A/N: I do not own Dick Gumshoe, Phoenix Wright or Miles Edgeworth; they belong to CAPCOM. The plot, however and the incidental characters mentioned, are mine. Based on Nim's Mafia/Baker AU series of comics and an art piece by thisedgeysfangirl on Tumblr which is used with permission. Thanks! ^)^
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Mafia Don Miles Edgeworth has a nightmare of the most horrific kind...
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A creepy little story based on an art piece by thisedgeysfangirl and used with permission! THANKS! ^)^
THANK YOU TO: nimpnawakproduction, thisedgeysfangirl and (soon to) adventuresofsarahjane1975 for your input and beta reading! MUCH APPRECIATED! ^)^
Danse Macabre (Dance of Death): a Medieval French allegory on the universality of death. I just made the allegory a little more…alive. ^_^ Nightmares and dreams are two of my very favourite things to write!
Anyway, hope you enjoy! ^)^
Rated Mature, Phoenix x Edgeworth, male/male relationships, hurt/comfort, nightmare, blood/gore/gruesome and graphic images
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November 16th
Miles Edgeworth Residence
Bedroom
Upper West Chicago
Chicago, Illinois
11 P.M.
Miles Edgeworth sighed as he pushed the stack of paperwork away from him, leaning back in his leather chair, rubbing his tired eyes with impatient fingers. He placed the page he was reading on top of the desk since the words seemed to have all morphed together into one incoherent mass and he decided that he had best put it away for the time being.
It had been a very long day and he was glad to see it come to an end as he leaned back in his chair, closing his eyes, exhaling a deep pent up breath.
The life of a Mafia Don was not an easy one and he had to always be on alert for potential trouble. And to deal with it firmly once it reared its ugly head. It was a never ending, bloody job; hydra-like, once one threat had been eliminated, two more popped up to replace the one that had been dealt with.
Damn them, he thought to himself, his eyes closing, his gloved fist clenching as his thoughts traveled back to the events of that afternoon. Many a time I have spared my enemies their much deserved Fate but this I will not tolerate!
His thoughts drifted back to earlier in the day. He'd killed two of the dissenting Don's sons that afternoon and, while one had gone to his death quietly and with dignity, the other did not, weeping and pleading for Miles to spare him but his pleas fell on deaf ears as he shot him in the head, filling the warehouse with blessed silence.
Their crime? The Don of Southeast Chicago, Vernon Gradin, their father, had made the mistake of enlisting them to try and ferret out Phoenix's location for who knows what hellery. Perhaps he intended to kidnap him and hold him as a bargaining chip; perhaps he meant to use him for extortional purposes or perhaps he just planned to kill him, he didn't know.
He'd heard the news from one of his informers who worked in Gradin's casino two days earlier and, information at hand, had moved swiftly in order to intercept the threat. To his relief, it hadn't been a difficult thing to do.
He stood there in silence for a moment and then turned to Gumshoe, who stood silently by his side, nodding once. Gumshoe bowed his head in understanding and set about wrapping chains with weights around both bodies before he dragged them over to the nearest quarry a hundred feet away from the warehouse. He watched dispassionately as Gumshoe tossed them into the deep lake in the middle and sinking out of sight with barely a ripple to mark their passing.
Miles was tired and he yawned as he sat back in his desk chair. It had been a very long week and he couldn't wait for it to be over; a smile came to his face as he thought of his date later on that week with Phoenix Wright, the handsome young baker who had captured his heart a year earlier and the owner of The Bun Agency where he always went to get pastries and sweets.
I can't wait to see him, he thought happily, sliding down a little further in his chair, crossing his feet at the ankles. And just the tonic I need. I really think that maybe he might like to go to…
He yawned again, his last thought being of Phoenix as he slipped off into sleep.
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It was the stench of blood that awakened him and he was surprised to see himself standing naked in what appeared to be a sea of crimson. Bodies littered the landscape as far as he could see, tossed here and there like broken dolls in haphazard fashion.
His eyes widened as he looked down at his hands and was horrified to see that they were covered in blood; looking down, he could see that his body was also covered in it from his chest to his feet, rivulets of blood slowly coursing down his legs.
What…. where… am I?! His eyes widened as he took in the bleak and dark landscape that surrounded him like a suffocating strong, copper smell was beginning to make him feel sick and he turned, intending to walk away but he couldn't move very fast. What…what IS this place?!
It seemed as if his feet were made of lead and he could only lift one foot at a time and that only a few inches off of the ground that clung to him like quicksand.
For some time, the eerie silence was the only thing he heard in this dank and stinking place until a low, weird hum came from somewhere in the distance. He stopped, turning his head in that direction and was startled o see a denizen of dark, black shadows slowly crawling over the ground in a steady stream, heading toward him.
