11:43
We begin at a diner.
This particular diner is rather ordinary, just one in a franchise of hundreds, perhaps thousands. It's a family restaurant, kitschy and humble and exactly the same in every location in the country. Its 24-hour business makes it the ideal hub for many: bar-hoppers, late workers, runaways. It sits nestled between a business office and a shopping complex, directly behind the movie theater. This diner is exactly halfway between the precinct and the prosecutor's office, but our protagonist is unaware of this. He would merely shrug, and say, "oh." He is unconcerned with such matters. All he knows is that the burgers are better than most, only through years of trial and error.
The clientele is sparse tonight. A young couple sits at a window-side booth, having milkshakes and pie as they delight in each other's company. An older man is at the counter, being careful about food falling in his bushy beard as he eats. Another couple sits at a table, their coffee turning cold as they are immersed in deep conversation.
Tonight, our protagonist sits in this very diner. His most distinguishing feature, much to his dismay, is his hair, jet black and defiantly spiky. He is a professional man, gleaned from his suit and tie. His suit jacket is draped over the chair next to him, unintentionally showing off a gold badge that presents itself proudly. His sleeves are rolled to the elbow and his tie is loose. He is at a four person table by himself, with only a lukewarm cup of coffee and a cumbersome-looking text to keep him company.
He is poring over the book with an intensity that is unbecoming of him and quite obviously straining him. He keeps his head up with his palm, his fingers gripping the top of his head in a gangly claw. When his head tilts a degree too far, he takes a sip of coffee and readjusts. Periodically, he shifts his position, leaning back and laying the book's spine across the table. The words "Law And" can be seen on the spine when he does this, embossed in gold against a leathery brown.
His concentration goes uninterrupted for some time. Customers come and go and he is still there, eyes glued to the pages. Finally, out of pure frustration, he gives up and closes the book. The waitress refills his coffee and he takes the mug in his hands, taking slow sips. He looks out the window, at the warm light from the street lamps against the black starless sky. He is exhausted, but he doesn't want to go home. The law book taunts him with its very presence and density, and he shoves it in his briefcase.
No longer absorbed in concentration, the man is alerted to the jingle of the front door opening. A man not much older than our protagonist steps in and looks around. He keeps a hand on his hat as if it would blow away, and keeps the other hand shoved in his pocket. His eyes dart across the all-but-empty room, scanning carefully and with purpose.
"May I help you, sir?" the waitress asks.
The older man's eyes land on our protagonist's table and, ignoring the waitress completely, strides over.
"Excuse me," he says, "are you Phoenix Wright?" He asks like it were a statement of fact.
"Oh, uh, yeah," the younger man replies, shaken a bit by the strange man's forwardness.
"Mind if I have a seat?"
"Go ahead," the younger man, Phoenix, says with trepidation. He sips at his coffee some more, watching the man across from him. He doesn't seem to be paying Phoenix much attention, just staring off to the side.
"So, mister...?"
"What brings you here so late, Phoenix?"
"E-Excuse me?" Phoenix stammers.
The older man looks directly at him, his mouth turned up in a smirk.
"I said, why are you here so late?"
Phoenix looks around the room, avoiding the man's eyes.
"How do you know who I am?" Phoenix asks weakly, looking askance at him.
The man pauses, never deviating his gaze from Phoenix's.
"Well, you're kind of famous," he answers, leaning back in his chair. His face remains in the same mischievous smirk. "And...how should I put this...?"
"What can I get you, sir?"
The waitress appears out of the older man's field of vision but he doesn't bother to turn around.
"Just coffee for me," he says.
The waitress nods and disappears.
"No need to answer," Phoenix stops him. "It doesn't matter that much anyway." He supposes.
The waitress returns with a steaming mug and promptly leaves, removing her apron and throwing it under the counter.
"I'm outta here!" she calls through the hole in the wall to the cook. She stops, listening to the response, and nods before leaving the building. Phoenix watches this exchange wordlessly.
"Do you have the time?" the older man asks.
"It's midnight, I think," Phoenix says. "Assuming I've been here for...two hours." Phoenix looks uncomfortable at this thought. Spending two hours in a diner trying fruitlessly to read a law book is not his idea of a fun night.
The man rubs his chin thoughtfully and nods.
"This city changes after midnight," he says casually. "We may get to witness its metamorphosis tonight." He smiles. "Lucky you."
"Right. Lucky me." Phoenix takes one last swig of coffee and stares into the empty bottom, watching the man with his peripheral vision. He thinks there is something definitely odd about him, but says nothing. He only watches.
The prosecutor's office.
It has a distinct presence, an air of importance and professionalism. It towers above the buildings around it, but it is by no means the tallest building in the city. Its stately exterior matches the other office buildings in the area, though it is comparatively antiquated.
The top floor: the twelfth floor.
It has gained a reputation for housing the best of the best. They are in a league of their own, handling only the toughest and most high-profile of cases. The genius prosecutors. The high prosecutors.
Most of the building is dark. Everyone has gone home, and every window is devoid of any light. Every window, that is, except for one on the top floor. The twelfth floor.
In this room sits a man. He is hunched over his desk, resting his head against his laced fingers like a particularly dubious villain. This is perhaps misleading, as he means no harm to anyone. He is merely preoccupied by the task set before him.
His steely gaze is set on a monitor. On this monitor is a woman, young and petite of figure. She is sitting in a chair turned ninety degrees to the right. We cannot see her face. She is unmoving, and if not for the steady rising and falling of her chest one would think the video feed is just a still image. Her hands are in her lap, implying that she is free of will and movement. She dares not move, though, for an external force is keeping her frozen in place. This is no physical force; she has been intimidated into submission.
The man watches this static feed with an intensity that is most distinguishing; he is no stranger to this kind of concentration. His eyes never leave the screen, not as he shrugs off his jacket or as his assistant brings him yet another cup of tea.
He unlaces his fingers and takes a sip.
"Better," he grunts.
The assistant bristles, playing with the neck of her navy muffler. She is a mere teenager, but often a cheerful one. She takes pleasure in giving her overseer a hard time, but tonight he is not having it. There is work to be done.
"Sorry I'm not some tea robot, Mr. Edgeworth," she huffs, arms crossed. "This is more Gummy's thing."
"Detective Gumshoe is no better at this than you are, Kay," he retorts. "Believe me."
She pouts, without the satisfaction of having him see it, and plops on his luxurious sofa.
"I'm tired," she says.
"Have some tea," he tells her between sips. His fair hair falls in his eye and he pushes it back again.
A silence lingers. The man, Edgeworth, sets his cup down and continues watching. The assistant, Kay, turns her attention to the window. Lights flicker off, other lights flicker on. The day has given way to night, and the difference is palpable. The tranquility is calming and unnerving. It is a very real contradiction, but it exists to purpose.
Indeed, the city changes when the clock strikes midnight.
I've had this concept building in my head ever since I read Haruki Murakami's After Dark. It has this narrative style that I've wanted to try for a while, and one or two elements, like the diner (which was a Denny's in the book) and the times as chapters, will be taken. It will be pretty different, though.
This. Will. Not. Die.
I promise.