Summary: In The Sweet Taste, Phoenix was able to use the Magatama for revenge. But in truth, he could have used it for that much, much sooner. Not proofread.
Written during finals week because I wasn't in the best of moods and needed to vent quickly. As a result, I didn't give it the second glance I usually do...
Phoenix had been having an awful day.
He knew damn well he couldn't carry a tune on the piano; his fingers were a bit thick to hit the keys with the precision necessary to play well. That wasn't supposed to matter, though; his job at the Borscht Bowl Club was to be a poker champ, not a musical virtuoso. Hell, it was great that he was able to get a job at all, after the disgrace he'd suffered a scant two years ago. Some days, though, the customers' disdainful comments on his playing really got under his skin.
He kicked a rock in his path; he'd purposely taken a detour on the way home to avoid letting Trucy see him this upset, making sure to call to let her know so she didn't worry (and to make sure she had a babysitter. Larry was living nearby, for the time being, and he was grateful for it because it meant he could safely leave Trucy home alone every now and then... Admittedly, though, he always had to double-check to make sure he was in when it happened).
Irritably, he gripped the smooth, nine-shaped stone in his pocket, for lack of anything else to vent on. He kept the thing around out of habit, even though he figured it was unlikely he would need to do any interrogating anymore. It was a bit of a comfort, a way to constantly remind himself that he wasn't alone, that the short years in which his life had been looking up, if chaotic, rather than like an utter mess barely worth looking at hadn't simply been some long and complex dream.
Gripping the stone, he thought of all the... nice... things he could do to the jackasses that didn't appreciate that he at least made the effort to make a living, even if he couldn't do his job very well. Sure, he'd brought his circumstances on himself, in a sense, by not double-checking evidence with a dubious source, but he hadn't known. The truth always made its way out in the end; how did they know the evidence wouldn't have proved itself to be false in the end, that he wouldn't have discovered his mistake and corrected by the end of the trial? He always did, in the end. Always. So why the hell did no one believe him when he said he didn't know? And why the hell did people have to go out of their way to give him a hard time of it just because of that one little mistake?
Phoenix barely noticed the world fading around him, colors inverting and seconds ticking slower and slower until they about came to a stop. He didn't quite catch the dense green fog emanating from his pocket, coating, surrounding him in a malevolent aura. All he knew was that he was angry and hurt, because dammit, he was trying and it wasn't his fault that everything he could do, he'd more or less been banned from. Hell, he couldn't even sell art or act, because he didn't have the money for halfway decent art supplies or prints of his older work (which people undoubtedly would think was forged, anyway) and no one wanted to let the disgraced attorney so much as appear as a stagehand.
It was Kristoph Gavin's fault, he knew. Kristoph Gavin had been the one to order the forged evidence, not him.
He could see it in the Psyche-Locks that had appeared on the man as he advocated his innocence. The locks that appeared every time the man pretended to act in his best interest. The chains that rattled each time the man claimed to be on his side.
Kristoph Gavin was the enemy. The bastard that took his life away.
The green aura around him flared with his silent fury, time coming to a complete stop, the world's colors fully inverted. Phoenix felt the tide of rage flow through his veins, knew almost purely on instinct that in this world, his suffering would be no more. In this world, this world of inverted color, this world formed from his sheer rage, he was in control. Whomever was fool enough to not only catch his ire, but to be caught in his realm would suffer until his thirst for their anguish was quenched.
Curiously, with a mind elucidated by rage so focused that it sharpened his wits rather than blinding him, Phoenix pulled his hand from his pocket, Magatama still clenched in his fist. He watched the green aura pulse around it, dancing like a ball of translucent fire.
You're angry, a voice whispered in his ear, and Phoenix found himself unsurprised at its familiarity. He supposed he should have known; he'd thought it odd that Maya would have an extra Magatama when he knew of two Feys who he'd never seen wear one (well, in their own body, at least), and even odder that he'd seen no Psyche-Locks regarding her identity while she was possessing Maya. A Magatama couldn't completely be used against its owner, he supposed.
It feels good, doesn't it? came the sibilant hiss, and Phoenix didn't bother resisting. To have so much power at your fingertips. To be free of the idiots beneath you. To have the power to hurt them, like they did you.
Phoenix didn't respond, merely held the stone tighter.
It was never your fault you lost your job. It was never your fault you got stuck with a job you literally can't do. So why should you have to put up with the things they do to you? You have the power, now. You have both your power and mine; you can have your revenge now, if you want.
(Revenge is a dish best served cold.) Phoenix pocketed the precious stone once more, releasing his hold on it.
Aww, spoilsport... echoed the voice as the world returned to normal, the aura fading away. Phoenix's eyes hardened.
(I want to obtain justice for myself on my own terms, under my own power. Not yours.)
Was it any good...? n_n;;