spiritsword-with-a-hat

[spiritsword-with-a-hat]

Shitgo or whatever it's called 🙄🙄

[spiritsword-with-a-hat]

😳

22 years ago today I killed the hottest guy I ever met in my life.

[spiritsword-with-a-hat]

Oh boy, it is take your child to work day!

[spiritsword-with-a-hat]

The elementary school; it's only a ten minutes drive, but you are late.

Even on your worst days you are a careful driver. Statistics are looking bleak for an occupant of a car enough as it is.

As mentioned, the elementary school is only 10 minutes away. You make it in 11, because you get stopped on red lights.

The school itself bears marks of a full generation of teachers trying to make it look more cheerful and less like a prison for kids. You discover you have a lot of opinions about public education.

You walk in with the confidence of a man who is a full grown adult and therefore the teachers have no authority over him. Your feet carry you by their own memory to the school club, also known as the place where children wait for their parents to pick them up to go home. Very convenient this school club.

"Father!" a young boy shouts the moment you step in. So that is him. Your son. Miles Edgeworth. He doesn't call you "dad" or anything like that. He is also very formally dressed, the button-up clearly stands out in the middle of T-shirts, handed down by older siblings and cousins. He even has a little bowtie!

"Miles," you smile at him. "Hi, sunshine."

He makes a long face. you sense that he does not as much mind the nickname as having it dropped in front of other people.

"You are late," your son chides you.

"I've gotten into a fight with a table," you offer as an explanation.

"Did you hide under the table like we did when the earthquake hit?" Miles' eyes are enormous when he asks. "It was so scary! The biggest earthquake I remember."

Those are news to you. [Earthquake] added to Thoughts.

Now that you are thinking about it... Wasn't your office in a state of [General disarray] and didn't it experience a [Blackout]? Both of those could have been caused by an [Earthquake]. Look at you, logical genius. You had to speak to a child to figure it out, but figure it out you did in the end. A mistery no longer misterious. A way to go. And now that you've solved this little puzzle, you can peacefully forget all this.

You will still need to clean up the office later, because while you did solve the blackout problem, you did not fix the haphayard state of the place you've found it in. That, however, is a problem for a future you. Or hopefully for an intern working for you.

A woman, a teacher who is looking after the kids in the club, approaches you: "Mr. Edgeworth may I have a moment?"

"Of course, madam." You call her madam, because even though your memory is improving by the minute, her name is still escaping you.

"It's about Miles' lunch account balance."

Oh yes, of course. The monthly lunch payment. Honestly, it wouldn't be a problem for you to prepare Miles' lunches at home, but you sitll harbor some hopes that he is going to sit with kids his age at lunch and make friends at the school canteen. So far he young man has been sabotaging that attempt by bringing a book along. Currently the book in question is Forensic Psychology (3rd revised edition). Miles has promised to return it back to your bookshelf once he is done with it, this time without drawing pictures in. (The crayon drawings in your Psychology of Murder and Murder of Psychology are the highlight of the entire tome. You are not going to give that book away, ever.)

You hand the teacher the Cash envelope. That should settle it. You wait for the woman to count the 38$ inside and nod approvingly.

As you and your son make your way out of the school and get into the car - Miles is still too young and too short to sit next to you in the front - the boy peeps: "I am a grown, father, you know. I can handle delivering payments for my lunches."

"Alright," you smile as you start the engine. "Tell you what: Next time you deliver it. It's a big responsibility, but I know you can handle it."

And then... then you go home, trying to figure out what are you going to make for dinner. Miles reads in the car and predictably gets a motion sickness, but he pretends he is fine, because you've told him many times that reading in a moving vehicle is not a good idea, and he has that stubborness of a child.

Congratulations, you've reached the end of this investigation!

[previous]

[spiritsword-with-a-hat]

Search for your car keys. You have a driver's license, where are you car keys?

Calm your horses you tangled heaping of spaghetti. Your car keys, much like your home keys, are safely stored in the pocket of your coat. Sheesh, crisis averted.

Since you you are heading out anyway, you put the coat on, and while you are at it, you also don your hat. As a last touch you re-pin your badge from the lapel of your suit to your coat instead. This way everyone knows at first glance you mean business, provided that they know what the badge is.