Panicked, he turned to run but, again, could not lift his foot more than a few inches off the ground; it appeared that the ground had solidified around them for it was holding him fast.
The shadows crept ever nearer; he could feel his heart hammering in his chest and he opened his mouth but no words emerged. The weird humming sound began to get louder the closer the shadows came to him and he couldn't do anything but stare as he watched them approach.
You?! His eyes widened when the first of the black shadows came near and he was startled to see the rotting countenance of Sheldon McVale, the first man he had ever killed since taking on the Don't mantle for Upper West Chicago ten years earlier.
He was a hideous sight: black strips of rotting flesh hung in ghastly ribbons underneath a gleaming white grinning skull, a tattered black silk robe clinging to his bony form, his skeletal hands curled into claws. He watched, fascinated as Sheldon came near him, his sightless eyes seeming to blink at him before it moved on.
The second shadow crept closer and he saw the same, rotting corpse-like features of Clarence Dale, one of the most bloodthirsty hit men for the Don of East Chicago. He'd been pinned down in a warehouse in a firefight with some of his men five years ago and considered himself lucky that he had managed to kill Clarence since he would have certainly killed him if he hadn't.
The lipless skull's mouth seemed to laugh as it slowly passed by, leaning in closer to Miles who moved back with a gasp of disgust, his stomach churning as the stench of rotting flesh came over him in waves; he doubled over, feeling his gorge rise as he tried to hold back the bile he could feel rising in his throat.
After a time he did manage to keep the contents inside his stomach down and watched as the never ending procession of black shadows continued its relentless march toward him. He also began to notice that they had a peculiar, swaying gait and was stunned to discover that they weren't walking but… dancing.
The weird humming noise got louder and louder the closer the decrepit procession came to him and the nauseating stench of putrefying flesh grew ever worse the closer they came to him.
Each shadow was the face of a person that he had killed himself or had ordered killed: Donald Meade, the psychotic, though brilliant, son of the Don of North Chicago; Neal Marlow, Keith Benson and Frederick Henderson, associates of the Don of South Chicago; Marlene Vale, Clarice Xander and Cecelia Colby, daughters of one of the associates of Barlow Quentin who had accidentally become ensnared in a firefight between his men and their father; Ilya Swanson, assassin for hire whom he had killed two years ago and so on until the faces began to blur.
Still, the procession of people continued to shamble past him and he found himself swaying unconsciously to the weird music, his feet seeming to lift more easily than they had. Before he could really take that surprise in, he could feel something spatter against his face and he and he was horrified to discover that it was blood. It was raining blood, torrents of it pouring from the sky directly onto him, covering him in foul-smelling crimson.
He tried desperately to scrub his skin clean of the foul-smelling stuff but it was useless; it just spread over his skin, slowly creeping down his arms, across his torso and down his legs. It even dripped onto the ground, a pool of red spreading around his feet until it looked like he was standing in a small lake.
No… he thought, the endless procession of black shadows swaying as they passed by him, the weird music becoming a deafening cacophony the closer it came. He could see something moving near the back far off in the distance, appearing to dance with light steps.
What…is that? The black shadows stretched further off into the distance and still continued to process by him: Heather Madison, killed in a war with his former associate; Nelson Mathers, killed by him personally after a failed coup attempt; Mason Weatheryll and Felicity Hanson, killed by Gumshoe when they tried to take over his casino in East Chicago; Brent Cardiff, killed by him personally when he tried to torch Phoenix's bakery; Marlon McClary, killed by Gumshoe on his orders; Kate Varden, killed by one of his associates on his orders when she'd tried, unsuccessfully, to kill him and threatened Phoenix's life; Brandon Hudson, son of the Don of Northeast Chicago whom he'd killed when his father tried to abduct Phoenix to hold him as a bargaining chip in his war with Miles; the Vale twins who tried to ambush him and whom he had killed…
On and on they came, each rotting corpse more horrifyingly decrepit than the one preceding, the stench of the grave ever more nauseating than previously.
They were getting toward the end now, each of the persons he had killed, or had ordered killed, shambling by to disappear into the distance. He couldn't resist the seductive sway of the weird music any longer and began to sway back and forth as he joined the procession. His mind screamed at him to stop, to run away but he couldn't resist the seductive pull of the notes and found himself beginning to dance.
On and on he danced, further and further, the stench of blood becoming ever more pronounced the longer he traveled. Still, he danced on, the rain of blood becoming a torrential downpour that covered him from head to foot. The music grew louder and more cacophonous the further he went but he couldn't reist the pull to keep on going and he followed the weird procession as it continued its way onward.
