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jynxedshapeshifter · 5 months ago

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I've probably talked about this before but Kazuma's themes fucking kill me.

Samurai On A Mission and Kazuma Asogi: Nocturne are both in a major key. Samurai on a Mission feels happy. It makes you excited. Nocturne's slower, and it's more bittersweet. But it still fills you with optimism. It still feels good to listen to. It gives you the feeling that even if Kazuma's gone, this isn't the end. There's still stuff Ryunosuke needs to do in Kazuma's place.

Compare them to His Glorious Return and A Prosecutor, Reborn, and it's the complete opposite. The opening to His Glorious Return feels just slightly off. Like I don't think it's in a different key than Samurai on a Mission, but it's different enough to just feel off. I think it might be the instruments honestly. His Glorious Return is closer to Nocturne than Samurai on a Mission (obviously it's the same motif but His Glorious Return is closer to Nocturne than Samurai on a Mission because it's slower).

And THEN you get to A Prosecutor, Reborn. How fucking dare they. At this point in the game, not just is Kazuma prosecuting Barok, but his motive is made clear to be revenge (iirc). A Prosecutor, Reborn is basically just Samurai on a Mission with different instruments and in a minor key. A Prosecutor, Reborn specifically has fairly prominent harpsichord in it. The same also applies to Barok's theme. You get the vibe that something is seriously wrong here.

You can literally understand Kazuma's arc before The Resolve of Ryunosuke Naruhodo from his themes alone. That's. impressive. Like just to be clear this isn't the first nor the only time Ace Attorney does this. It was also done with Eustace's themes, Winning Deductions and Winning Independence. But it's so impressive that they gave Kazuma four unique sounding themes using the same motif and made it easy to tell how his story goes just in music. Like just listening to his themes, it goes happiness and positivity > oh actually this is kind of bittersweet. there's still work to be done so we must go on > triumph but also a little bit of "something's off here" > wow what the fuck happened here

It's so impressive to me?? But also the fact that Kazuma has four unique sounding themes that use the same motif is incredibly impressive. All four are basically the same song but different depending on the vibe needed for the part of the game they're featured in. Doing that with anything is hard.

A similar thing is done with the Dance of Deduction tracks. Partners ~ The Game Is Afoot! feels more complete than the initial Joint Reasoning tracks. Listening to the initial Joint Reasoning tracks and then listening to Partners ~ The Game Is Afoot! makes it incredibly obvious to me. In this case, it goes from "this is fun and upbeat!" during Joint Reasoning [TYPE A], then goes to "we're getting a little more intense" during Joint Reasoning [TYPE B], then to "oh now we're getting INTENSE" during Joint Reasoning [TYPE C], then to "shit just got REALLY serious" with Partners ~ The Game Is Afoot! Even the backstage tracks (the ones that play when you either fill in the blanks or correct one of Sholmes's deductions) are like this. It feels more intense and high energy during Sholmes and Mikotoba's Dance of Deduction.

Anyway my point is TGAA is genuinely the best video game soundtrack ever in my opinion and even tops most movie soundtracks for me. I'm almost completely convinced this is because they made the soundtrack sound like music you'd get in Victorian England. I don't think the soundtrack would be nearly as good without the Victorian sound. Anyway back to drawing I go

#ace attorney #the great ace attorney #tgaa #tgaa2 #tgaa2 spoilers #dgs #dgs2 #dgs2 spoilers #i would make an entire post analyzing tgaa's soundtrack but despite music being one of my best subjects in school #i suck at positively identifying certain instruments. violins and violas sound incredibly similar to me. so do clarinets and oboes #and the irony is i took band in 7th grade with an oboe player so i should be able to tell the difference between an oboe and a clarinet lol #my last two posts were made because im drawing beagle ema and listening to ace attorney soundtracks while i do #just for context lol #this post specifically came from a track from tgaa popping up. dont remember if it was his glorious return specifically or not #it probably was

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turnupswritessometimes · 1 year ago

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Butterflies - Ch4 - Lies of P/Alice Madness Returns

Relationship: P/Alice Liddell

Ao3 Link: https://archiveofourown.org/works/53898544/chapters/136426825

Next | Previous | First

Summary: “But why go looking for other realities, when there’s no guarantee you’ll pass through to them?” “Because it’s an experiment, and I jolly well won’t learn anything more about all this unless I try,” Alice replied.

Having figured out how to slip in and out of Wonderland entirely, Alice Liddell sets off on a journey to find more realities around her own. When she follows a blue butterfly to Hotel Krat, she meets P. The more time they spend together, the more they feel as though there’s someone else out there, just like them.

Chapter Four: In Which Alice and P Spar Against Each Other

Alice had enjoyed talking with Eugenie; with someone who knew how to handle weapons, and who’d admired her own. And then she’d met P again. And though her heart had been behaving erratically, she'd liked it. She'd liked meeting someone who was like her – because he was, she thought. There was something about him that was like her.