Keys added to inventory. Now all you are missing to be prepared for everything is a knife, but- No, wait, haha, it was in your other pocket, would you believe it? Knife also added to inventory.

Alright, now you are fairly positive you have everything you could need, so you step out of the office, shutting off the lights and locking the door afterwards.

The street is worn and rucked away from the main street, but not far enough for you not to be able to make out the sound of traffic.Still, even though the hour is not late the place seems deserted. Under the balconies you notice several fallen potting plants. Perhaps the same mysterious entity that wrought havoc in your office also went on its mischievous spree here? Perhaps some sort of a large cat?

Your car is parked squarely further up the street. You don't like commuting to work by car, adding to both the air pollution and traffic, but you live on the other side of the city and the bus connection is worse than unreliable.

You unlock the door and let yourself in behind the steering wheel. The somewhat worn upholstery welcomes you as always with the scent of anti-tobacco hanging ornaments which you haven't been able to get out over the course of eleven years you've had this car. You are not the first owner of this vehicle, but besides the scent the car doesn't bear any other marks of having previously belonged to someone else. And thankfully there have never been any problems with it. Partially certainly due to your diligence in its upkeep. Speaking of, you should clean the seats this week.

You are about to turn the keys in the ignition when you stop frozen in your tracks.

(Hint: Vote for the option you want this story to take turn in. When the poll closes, new post with continuation of the story will appear, taking off from the prompt most voted for.)

[Previous]

[spiritsword-with-a-hat]

...the kitchenette and fix yourself a coffee. Pinch of self-care & ...panic, because you apparently have a child and you've remembered by accident?

You make your way over the papers to the kitchenette. It is faring better than the office by the virtue of containing less, but it is far from being tidy. It has been rather neatly organized and scrubbed clean, but that was before a mysterious force opened all the cabinets and cupboards and spilled or at least toppled their contents and then sprinkled the room with a layer of plaster dust.

It's a small room. In theory it could serve for very basic cooking, such as stir fry or soup, but practically everyone in the office brings their own food from home and heat it up either on the mostly cooperating stove top (that's the bad option) or in the microwave (that's the worse option). Or they eat out. Or they skip lunch altogether. You've settled on the rule that no takeout food is to be present in the office building, because honestly, the smell of it seeps into walls and carpets, and you are not really fond of that.

You grab and fill the electric kettle and put it to boil. It's going to take a couple of minutes, so from the cupboard you take a mug (fortunately none has broken) and get everything ready to make yourself a pour-over. No, this place does not have a coffee machine, and even if it did, it wouldn't help at all: you wouldn't know how to operate that thing.

While you are waiting for the water to boil, you make your way to the washroom. You catch a glimpse of yourself in the mirror: the left half of your face is covered in blood, some even dripped down on your shirt. You look like you haven't slept in ages. And to be completely honest, while a series of hot meals wouldn't fix everything, it would help a lot.

You decide to fix at least the blood-on-the-face thing. The cold water on your face eels absolutely divine and it helps to clear out some of the fog in your head. You wet a towel and press it on the back of your head, finally feeling the headache subside a little.

Then it hits you in full force: You have a son. You are responsible for the well-being of a whole person, one that is not you, one that trusts you to make the correct and good decisions. You can't make correct or good decisions, you are five feet nine inches of a disaster that can't even dispose of non-functional washing machines!

It means you have a family. A partner to help you take care of Miles? You rake your memories for anything, but you don't find a recent face that's been in your apartment besides you and the boy. (Oh god, he is 9. He is a little baby!) So, a single father. You are pretty sure that you have no idea what you are doing with your life, and the only reason little Miles Edgeworth hasn't called you out on it is because he doesn't know any better. What would have happened of him if you haven't just remembered? You are pretty sure that there isn't any other relative who could or would be willing to care for him.

That is a little dreary, but certainly a motivating reason not to get into any troubles that would render you unable to take care of your son.

[My son] added to Thoughts. From now on he'll be always on your mind.

You are brought back from the spiral of responsibility-induced terror by the courtesy of the electric kettle angrily whistling. You exit the washroom and finish preparing the coffee. You sip it as soon as it is ready and as a token of gratitude for your eagerness it scalds your tongue.