In the distance he could see w figure that seemed to be swaying back and forth, holding a set of Pan's pipes in black gloved hands, dressed in a black, hooded shroud that covered its head and obscured its face. Miles couldn't help but be drawn to this mysterious figure even though his mind cried out ever more shrilly to run away; he couldn't even if he wanted to, the figure's hold over him was that strong. He could see one of it's hands let go of the Pan's pipes and beckoned to him with a crooked finger.
Come closer… he heard a soft, menacing voice say in his mind. Come closer, Miles Edgeworth… come and dance with us in the Danse Macabre.
No… he didn't want to but he couldn't resist the pull as he was drawn ever closer to the beckoning figure; with a moan of terror, his feet started to take him to where the shrouded figure twirled and danced, its shroud flapping like broken wings around the figure's ankles.
Come, Miles Edgeworth. Come and dance with us… There was a chorus of voices that joined the figure's and the stream of black shadows pivoted and writhed, coming toward him, skeletal hands outstretched, fingers reaching toward him.
Yes, Miles Edgeworth. Come and dance with us… Come dance with us…Come dance with us…
No, he moaned in terror trying to turn but finding that he couldn't move.
Come dance with us…Come dance with us…won't you come and dance with us?
He tried to avoid those searching, grasping hands and made his way closer to the figure whom, he could now see, had a silver scythe resting on the ground beside it. The rain of blood intensified and Miles could at last see the face as it drew back the hood, looking into the grinning face of Death.
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3 A.M.
He awoke from the nightmare with a loud scream of terror as he sat bolt upright in his chair, his heart hammering in his chest. He was gasping for breath, sweat pouring down his face as he struggled to calm himself.
It was only a nightmare… it was only a nightmare. I'm in my bedroom at home; it was only a nightmare…
He swallowed hard as he took a few deep breaths before he shakily reached for the cell phone lying on the night table beside the bed, flipped it open and pressed a button before lifting it to his ear.
Please be there, he silently begged, hearing the phone ringing, please be there…
After ten rings he was about to hang up when the phone suddenly clicked and he heard Phoenix's sleepy voice answer, a loud yawn punctuating the silence before he spoke.
"H-hello?"
Miles opened his mouth to answer but found that he couldn't say a word. For a few moments, he tried to get his mouth to work but all that came out was a hoarse croak.
Why can't I say anything?!
He was about to try again when Phoenix interrupted him, his voice sounding tired and cross. Evidently, he hadn't recognized him.
"Maya, it's 3 A.M. Go back to bed!"
"Phoenix?" Miles was at last able to get the word out, the relief in his voice palpable. The next came out in a rush. "Thank heaven! I…I'm sorry…I…"
"Miles?" His voice was curious, concerned and much more alert. "Are you okay?"
"No." Miles took a deep breath and let it out slowly. "I… I'm sorry. Just… talk to me, please… I…I just had a…nightmare..." He felt foolish even admitting it. "I'm sorry for waking you, Phoenix, I… didn't know who else to call…"
"It's all right, Miles. I'm glad that you called."
"You…are?"
"Yes. I'm glad that you thought of me when you had this nightmare-" Miles could hear the smile in his voice as he said it "-since you trust me enough to open up to me." His voice was soft. "Even if its only for something that you think is trivial." He paused for a moment, his voice sounding shy. "It … really means a lot to me, Miles…"
Miles closed his eyes, letting Phoenix's warm voice flow over him like a balm. He felt calmer now and embarrassed.
"I'm glad," he whispered softly. After a few moments more he asked, "Phoenix, could you come over…please? I…I don't want to be alone and I could really use your company."
Phoenix didn't hesitate. "All right."
Miles sighed in heartfelt relief.
"I'll send Gumshoe over in fifteen minutes to pick you up. Please be ready when he gets there."
"I'll be ready," he promised. "I'm looking forward to seeing you…"
"So am I."
"See you soon, Miles. I love you."
"I love you, too, Phoenix. See you soon."
He hung up the phone, placing it down on the night table with a soft "click", taking a deep breath. He swallowed hard, a solitary tear trickling down his cheek.
All those people…. all that blood… the dance of Death… what did it all mean?
He waited impatiently for Phoenix to arrive and, when he did, he fell upon him, hugging and kissing him with abandon. Phoenix, taken aback momentarily, put his arms around him and held him close.
"I'm here, Miles… it's all right. I'm right here…"
"Thank God." Miles held him tightly. "Please…stay with me. I… I cannot bear it alone…"
"I will, Miles, and gladly." He turned Miles' face to look into his, kissing him tenderly. "I love you."
"I love you, too." And he meant it.
They lay down together, Miles still clasped in his arms and both fell asleep soon after, in a deep, dreamless sleep.
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A white, gleaming face watched from its perch outside on the window ledge, its black shroud billowing around it in the stiff breeze, smiling with a fleshless smile, lifting Pan pipes to its lips…
.:FIN:.