thoughtformed | log: wake up, dead man.

Who: Mello & OPEN to any and all
When: Thursday night
What: This is the kind of stuff Mello dreams about these days. :c
WARNINGS: Mild (to start!) gore, possible violence/swearing/disturbing images, etc. Will update as needed.

You find yourself in a high-ceilinged, dimly lit room. Multiple sets of stairs spider up to other floors, and the smell of something stale and oily hangs in the air, like old cigarette smoke in a bar after close. Once upon a time, this was a factory. Now, the room serves as a clandestine hideout, sparsely furnished with tattered, dingy couches and warped tables propping up a cluster of computers. The monitors here have all gone dead.

You see a number of burly-looking men scattered along the floor of this room, bodies and expressions distorted in poses of undeniable agony. They all died screaming, clutching their chests, collapsing into haphazard piles.

And in the midst of this scene of carnage, you see one man standing, taking in the spectacle before him. He’s relatively lithe of build, clad entirely in black leather, blond hair singed, blood trickling down the left side of his face. Someday, the wound will heal into a grotesque burn scar instead of the bloody blisters there on his face. You look at this man - he’s barely more than a boy, but he carries a heavy weight with him that perhaps makes him seem older - and you might even think he probably used to be quite attractive, before whatever ensued here left its indelible mark on him.

You see this figure - he’s silent, still. The faint ins and outs of his breathing are the only indication that he’s any different from the corpses sprawled out on the floor in front of him. You approach - slowly, hesitant, because there’s a certain air of something fearsome about this entire tableau - and the man turns to look at you.

“‘Abandon all hope, ye who enter here,’” he says.

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Miles would never get used to death and pain like this. He had seen it a few times firsthand, and forced himself to be present during a few more disturbing autopsies, but never had he been witness to a crime scene first hand. It even makes him sick in the unlikeliest of places, however he felt oddly compelled to deal with his dream-induced nausea when he sees a boy still alive in the middle of the scene.

"Dante. An interesting choice of phrase."

But not inappropriate, he keeps to himself.

"I need to get you to a hospital."

If it's one thing that Miles has trained himself on, it's staying calm in most situations. When it didn't include earthquakes or elevators, he could put his post traumatic stress response aside and do what was necessary in the situation. Right now, it seemed that this hurt boy is probably just that.

"It seemed like the right thing to say." Because this is Hell, isn't it? Has to be. Mello sounds fairly nonchalant about the situation as he continues to stand, ankle-deep in corpses. He gives the other man a good sizing-up; he isn't someone Mello recognizes on sight, but a tiny spark of something seems almost familiar. The voice? Maybe he’s wrong. Maybe he’s imagining things.

Mello's gaze, however, sharpens at the word hospital. "I'm not going to a hospital." They'll find me if I go to a hospital. I won't let it happen. He turns away, back to staring blankly at the sea of bodies scattered around the room. "I can't leave here anyway."

Well now, this is certainly an interesting situation. Miles isn't trained in first aid, especially not to this degree. At times like this, he thinks of Wright, and the man's uncanny ability to squeeze his way out of trouble. Then again, he managed to get himself into quite a lot of it in order to get out of it. It surprises him that he's able to produce a train of thought, as this neither feels like the time nor the place to have it. (As in, it shouldn't be possible. Then again, that's not the most pressing question, because of course it's possible. It's happening. There is no denying that.)

Miles approaches cautiously, trying to pay as little attention he could to the men already dead at his feet. He needs to find a phone, to call the police. However, when he reaches to his pockets, he finds them both empty. His phone is gone.

"Then allow me to be of some assistance."

Mello should be in a lot of pain; he realizes this, somewhat absently, gloved fingertips tracing up the edge of his jaw to the bleeding wound covering almost half of his face. Feeling nothing, he draws back his hand and stares at the blood smeared like oil against the black leather. This should hurt a lot more.

Miles' approach sets Mello on the defensive. He shifts, turning to fully face the other man in readiness for the confrontation Mello predicts will soon occur.

"You can't help me."

"I cannot let someone suffer while I stand by."

In a somewhat awkward gesture, Miles shows him his hands. Isn't that what people do to show that they have no weapons? Not that he would have anything. Despite Detective Gumshoe's offers, he had never shot, or even held, a gun. He isn't quite sure what this boy expects, but it is hardly what he's willing to give.

He never had a chance to change the cases that he prosecuted. Instead, he spoke for the victims when they had no voice. Here he could, at least, do what he could here.

"No." Mello shakes his head, still eying the other man warily. "I mean you can't help me. I'm beyond helping." I'm beyond saving.

He frowns, thinking. Mello still can't place whether Miles is someone he knows. He's not typically inclined to chatter idly with people, but somehow, Mello feels fuzzier, a little less inhibited than he normally would. He supposes he's dead - That's what happens when you end up in Hell, right? So maybe it doesn't matter as much.

Still, he'll ask. "Who are you, anyway?"

There's a moment where Miles wonders if he's just being dramatic. Kids do go through those things. And him? Well, he had managed to go through it quite recently, when he was in his mid-twenties. He remembered telling that to someone who refused to give up on him. It's his turn now, he thinks ruefully.

"My name is Miles Edgeworth. I'm a prosecuting attorney. If you're going to ask me how I got here, I wouldn't be able to tell you," Miles admits, glancing around the room.

Prosecuting attorney. Two of the worst possible words Miles could have used to identify himself, especially at this particular moment. Mello's entire demeanor shifts instantly to something coldly hostile.

"And you think you're going to help me."

Suddenly it's as if he's said something wrong. He wasn't dense enough not to notice the change in atmosphere.

"Yes, with or without my profession behind me. On my honor, I cannot simply leave you to suffer."

Miles steps toward him again, carefully, still trying to ignore the bodies on the floor.

"Tch. Like hell you are."

Mello spins abruptly on his heel and goes sprinting up a nearby flight of stairs.

This is not really ... what he had expected. He sighs and gives chase without hesitation, heading up after Mello up the stairs.

"Come now! Be reasonable!"

Mello probably could laugh at that, if he'd stop long enough to mull over the irony of those words, but he'd much rather get to the control room, away from this lawyer -

Except the staircase shifts under his feet, and he ends up racing right back to the floor full of bodies instead. This warrants a moment to stop and stare in confusion.

This lawyer that very adamantly wanted to help him. He's uncertain of how far they've run, or how he managed this far without being completely winded, but he slows his steps and comes to a halt a few feet behind him.

"Well, this is certainly curious..."

"A sneaky trick, I'd say." Mello narrows his eyes at the scene before him, but doesn't visually acknowledge Miles behind him. He feels like someone (or something) must be toying with him, and he doesn't like it. In fact, Mello's so determined to not be toyed with, he takes off for the stairs again. I'll find a way out of this. Just watch me.

Miles heaves a sigh.

"Wait! Let's think things through ..." but by the time he utters the last few words, Mello has already disappeared up the staircase. Without much else to lose, he heads up after him.

Mello pays the other man about just as much heed as he has been, which is to say, none at all. He knows these staircases, these corridors, these rooms, and he knows they can't just move of their own accord.

He knows this, and yet Mello finds himself drawing to a halt on a set of stairs that is somehow flipped sideways onto the wall. He stops and stares in wordless disbelief. How ... ? This is impossible.

log: wake up, dead man.

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