(A whole child! As opposed to, uh, half a child? You wouldn't know how to care for half of a child either.)

[spiritsword-with-a-hat]

Maybe the blackout is only local. Try to find the fuse box and restore power.

You instinctively reach to your left. Feeling a lightly rusty iron desk underneath your fingers, you trail along it until you touch a handle and force the fuse box open. The main switch is in the right down corner, you recall. By touch alone you recognize that it is off.

You switch it. Click. The basement remains dark, but somewhere above you you hear the faint clinking of fluorescent lamps turning on and the asthmatic whirring of the office AC reluctantly waking up.

Now that you have power back on, you hit the lightswitch next to the door. Let there be light: Click.

The basement is probably even more boring when you can see just how empty it is. It is, in fact, a collection of broken washing machines. When you first acquired the property, it was a closed laundromant. You had refurnished it to law offices, but several of the decommissioned machines had been left behind by the original proprietor, and he never answered your calls when you wanted to ask him if he'd pick them up.

You had been able to sell several of them for parts, but truth is that the models are so old and so damaged, that at this point the most expensive part is the paint. You still haven't found the time nor the loading capacity to move the remaining broken washing machines to a scarp yard.

It's a little wonder that the door to the basement were unlocked, the entire office had adopted the habit to lock it the first time your son has ventured down here and decided to "play laundry" which meant he crawled inside of the drum and spun in it as fast as it'd allow him to. Gave everyone rather the scare, especially you. Did nothing to slow you graying either.

Well, now that you can see, you suppose you can get back to the office. You turn the basement lights off again on your way out.

Upstairs, once the lights are on, you are greeted with a disaster: Most of the filling cabinets are flung open. Papers are scattered everywhere, although you've already known that. A lot of chairs is knocked over, even those you know you haven't touched. Several light-casings have detached themselves from the ceiling and fallen on the ground, along with specks of plaster here and there.

[General disarray] added to Thoughts. That's rather the euphemism for what has happened here...

The blinds are down on all the windows. The analog clock made it from the wall down and crushed the potted plant underneath it, but it keeps on ticking steadily, informing you that it is 15:13. The time seems significant, but you can't recall why.

Besides the door to the cellar, there are three more door: One leads to the lounge with the adjacent crash-room, one to the kitchenette which had a washroom attached, and finally the last one leads out.

[Previous]

(Hint: Vote for the option you want this story to take turn in. When the poll closes, new post with continuation of the story will appear, taking off from the prompt most voted for.)

[spiritsword-with-a-hat]

Find a phone and call one of the other lawyers, find out what they know. & Get to a safer position, such as a cellar.

Apparently decisiveness is not your strong suit, so you decide to roll with both of these. None of them seems like a bad option.

After a couple of awkward moments which you are glad nobody can see, because you have to look like an idiot waving your hands around and tripping over chairs and slipping on papers haphazardly scattered on the floor, you find and end table serving as a residence for the local landline.

[Scattered papers] added to Thoughts.

Digging once again into your trusty wallet, you pull out one of the random business cards, and then you open the lighter to be able to, you know, read what number is written on it. Good Lady Fortune has played the card of Manfred von Karma into your hand. Apparently the two of you are in some sort of contact, because besides the printed number there is another one written in ballpoint pen.

You pick up the receiver and dial up the ballpoint number first. But even as you press the individual buttons, it all feels... off. After a few seconds of waiting for the dial to pick up, it hits you why: The landline is silent. Normally pressing each button is accompanied by a beep of a distinct tune. But this landline does not sing its persistent tune of incoming and outgoing calls, it is dead to the world. It will definitely not call for help, or for anyone or anything else.

[Dead landline] added to Thoughts.

From the deep fogs of what is currently your memory you recall school drills which suggested that in case of danger, the safest places are the basements and cellars of buildings. You doubt that moving there would solve your current problem, but it would make you feel a little better, you suppose. Conveniently the first door you come upon open to a staircase leading down and a cool, slightly humid draft.

You descend carefully. Down here it is even darker, you can hardly tell one shadow apart from another. You take a seat on the last seat, slightly concerned that venturing further you might run into a spiderweb and end up with a spider on your face. Brr, not a pleasant thought at all.

You've had a lot of thoughts since you've woken up. Since you are going to be sitting here for a while, you might give yourself the time to examine them. So what do you have?

[Headache]

[Head injury]

[Lights not working]

[Scattered papers]

[Dead landline]

Since you have all this time at your hands, you try to see if any of them could be connected. Let's se... For example the [Head injury] could be very easily the cause for your [Headache]! You've hit your head pretty hard both on the front where it cut your forehead, and on your back where you've gotten that bump. In your experience (funny that you have that experience, but no recollection of where you've gotten it), such injuries while not dangerous can cause temporal amnesia. Wouldn't you know it, you actually have a case of amnesia! Hopefully this diagnosis goes in accordance with your experience that your memories should return withing the next few hours. Satisfied with this logical conclusion you politely show both thoughts to the door and see them out, figuratively speaking.

Quite another obvious one is the case of [Lights not working] and [Dead landline]. Both are powered by electricity. If electricity does not function, the lights wont turn on and the landline won't have any reception. You also say a goodbye to these thoughts as well.

[Blackout] added to Thoughts. Huh, that didn't happen with the previous ones. This one might be a touch more important.

[Previous]

(Hint: Vote for the option you want this story to take turn in. When the poll closes, new post with continuation of the story will appear, taking off from the prompt most voted for.)

[spiritsword-with-a-hat]

Assess your own identity. You can't be the Thinker forever.

You determine that you are not a person who likes to guess blindly, rather you prefer an analytical and logical approach. The clues to your identity are most likely going to be on you.

You examine your pockets from the top down.

In your breast pocket you find a simple lighter. Maybe you are an arsonist. Or a smoker. You open the cap and watch the flame for a moment. It doesn't as much illuminate as it emphasizes the surrounding darkness, but it is better than nothing.

Lighter added to Inventory. (Well, it's been there the whole time, but you didn't know about it, so it didn't count.)

In the back pocket of your pants you find a faux-leather wallet, thin on contents. Shucks. Going through it you find a handful of nickels, just the right ones for a coffee vending machine. (You could go for a coffee right now, come to think of it.) Then there is your biggest clue yet: The driver's license. It bears a photo of your likeness, you feel around your face to make sure that the man in the picture is really you. According to it, your name is Gregory Edgeworth. You like the sound of that. It's a serious, sensual name.

Wallet added to inventory.

Your wallet is also full business cards. All of them are various lawyers: Grossberg, Payne, von Karma, Hammond... It seems you've been holding onto them for a long time, because they are all dog-eared and the print is rather worn or smudged or both. Looking at the names, you have the distinct feeling that you don't really like any of those people. Finally at the bottom there are business cards which look much newer, and in clear writing they introduce the reader to Edgeworth Law Offices.

ELO business cards added to Inventory.

Oh dear, you are an attorney. You now have regrets about finding out your own identity. You should have spun something instead.

Finally in the inner pocket of your jacket, which you've found out only by an accident as you've straightened it up, you find an unsealed envelope. There is nothing written on it. When you peek at the contents, you find one of each 1$, 2$, 5$, 10$ and 20$, totaling at 38$. That's not enough to be a payment, and you don't strike yourself as a man to accept or deliver bribes.

Cash envelope added to Inventory.

You close the lighter to save up the fuel, and the room plunges back into an almost impenetrable darkness.

(Hint: Vote for the option you want this story to take turn in. When the poll closes, new post with continuation of the story will appear, taking off from the prompt most voted for.)

[Previous]

[spiritsword-with-a-hat]

Find the light switch, turn the lights on.

You shuffle your feet forward along the heavy-duty carpet until you reach a fall. Smooth cool plaster under your fingers serves as your guideline for what feels like an eternity, but is probably closer to a minute. Then your fingers reach a familiar light switch.

You prepare yourself for a flood of light and then flick the switch with a satisfying plastic click. Nothing happens. If anything, the darkness seems even deeper. Maybe it's just your imagination. Hopefully it's just your imagination.

Just in case this one was a fluke you flip the switch several more times. Click click click. Click. Click click. You have now successfully lost trace whether the light is supposed to be on or off now. And who is to say that it wasn't supposed to be on when you flicked the switch on for the first time?

[Lights not working] added to Thoughts.

You move your glasses up your forehead - apparently you are wearing glasses, as useless as they are right now - and rub your eyes and the bridge of your nose, and then your forehead and temples in a futile attempt to alleviate the headache.

The area above your right eyebrow is sensitive and painful to touch, covered in something thick and sticky. Since you cannot see it nor does it make a sound, and you've already touched it, you examine it with the remaining senses you posses: It smells of wet iron, and tastes of rust. Conclusion of analysis: almost dried blood. You are quite positive that it's yours.

Further examination of your forehead discloses that the wound is a shallow scratch, but since forehead holds a lot of capillary vessels, even a superficial wound cases a lot of bleeding. Nothing serious, but scary to watch. Feeling further around your head, you find a painful bump at the back of your head.

[Head injury] added to Thoughts. You are having a lot of these thoughts. The thinking kind of a man.

(Hint: Vote for the option you want this story to take turn in. When the poll closes, new post with continuation of the story will appear, taking off from the prompt most voted for.)

[Previous]

[spiritsword-with-a-hat]

You open your eyes to a... a whole a lot of darkness. Yep, that's definitely a significant lack of illumination. What can you make out. A desk and a chair. An... office room?

Oh but where are your manners! You are- you are... Huh, wouldn't you know it, you are drawing an absolute blank here. You've got nothing.

Alright, let's not lose our spirits here. You have a sharp mind and a sharper tongue, and even sharper headache. How did you get yourself a headache already, you haven't even touched anything properly yet!

[Headache] has been added to Thoughts.

Alright, so you have no idea who you are, what's going on, where you are, nor why your head hurts. Well, you can't stand here all day. You are sure you are a busy person with a busy schedule, because the only people found in offices are busy people. You should do something about your current lack of anything substantial.

(Hint: Vote for the option you want this story to take turn in. When the poll closes, new post with continuation of the story will appear, taking off from the prompt most voted for.)

[spiritsword-with-a-hat]

There is serious temptation to smack the coffee cup out of Edgeworth’s hand just for the satisfaction of watching it splatter all over the ground. It’s childish, of course - Manfred can admit that much- though the thought offers the most microscopic form of respite. Fool. Irritating fool. Edgeworth knows it too. Yet he insists on pushing, pushing, long after most would have the good sense to back down. 

“I’m not going to be a problem”.

The prosecution would far beg to differ.

“The hunter easily could be the one locating the scene in the first place, Edgeworth, not necessarily the cause of it. And you do fit the role of a scavenger quite well, having to sneak beneath those more noble in cause to snatch what you can for yourself,” he snarls. “And did you not receive a report? This is not my responsibility to hand down to you. I’m a very busy man.”

And I know you will make yourself a problem.

He doesn’t say so aloud; Edgeworth already knows. The technicians collecting evidence can evidently sense his growing ire and have fled like prey to the edges of the crime scene. Imbeciles. All he’d needed was the work done. He should’ve suspected it couldn’t be so simple.

When he lifts his head to glare, his eyes stop for the briefest moment on Edgeworth’s throat. Pale, unmarred- what would it be like, ruined by scratches, rings of red, the marks of teeth-

He blinks: where had that come from?

Banishing any further absurdity from his mind with a shake of his head, he narrows his eyes and meets Edgeworth’s gaze, the look he finds there all the more infuriating.

“You are aware I could simply station spare policemen to surround this scene to ensure you have no access here.”

“I did, as a matter of fact, receive the report,” Gregory almost rolls his yes. “It was long-winded, inconclusive and referred to the victim as ‘the corp’ several times. I know you don’t think highly of me, von Karma, or any defense attorney on this planet for that matter, but you can’t expect anyone to show up to the court hearing with just that.”

The coffee is not working. Is it decaf? It doesn’t taste like a decaf. Gregory removes the lid from his cup to ponder the contents while he can see them. It’s also a good way of avoiding staring into von Karma’s eyes, because that usually ends up with Gregory thinking of biting them out of their sockets and- Ah, here that thought comes again. Shoo, shoo. Not professional of me.

And so while the prosecutors is glaring murder, Gregory puts the lid back on the cup and hides a yawn into he crook of his elbow. That is also unprofessional of him, but physically it couldn’t be helped. Besides of it being an outlet for his piling up exhaustion, it also summarizes pretty well what he thinks of von Karma’s threats: Nothing much.

“Yes, von Karma, I am aware indeed. That is why I am here asking for your consent to have a look at the scene of the crime. Because even after all this time I am extremely foolishly clinging to the idea that at least one of us is a reasonable man and we can navigate this like,” another yawn, “civilized professionals who both want to see justice done tomorrow, even though they both have somewhat different idea of what exactly that justice is.”

Gregory takes a step and rubs his eyes under the glasses. He hates to admit it, but von Karma has a point: What is Gregory even doing here? Any evidence that he finds, if he finds anything at all, is not going to be enough tomorrow. He knows that, von Karma knows that; damn, von Karma’s made certain of that. At times like this, Gregory found himself wishing that he had grown up somewhat more of a quitter. Alas, no. He had work to do, he would do it as well as possible of him, and he is going to make sure he’s done everything he’s possibly could, save for strangling the prosecution with its own over-starched necktie.

He is tired, he doesn’t want to be here, and most of all he doesn’t want to be dealing with von Karma. Gregory just wants to be done with this, so takes another gulp of the coffee (Ow ow ow, too hot!) and says somewhat more loudly and clearly: “Why would you stall me here like this, Mr. von Karma? Are you afraid that I am going to find a contradiction to your perfect case that you’ve undoubtedly already made? That has to be it, you couldn’t mind my presence here otherwise.”

@thevonkarmacreed

“Mr. von Karma!” In spite of the early time, Gregory’s voice is bright and cheerful. It might have something to do with the paper cup of what was sold to him as coffee. “I was not made aware you take part in this case.”

He tips the hat politely as a way of a good morning, because not doing so would be rude. Then it is quickly back to warming both his hands on the paper cup. “Tell me, are you planning to leave anything to me here so I might at least build somewhat of a case to give it a semblance of an actual trial tomorrow, or is it going to be yet another ten minute monster process?”

[spiritsword-with-a-hat]

Edgeworth patiently sips his coffee and waits for the prosecutor to finish his tirade; in his experience interrupting him has never actually cut to the chase. On the contrary, in fact.

“Yes, and we both know that the precinct would find a probable cause for arrest on a church mouse if it was around. Because if the Detectives don’t make arrests, they don’t get their bonuses, and Heaven and Hell knows they want those since they get paid breadcrumbs which the Prosecution Office tends to dock whenever it wakes up on the wrong side of the bed.” He sighs and drums his fingers on the coffee cup.

Truth be told, the attorney would consider it nothing short of a miracle if bon Karma was actually listening to him. He might be hearing him, yes, but that does not equal listening. In that frowning head, as far as Gregory is concerned, is not a single braincell attempting to unearth the meaning of the words spoken. Gregory might just as well be making up some lorem ipsum on the spot. (One of these days he is going to come to a crime scene too tired to restrain himself from saying just that.)

“You might want to rethink the metaphor about me scavenging. It implies you being the hunter, which is the role responsible for the dead body in the first place.” Just for a good measure he throws in a smile.

“Maybe call me an ambulance chaser next time. You can’t go wrong with that. Anyway, may I come in?” Gregory punctuates the question by tapping the Do-Not-Cross police tape. “I’d like to just have a look around to know what is my defendant of the week supposedly guilty of. She frankly has absolutely no idea. I am not going to be a problem.”

Gregory’s tone has been casual, but his face plainly states: “You know that I know that you know that if you don’t let me in now, I am going to come here later when you and your people won’t be here, and then I am going to be extremely pedantic and annoying in the court tomorrow, even though it won’t change a thing, because that’s all I am going to get for overtimes.”

@thevonkarmacreed

“Mr. von Karma!” In spite of the early time, Gregory’s voice is bright and cheerful. It might have something to do with the paper cup of what was sold to him as coffee. “I was not made aware you take part in this case.”

