Wright was inevitable, and the right thing to do. At least he could accept that now.

     "Sir!"
     Gumshoe blundered his way around a throng of chattering women, and charged to Edgeworth's side.
     "Mr. Edgeworth, sir! I just called the precinct, all the fingerprints do check out! And I'll have the files done for the microphone, uhh, as soon as I copy new forms."
     Edgeworth had no plans to ask--
     "I ... kinda got coffee on these ones."
     --Because he knew better than to ask. He turned a neat corner toward the car park, Gumshoe's huge presence hovering behind.
     "Very well, Detective." He glanced to the olive trenchcoat in his peripheral vision. "I trust you didn't get into a traffic accident this time?"
     "A traffic ...? Oh!" Gumshoe boomed a merry laugh. "Getting here with evidence, no, not this time, sir! I just lost a mirror, but that one was held on with tape anyway!"
     Lucky indeed -- for everyone around him.
     "If you continue performing this well on cases, I'll have to see about having your salary raised, Detective. Possibly."
     "You-- You mean it, Mr. Edgeworth?! You're the best, sir!"
     If he began whooping, he could just forget about it. A smirk tugged at Edgeworth.
     "We'll see."




     Adrenaline, Foxx thought, standing tiny before the Commander, made everything seem like a good idea.

     He poured over every line of her report, hands folded. Chieftain silently filled one side of the office, his tall bulk relaxed on the couch. Video screens hummed louder than silence could ever be.
     "A network of nine Agents, spread over miles," Kahn read under his breath, and he looked up -- jade-flashing shades and unreadable cool. "That's quite an undertaking."
      "T-The distance wasn't as much of an issue as anticipated," Foxx said, "The jamming was localized, and didn't affect infrasound."
     "And the triangulation?"
     Calling that setup triangulation would make a geometry professor weep. Foxx resettled her laced hands in front of her, gooseflesh prickling over her like that first time in Agent reds.
     "We had two line-of-sights within one hundred feet, both familiar with the target, sir."
     "We're all familiar with the target and his location," Chieftain added, rumbling-low.
     Kahn muttered acknowledgement; he turned a page. "You led, Foxx?"
     She linked the entire team, every sure-footed leader, and they had fallen into willing step behind her-- A shiver settled in her stomach.
     "Yes, sir."
     "Very well for the circumstances." Chieftain shifted, laying ankle on knee. "She assessed and had her team in place within seventy seconds. She then chose basic alpha set, and had a firm enough grasp of the target's situation to relay effectively."
     "There were possible secondary spirit-channelling effects, in the wake of the largest gathering of musical aptitude this Agency has ever seen ..."
     Kahn brought folded hands to his chin, and went on:
     "You did this despite a known security risk working actively against the area Agents."

     That was what gripped her and sank claws in; that was what forced her gaze to the ground; Foxx knew the risks. And she had gone ahead, she had handed Pathos new ammuniton.
     "Yes, sir."
     "Agent. You have nothing to be ashamed of."

     She looked up sharp -- Kahn contemplated her.
     "Our strongest nine supporting Phoenix Wright -- and it worked. This was a risk but a well-calculated one, and you ought to be proud."
     And his tone: fatherly, the way that stirred memories and hot gratitude. Foxx glanced to Chieftain -- brim of his Stetson nearly hid his I told you so smirk -- and she looked back to her feet, smiling wide and helpless.

     "Thank you, sir."




     First day off since her Orchard opened, and it just Swiss-slicing figured she spent it visiting that miserable son of a demi-sauced swine. Wasn't like he could visit her.
     "It's good of you to come, Cherry."
     She huffed, settling her folded arms, staring down the grimy concrete floor.
     "I might as well, s'not like the Orchard's even pita-packin' open today."

     Silence. Guards' voices echoed down the hall.

     Cherry's head shook, and she looked up at him:
     "Just ... What the hell, Pathos?!"
     Through scuffed old plexiglass, in a crumpled suit and limp hair, he smiled the same as any other day.
     "I don't even know, myself," he said, almost too small to hear, "I thought I was working toward ... justice, I suppose. Any shot I could take at the Agents, any sort of revenge I could manage. But I became far too reckless. I assure you, Cherry, I never intended any of this to reflect on you."
     "All that plotting about the CIA or whatever," she muttered, "And you couldn't even think about the frickin' consequences?"
     "I didn't," he agreed, "Not until it was too late."

     Pathos was doing that thoughtful soul-prying look again: Cherry's frown twisted, and she watched her quick-bouncing knee. Boy, did cargos look weird on her. Didn't move like chefs' houndstooth at all.

     "I've been thinking," Pathos wondered lightly, "Since the end of the trial ... I can't be sure how much of my theory is true and how much I've leaped to conclusions on. I ... think I may have taken too much personally these past years."
     "You think too damn much."
     "You might try it, Chef."

     She glared at him; Pathos's smile softened.

     "What I mean is ..." He blinked, and looked to the hand in his lap that somebody had put a real botch job of a gauze dressing on. "Getting too absorbed in a cause can ... make one blind. I'd hate to see it happen to someone as devoted as you."
     Anybody who had the flour-dredging nerve to tell her what to do with her Orchard could just go suck on a lemon and ... so what if Cherry cared too much. She stood, chair legs screeching.
     "I don't have all day, gotta go do inventory," she muttered. Day off or no day off, braise it au bourguignon, the food didn't order itself.
     Pathos nodded.
     "If you visit again, please bring an order of the venison and pilaf. Prison food is a sad offering, indeed."
     "Bring you--"

     She stopped. The thought percolated and well, fine, maybe she smirked a bit.
     "If you think I'm gonna stick a quiche-cuttin' hacksaw in a perfectly good order of pilaf, Pathos, you can go soak your stinkin' head."


     The brick weight took its time settling back around her -- Cherry was out of the detention center, sun stabbing her eyes, Barley's rustbucket heap of a beater car hunkered at the end of the lot. She still had inventory, and a batch of bechamel to get on, and lamb to clean; the electric bill grew by pea-shelling leaps every month and somebody needed a chewing out; the half-case of argula was at death's door and if she didn't make cost--

     "Did what's-his-face call back," Cherry asked, dropping into the front seat, hauling the door closed.
     Barley startled, nearly dropping her cell phone about six times. "Uhh, y-yes! Just now, a-actually."
     Familiar shape of the lighter in her hand, familiar muted rattle of the box, click-click-click. Cherry dragged long enough to think, and sighed, draping her cigarette hand out the window.
     "Vander ... something?"
     "Mr. V-Vanderspiegle."
     She muttered, and rubbed between her eyes. "How much?"
     "Thirty thousand." Pulling a notepad from under the seat, Barley added, "I-I wrote it down to make sure. It l-looks like mostly a silent partner thing -- he wants use of the facilities for events, a-and he said he can help with staffing. Control stays with you, it's still y-your name on-- on all th-the papers. I-I, uhh, I asked."
     "Huh."
     "He--" And Barley paused to grin, broad and boyish, "He said h-he approved of your choice of fonts, o-on the flyer, a-and he knows your uncle Smokey ...? He seems r-really nice, I-I think so, anyway."

     Oh, sure, perfect opportunity. For someone to come along with just the step up she needed, and offer, with a smile and a frickin' flourish, to buy out her Orchard.
     Cherry watched the smoke twine and vanish. Barley squirmed against the upholstery.
     "D'you think ..." She frowned. She didn't ask stuff like this. "Am I ... too caught up in the place?"
     He choked the first syllables of an answer. What a nice day outside -- all too-blue sky, fluffy white marshmallow clouds, sun draping her skin warm.
     "C'mon," Cherry muttered, flicking ash away, "Spit it out."
     Barley gulped. She glanced sidelong, to see him smoothing his pants.
     "Y-You just work so h-hard ... I-I ... worry sometimes."
     "Enough to crash court?"

     There, she said it.

     "Y-Yeah," he murmured. No hesitation -- not that Barley'd ever told her a word of a lie.
     If Pathos thought she was blind, and Barley worried himself to bits, and temper flared red if she even thought about customers ... Cherry raked hair from her face, she'd have to rebraid the front-- No, only one braid in the back today. Casual really did feel weird. That wasn't normal, was it?
     "Y'know what," she spat, "Inventory can kiss my grits. I'm off today, same with you, kid."
     An uneasy stir in her gut. She shook her head.
     "...Fry it, I shouldn't call you that."
     "I don't mind," he said.
     "Doesn't matter if you mind."

     He paused, and nodded, a twitch at the edge of Cherry's vision. They sat in the hot, gold afternoon.

     "Y-You know what I miss," Barley ventured, "Is you y-yelling at the food channel."
     "Buncha frilly powderpuff measure-happy housewives prob'ly need a recipe to boil their damn water," Cherry muttered around a drag.
     "L-Like that." Here came the bashful grin again. "I s-still have cable?"
     "Fine," and she flicked her cigarette butt to the ground, "Hey, let's order a pizza, while we're at it. Eggs frickin' Florentine, might as well."
     "Okay ..." He turned to the steering wheel, wearing a fool's smile, hair in his eyes, "A-And I think I have something to tell you, Cherry ..."

     Something else? Sure -- she had the energy for this stuff after all. The car rumbled awake; breeze flowed around her and through the novelty of loose hair, and Cherry leaned back, and smirked.
     "Fine. Let's hear it."



     Keep the details straight, Starr thought to the beat of her stilettos -- cases that made the news got overhyped, Sior Pathos was a human being, she'd need to work the slipped-through-society's-cracks angle. Easy on the doe-eyed pleading, treat the Chief Prosecutor like a debate opponent; mission briefs didn't say all business if they didn't mean it. She tugged her suit jacket straight with two fingers, and watched the lime-bright elevator display crawl lower. If she weren't used to nudging a person's fate, she'd be shaking more--

     "Hey, 'scuse me!"

     It took a moment to click -- the voice called to her, and next she knew, someone orange held out a paper at her.
     "Drop by the Orchard, where the finest seasons of the flavour grow," he enthused.
     "Oh."
     Starr blinked, and had a better look at him: scruffy and sandy-blond and offering a megawatt grin along with the flyer.
     "Thank you." She accepted it, and smiled as best she could. "But ... think you meant flavours of the season."
     Jogging the rest of the flyers on one elbow, he scratched the back of his head.
     "I dunno. I'm dumb around pretty girls."
     Ages since this had happened; Starr clasped a hand to her chest.
     "W-Well, I--"
     "No, I mean it!" He poked a thumbs-up from under the load of flyers. "You're even prettier than my last three girlfriends! I'll bet you're a model!"

     He was awfully cute, argued the sudden flutter inside her.

     "That's very sweet of you," she said, "Mr. ...?"
     He took her offered hand, and didn't seem to plan on doing anything with it. Unless that beaming, goofy grin counted.
     "Larry! Larry Butz! And I bet your name is as gorgeous as the rest of you."
     Pure earnest and warm hands; she had to be blushing. Her name? Clear lenses in her glasses, wearing flax-blond hair, so today she was:
     "Astra Blake. Actually, I could use--"
     --A moment to compose herself before this crucial phase of the mission. Especially now.
     "--Some fresh air. Would you like to come for a walk?"

     A little on the sudden side, but Larry welled up with dewy-eyed joy like it was his childhood dream come true.
     "Really? I mean, yeah, sure! Whatever you want, babe!"

     Just a few minutes, and everything would turn out better. Smiling warmer, Starr took her hand back. She beckoned and Larry obediently followed.




     Wright and Co. always felt a little warmer after a win. Maybe it was the satisfaction of defending the innocent; maybe it was the accomplishment of gathering old takeout cartons and scrubbing the toilet until it shone and giving Charley a good watering; it didn't matter why. Today was a good day.
     "It ran out?" Pearl looked up at him -- hurt and scolding filled her huge eyes. "Mr. Nick, you should have told me!"
     "Err, sorry, we were kind of busy," he muttered.
     But by then, Pearl had already plucked the magatama from his hand and scampered to the office couch with a flap of pink robes. Rubbing the back of his neck -- and watching little Pearl turn to a meditating statue -- Phoenix turned back to Maya.
     "I guess we could ... have ... What are you doing?"
     "Organizing by title," she chirped, grinning at him from her stepladder perch, arms full of law tomes, "So it's easier to find the one you want to read!"
     "It doesn't get much easier than alphabetical order," Phoenix muttered.
     "Oh."
     For a long moment, Maya gazed contemplatively at the cover of Historic Precedent: Eleventh Edition.
     "Well," and she stuffed books back into the shelf, "It's not like anybody reads them, anyway!"
     To be fair, Phoenix was working on it. Sort of. He dusted the books and everything.

     And then a knock at the door grabbed their attention -- Maya was at the door with a cry of, "I've got it!" like there was a burger delivery on the other side. She couldn't still think the burger place would deliver, even if she was their best--

     "Hey!"

     He knew those voices. And Phoenix was into the main office before another thought: here were red-costumed friends, Missy squealing delight with her arms around Maya's neck, Foxx shifting around the cute but possibly contagious scene.
     "You made it," Maya bubbled, "I just knew you-- oh wow, Stewart, looking sharp!"

     Crisp suit, yellow-flashing shades, and hair spectacularly defying gravity -- but he still grinned and gave an easy shrug, closing the office door behind him.
     "I'm not Stewart," he said, "Not anymore. Agent J, here, an' it's thanks to you guys!"
     "J it is! Pearly, come meet our friends!"

     And then Missy bounced to Phoenix, skidding to a stop, producing a stack of papers from ... wherever female Agents produced things from.
     "Nick! Here, the Commander sent these! They're completely boring, I already checked for you!"
     Hopefully, Missy found paychecks boring.
     Foxx sidled closer, smile slowly widening: "There's a paycheck in there, in case you're wondering."
     Did Agency microphones read minds, too?
     "Okay," Missy announced, bouncing around Phoenix, "I see a radio, I'd better get this party started!"
     "Go ahead an' throw her out if she gets rowdy, Mr. Wright," J called, from his place on the couch between grinning Maya and staring, entranced Pearl.
     "He probably will," Maya added, "You kids and your newfangled noise!"

     As Phoenix was opening his mouth to protest that he wasn't that bad, Maya, a cool hand laid on his arm -- Foxx, her smile still wry.
     "We've only got an hour, actually ... And If it's all right, Phoenix, I was hoping for a group photo."

     Radio static cut to a heavy dance beat, something he heard snippets of on all the popular stations. Phoenix lifted a brow at the chattering scene in his office, and smiled, and nodded.


     That photo got a place of honour on his desk. Phoenix looked at it and, every time, felt a beat.



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


Okay, that's it, show's over, everybody out!

... And into the Tempo chatroom! Comeoncomeon, get in here, there'll be bonus features and zany fun!

ETA: The chat was good times, you guys, good times. If you missed the party, hey, no worries, you can still grab the Tempo bonus features! Includes the three songs featured in Tempo, story-planning notes with author commentary, doodles of Gumshoe's weasel incident, and a link to the Youtube video of great behind-the-scenes goofery. If the Megaupload link runs out or whatever, just comment here and I'll refresh it.

And the chat spawned us an Elite Beat Agents fanmeme! It's like the Phoenix Wright Kinkmeme, just with less emphasis on porn, for you gen-lovers out there. Is "gen-lover" an oxymoron...?