Now they stood in the courtyard of the hotel, in the weak morning sunlight, facing each other. Ready to spar. Alice held her knife in her hand, and realised that she knew nothing about fighting. Not really. She only knew how to fight for her life. Not practice, like this.

There was a half puppet mounted on a stick in the courtyard, which fruitlessly waved its fists like a boxer. They were both pointedly ignoring it.

P looked back at her, his eyes catching the lights from the hotel. “Are you sure about this?”

“Of course I am.”

He nodded. “Alright.”

Yet, neither of them moved. They stared at each other, fingers clenching on their weapons. Alice took a breath.

“On three?”

P nodded again.

And that was what they did. On three P darted forward, swift as a cat and light on his feet. Alice raised her blade, just in time.

There was the fantastic clatter of metal on metal. P’s sword pressed against Alice’s dagger with enough force to send her sliding back a half-step. She suspected he was holding back on her.

She sidestepped. Slashed out with the vorpal blade and it was caught by P. Caught again, when she tried a different slice. And again, as she lunged, her weight behind it. P shifted his weight backward, catching it on his own. He didn’t hold her parry for longer than a moment; just a glancing blow against each other.

Alice retreated. P let her. Watched her, as she circled him, slowly, but he met her at every step, his sword outstretched. And, the moment she paused to catch her breath, to think, he was there. His blows were rapid, and she fumbled to catch them on her own.

She was good at fighting. In Wonderland, she was good. She’d taken down opponents bigger and more powerful than this. And yet, she felt clumsy. Her boots stumbled and her spare arm felt heavy. She was barely holding her own, and P didn’t even seem winded.

P stopped, for a moment, his blade diagonal over his chest, like a shield. “You’re good.”

“Are you lying?” she asked, swapping the hand her knife was in; her palm was sweaty.

P shook his head. He frowned, as though the thought offended him.

“Try again,” he said. “You won’t hurt me.”

Not because he was too good, because she couldn’t. She physically couldn’t hurt him, only break him. So, Alice redoubled her efforts, trying to recapture the desperate fight for her life that she felt in Wonderland. She slashed and blocked and ducked and swayed, trying not to pay attention to her footwork or her posture; she never had before. It was easier if she acted on instinct.

The problem was, P’s sword was much longer than her dagger. He had a range that she didn’t have; she had to get close if she wanted her attacks to land at all.

But getting close had its advantages, Alice reasoned. She waited, until their blades were locked, before she hooked her boot around P’s, just as she’d learnt from the street boys back in London.

It did unbalance P, too. But as he fell, he twisted his sword deftly, so it caught the front of Alice’s blade. She lost her grip on the vorpal blade; it spun out of her hand; she fell too; staring at her knife and P’s sword spinning in silver arcs through the air.

A judder went through her body, as she landed.

Not on the floor.

She’d landed on top of P, her palms on his chest, and their legs tangled together on the cobblestones. For a moment, she was winded; he was so solid underneath her. Alice started to pull herself up, but she froze when she was halfway, her hair falling down in a dark wave.

P’s eyes were wide, staring up at her, and very blue. This close, she could see the freckles across his nose and cheekbones. See there were more on his temple. The pattern was so natural; it was strange to think he must have been designed that way. Someone had painted his freckles.

But what made her stop was his smile. A small, stunned smile as he stared.

“I’m so sorry – I cannot apologise enough,” she murmured, still trying to get herself in order.

P blinked. “You’re apologising for winning?”

“I have no weapon.” She needed to move. Why hadn’t she moved? She couldn’t lay sprawled on a boy, like this. “I think we can call this a draw.”

P hadn’t moved at all; his hands were at his sides. “You could strangle me.”

Could she? His chest felt hard and unmoving under her palms. She shook her head. “I doubt it. You could easily overpower me. It would be you strangling me, sir.”

And then she thought about that; about the two of them rolling around on the floor, grappling for power, and how thoroughly improper that was. She felt herself flush with heat, and yet, still couldn’t bring herself to get off this boy.

“I won’t do that.” P got onto his elbows, as though he was trying to reassure her. Did he think she had gone red because she thought he would? It would be impossible to explain that wasn’t the case.

“I didn’t think—” Her hands had shifted, with P’s movement, and she stopped. She’d felt something, under her right palm. She pressed, more firmly, against his chest, and felt it again.

A heartbeat. A solid heartbeat. Slightly fast.

P sat, properly, and she shifted with him, only dimly aware she was on his lap, now. (If she was truly aware, she’d be mortified, but she was distracted now.) His hand covered hers, keeping it pressed against the heartbeat. The hand that looked like hers, not his weapon-arm.

“It’s called a P-organ,” he said.

Alice barely breathed. She felt as though she was under a spell; enchanted by the feeling of his heart underneath her hand. A steady heartbeat from a puppet’s chest. Eventually, she became aware of those too-blue eyes watching her. