Là où—


Là où l'enfer pourrait il avoir—


Je jure que c'était exact ici...


Ne me dites que...


Il n'y a aucune manière—


Il n'y a AUCUNE—

.......

....ring......ring......

...click...


"Sparow Leroux."


<Sparow, cher.>


"...Mère."


<Oui.>


"Pourquoi m'appelles-tu?"


<Nous avons reçu ton lettre dans le courrier—>


"C'était il y a un long temps."


<—Nous avons voulu voir comment tu fais.>


"Je suis bien. J'ai dit que j'étais bien."


<Je sais. Mais nous voulions toujours tu appeler.>


"Je vois."


<...Veux-tu parler à ton père?>


"......Je—"


<Allô?>


"Allô, père."


<Mon Piafette.>


"...Comment vas-tu?"


<Nous allons bien. Les médecins disent que je devrais détendre davantage. Je pense qu'ils sont fous.>


"Je vois."


<...Tu manquons beaucoup.>


<Demandez-lui...>


<Un moment, Piafette. Demandez-lui ce qui?>


<Au sujet de... Au sujet de ce que nous avons parlét...>


<Cherie, nous ne pouvons pas lui demander cela.>


<Nous pas devons— Juste... Laisses-moi l'avoir. Allô? Sparow?>


"Oui."


<Nous avons pensé que—>


"Oui?"


<Nous avons pensé— Quand reviendras-tu en France?>


"Mère—"


<Tu ne dois pas déménager. Peut-être pour juste une visite...>


"Mère, je suis une personne très occupée maintenant. Avec des responsabilités—"


<Je sais.>


"—et une carrière—"


<Je sais.>


"—un bon nombre de gens dépendent de moi."


<Oui, je comprends. Désolé. Toujours seul vis-tu?>


"Oui. Bien que je ne voie pas—"


<Nous inquiétons de tu.>


"Je sais."


<Nous voulons juste que tu sois heureux.>


"Je sais."


<Es-tu heureux?>


"Non."


<Es-tu triste?>


"...Je ne sais pas."





"...Je dois partir maintenant."


<Bien. Il est temps de nuit aux Etats-Unis, n'est-ce pas? Bonne nuit.>


"Bonne nuit."


<Nous t'aimons.>


"Bien. Au revoir."


....click...........

..............


I could make myself happy if I wanted to.


( OOC: Translation )

She'd been working from her apartment for the past few days.

Sparow sat at her drafting desk, cradling a hot mug of coffee in one hand.

It hadn't been a very difficult arrangement at all. She had simply told her boss that her current assignment required many resources she kept at home and it would clearly be easier to have her work sent there. As for her underlings... Well, all she had to do was call in every couple of hours or so. They'd know by now that slacking on the job was unacceptable, whether she was present to supervise their work or not.

Marcia insisted on sending her a copy of the L.A. Times everyday, in order to "enlighten her on her many accomplishments," and so there it sat at the top of her usual pile of work. She sighed. Such a waste. Perhaps one of these days, her secretary would realize just what she did to those damn papers. She probably wouldn't be entirely pleased to find that her well-meant sentiments always met an unhappy end with the garbage truck every Tuesday. With another sigh, Sparow took a sip from her mug and quickly glanced at the newspaper with an uninterested eye.

She nearly spat her coffee right back out as a hauntingly familiar name caught her attention.

Erik Corneille.

Haphazardly, she swallowed the scalding hot liquid, feeling it burn and drop all the way down her throat and to her stomach like a brick of lead, and then stared wide-eyed at the headline.

"Wh— Wha—"

Sparow quickly grabbed the newspaper and brought it closer to her face, skimming through the article quickly with narrowed eyes.

"What is the meaning of this?!"

Prosecutor Miles Edgeworth. Prosecutor von Karma. Trial. Murder. Not Guilty.

This was the exact same thing she had relived but a couple days ago.

She read over the article several more times. It was small at least. Yes, it was small. Minuscule even. Hardly worth a glance-over. No one read the papers anymore, did they? She doubted anyone would be able to connect this article to her at all— maybe they'd talk about it a bit, maybe... but she'd have to be careful.

Despite her half-attempted efforts at soothing her mind, Sparow felt the blood boiling in her veins, and she was certain it wasn't just from the coffee... The man was dead, for Christ's sake!

Dead... she repeated to herself.

Her face twisted into a scowl. No... This was... This was...

"...Unacceptable."


[The article may be found here]

( Sparow blew out an angry, frustrated puff of smoke, deciding to stare at a random spot on the wall instead of the man that had suddenly decided to revive the ghosts of her past )

[Don't get it? Make sure you read this post and this one first.]

[RP meme go!

Post a question (or questions) you want my RP character to answer. I will then (try to) respond to the question given in-character. Questions may be asked OOC or IC. There is no limit to the number of questions you can post.]

[This takes place after Sparow visits Phoenix at the hospital]

( "Times change, as do people. I am no exception to that standard." )

I think I may have everything figured out now.

...Well. Now to wait.

There was something wrong.

But Sparow, for the life of her, couldn't figure out just what it was.

Here she sat, idly scribbling away at a form she'd been completely focused on... up until now. She didn't have to look up to notice her surroundings, because it was just the same as she had left it. Same desk. Same chair. Same phone.

And yet she couldn't help but feel that there was still something wrong.

Her hand stilled mid-sentence.

Well. That was certainly a strange thought. But that didn't stop the nagging feeling in the pit of her stomach. After-all, she'd never been one to acknowledge her... inner demons.

Could she call them that?

No. She couldn't. Because she didn't have any, or ever, and if she did, then she certainly wouldn't care about them, much less acknowledge them, so whatever she was feeling obviously must be nausea of some sort, probably from the coffee she had this morning and not a feeling of unease or guilt and that was that so there—

Without entirely knowing what she was doing, Sparow placed down her pen, opened one of her desk drawers and pulled out a small scrap of paper with a vaguely familiar phone number scrawled on it (Why did she still have it anyway? Better yet, what was it doing in her desk?). She flipped it over in her hand, as if expecting it to contain more, a hidden meaning or message of some sort. There were none. Just the phone number. She stared at it blankly, completely still, as if expecting the innocent scrap of paper to jump at her should she make a wrong move.

Another moment passed in complete silence.

She picked up her phone carefully and dialed.

....buzz....

........buzz.....

....click.

<We're sorry, the number you have dialed is unavai—>

Sparow hastily slammed down the receiver back into its cradle, eyes slightly wider, as if she'd just been burnt.

What had she just been doing? She had dialed his number... consciously so? In fact, she had waited for an answer. What had she been planning to say?

An amusing thought (if she were one to be amused). She finally decided that she was being silly. Sparow Leroux never made personal calls, especially ones to relieve her, ahem, "inner demons" (she'd use the phrase simply to humor herself). This number didn't even work... And there were more important things to worry about at the moment. Like these budget forms in front of her. Those were always important. Last month's checkbook record wasn't going to balance itself. She picked her pen back up and began writing again.

Any other time, she might have noticed how she kept glancing at the phone every ten minutes or so. Didn't she say "no calls?"

Her grip tightened around her pen. The nagging feeling still refused to leave. Bad coffee beans. That was it... There was plenty of time to figure this out later, right?

Wright.

......

...Fuck.

It was another week before Sparow stepped back into La Rue Mode. The lobby was always particularly crowded at this time of day. Over the years, she had grown quite accustomed to the stares she so often received, and even more so to the heated whispers she so often chose to ignore. The stares and whispers were particularly strong today. Being away from the company so long would do that to her. With a cup of coffee in one hand and a thick manila folder stuffed full of papers tucked under the other arm, she strode through the lobby with her usual air of sophistication—eyes front, walk steady—making a confident line to the elevator.

She had once promised herself to never arrive to work no later than 7 in the morning (the company officially opened at 9), ironically; that was her policy, but certain times called for unfortunate measures, she supposed.

It was now 12 and most (if not all) of her co-workers would already be at the company, doubtlessly flooding the workroom to reach their current deadline and that was perhaps what she dreaded the most.

When had she become so approachable? Wasn't her cold demeanor enough to keep society at bay? Her deadpan wit? Her empty stare?

Obviously not, for when she entered the elevator, she found she was going to be accompanied by two other people (one she recognized as a designer working underneath her direction), while she normally rode alone. There was a time where she could cut a swath through the crowds, as if she were Moses himself parting the Red Sea. Perhaps it was simply the season to be social. She made sure to stand in the center of the elevator nonetheless.

"New scent on you, Ms. Leroux?" the designer said shyly. "It smells exotic."

Velvet Tuberose. The fragrance wouldn't be released in stores until a month from now and she already had the signature collection under her possession. She had mixed some of the body lotion with the eau de toilette, and she had made sure to apply a conservative amount of the new solution to her neck and wrists, where the fragrance would be the most noticeable. Clearly, the technique had done its job, for she heard the other person in the elevator (she hadn't the foggiest clue who he might have been) make a small sound of agreement.

The elevator arrived at her floor. The doors opened. She strode through.

As she had expected, the workroom suddenly roared to life as designers and models and clients alike eagerly vocalized their esteemed fashion director's return. She ignored most of them and couldn't quite hear the rest. By the time she had grown accustom to the noise, all of their words seemed to mesh into one common ground.

"Good day, Ms. Leroux! It's good to have you back! How have you been doing? Is that a new ensemble you're wearing?"

If Sparow ever had anything to say about her co-workers, it would be that at least they noticed a difference when they saw one. Today she was sporting a sleeveless knit top with a wide turtleneck of her own creation and design, 7 For All Mankind jeans, and a pair of Sonora boots. She normally didn't wear clothes this casual, especially to work, and she was at work 90% of the time, so the whole company was bound to notice. A simple piece. Nothing complex. And yet it was still considered ingenious.

She made her way through the workroom quickly, heading for her own office at the end of the hall, eyes front and walk steady. Her secretary, Marcia, shot up from her desk at the sight of her. "Welcome back, Ms. Leroux!! I've left your paperwork on your desk, as usual, along with today's printing of the L.A. Times! Oh wow, what a great new look on you!" said Marcia cheerfully.

As if on cue, Sparow casually flipped her hair over her shoulder. She had paid a visit to her hairstylist the day earlier. Her dark brown locks now fell in long, soft waves over her shoulders. Stylish, yet classy, and easy to manage, especially with the care she normally gave it. She just barely gave her secretary a first glance from behind her new Chanel sunglasses before stepping through the double-doors of her office. The doors deftly closed themselves after her with a soft click.

The company would talk about her new look for quite a while.

That would be ideal.

Sparow Leroux made her way to her desk—a familiar path, now that she'd done so—and gingerly situated herself into her seat. The paperwork was there on her desk, as promised, along with the other paper. She picked up a fountain pen for the files and idly tossed the newspaper into the waste bin without looking.

Same chair. Same desk. Same phone.

Everything was just as she left it.

She pressed the intercom button.

"No calls, Marcia. I will be occupied for the rest of the day."

She had work to do.

Mère et père:

Je vais bien.

J'ai envoyé quelques cadeaux. Ils sont des vêtements pour vous. S'ils sont trop grands ou trop petits, je suis désolé. Je ne sais plus vos tailles, j'espère que c'est pareil.

Si vous avez besoin d'argent, demandez-moi. J'ai l'abondance.

En outre, s'il vous plait, n'allez pas à la été à la maison. Je ne pense pas qu'il sera bon pour votre santé. Trop de soleil.

Mais, s'il vous plait ne le vendez pas. Il est plein des mémoires.

Peut-être si je visite, nous pouvons aller ensemble.

Je sais que vous vous inquiétez toujours de moi. Avec ce qui s'est produit...

Mais, ne vous inquiétez pas de moi.


Sparow


( OOC: Translation )

.......

....ring......ring......


"You've reached the secretary of Ms. Sparow Leroux, my name is Marcia. Ms. Leroux is currently absent, how may I redirect your call?"


<Marcia.>


"Oh, Ms. Leroux!! I didn't recognize your number! How have you been?"


<Keep your voice down, Marcia, it's not like I've died. I'm using a payphone to call you because my cellphone does not work in this area.>


"Yes, sorry, Ms. Leroux!"


<Now listen carefully. It seems I will not be at the company for an indefinite amount of time. I am out of the area as it is. I need you to do several things for me, Marcia. I want you to reorganize my schedule for me thus. Mr. XXXXX is to supervise and overlook any company designs that I was to do myself. No meetings until I get back personally.>


"But what about your work, Ms. Leroux?"


<Have all my work delivered to my P.O. Box, #XXXXXX. I will have it done in a timely manner and delivered back to the company.>


"Anything, Ms. Leroux, but what shall I tell everyone?"


<Tell them I will be performing my work in an isolated area and I do not wish to be interrupted. Tell them I am revitalizing my inspiration. Do not tell them I'm on vacation or sick-leave. That is all you will tell anyone that asks, do you understand?>


"Yes, I understand! I'll have it done right away, Ms. Leroux!"


<Oh, and Marcia, I would like to make it clear that I don't want anyone replacing me for my position. Speak to the proper higher-ups. Make sure you tell them how vital I am to the company. They won't be able to do anything without me. You're a persuasive woman, Marcia. Pull out all the stops.>


"Of course, Ms. Leroux! Of course!"


<Good woman. I expect everything to be back in order when I come back. Good-bye, Marcia.>


"Good-bye, Ms. Leroux! Please hurry back!"


....click...........

..............

[The contents of this conversation are not public knowledge.]

( "Are you... threatening me, Mr. Engarde?" )

J'ai trouvé un sanctuaire.

Je serai sûr. Je serai.

Il est peu un étrange. En pouvant faire confiance à des personnes aimez ceci.

Je suis plus calme.

Peut-être il est en raison des mots de cet homme... Peut-être c'est votre nom qui le donne loin. Il est impair. Mais je l'aime. Il est comme moi de façon ou d'autre.

J'ai besoin toujours de choses.

Je ne peux pas le laisser continuer à m'effrayer comme ceci.

Merci. Quelqu'un. Pour cette chance.



Il n'est pas fini encore.



Mais maintenant au moins j'ai le temps.


( OOC: Extra, 'Ring Ring' Lyrics )