He tips the hat politely as a way of a good morning, because not doing so would be rude. Then it is quickly back to warming both his hands on the paper cup. “Tell me, are you planning to leave anything to me here so I might at least build somewhat of a case to give it a semblance of an actual trial tomorrow, or is it going to be yet another ten minute monster process?”

[spiritsword-with-a-hat]

Aforementioned Edgeworth-in-italics idly wonders if it would kill the “god of prosecutors” were he more friendly. Perhaps it wouldn’t kill the man himself, but it would most likely cause a cardiac arrest in the witnesses of the event. Gregory decides to let von Karma’s manners (or lack of thereof) slide with a soft sigh rather than pointing it out.

He fixes his glasses, rather out of habit than necessity, and lets his plastered smile crumble. “Almost correct, Mr. von Karma. The defendant is innocent until proven otherwise, which is decided when the judge passes the verdict.” Gregory pointedly does not add ‘and not when you decide whom you are getting the guilty verdict’, but he thinks his expression says that for him. “It is called ‘presumption of innocence’,” he cannot help himself but jab.

The coffee is sipped with caution, because Gregory has already burned his tongue on it once today. “And you dodged my question, sir.”

@thevonkarmacreed

“Mr. von Karma!” In spite of the early time, Gregory’s voice is bright and cheerful. It might have something to do with the paper cup of what was sold to him as coffee. “I was not made aware you take part in this case.”

He tips the hat politely as a way of a good morning, because not doing so would be rude. Then it is quickly back to warming both his hands on the paper cup. “Tell me, are you planning to leave anything to me here so I might at least build somewhat of a case to give it a semblance of an actual trial tomorrow, or is it going to be yet another ten minute monster process?”

[spiritsword-with-a-hat]

@thevonkarmacreed

“Mr. von Karma!” In spite of the early time, Gregory’s voice is bright and cheerful. It might have something to do with the paper cup of what was sold to him as coffee. “I was not made aware you take part in this case.”

He tips the hat politely as a way of a good morning, because not doing so would be rude. Then it is quickly back to warming both his hands on the paper cup. “Tell me, are you planning to leave anything to me here so I might at least build somewhat of a case to give it a semblance of an actual trial tomorrow, or is it going to be yet another ten minute monster process?”

[spiritsword-with-a-hat]

Rules, muse, RP

This is a roleplay blog. Gregory Edgeworth is a fictional character (originating in the Ace Attorney series by Capcom), the situations and other characters described on this blog are fictional and their semblance to any real events and people is coincidental, unless established otherwise.

General terms of RP

I (the mun) am of legal age. Mature topics might appear on this blog, and they will be tagged. I will not require any proof/verification of age for nsfw play, because I assume you know what you are doing, but I am going to discuss what is about to be played.

Participants in RP are responsible for their well-being and are advised to take it up with their conscience which topics they are comfortable playing out, and to disengage from the RP if they do not feel comfortable with it for whatever reason.

I reserve the right to disengage from RP at any time. I will always attempt to notify the RPing partner should that happen.

(I am of the opinion that all of the aforementioned is the default no-brainer setting, but just in case, TL;DR: I am not your mom, I am going to trust you to know your limits, and if you aren’t going to be a decent person we are done.)

Muse

name: Gregory Edgeworth

gender: cis male

sexuality: pansexual (“vaguely aware there are options”)

defense attorney

hasn’t slept properly in a week

if he had a dollar for every absurd thing that’s happened to him, he could safely retire today

he will get to the bottom of this case even if it kills him

but it has to be before 3 PM, he has to pick his son up from school

has he told you about his son?

hardboiled? he’d prefer his eggs scrambled, but thank you.

By default you are meeting Gregory Edgeworth of the late 1990’s: a veteran defense attorney keeping odd hours, taking care of his young son Miles who’s recently started school, still coping with his wife passing.

At your request you can meet younger Gregory, his ghost, his alternate self that did not die tragically in an elevator, his slightly confused resurrected self that got channeled by a mystic, or any other Gregory you’d like. You only need to ask.

I am too tired to suffer absolute bollocks in my askbox. Bollock-senders will be lobotomised with a pickaxe (metaphorically).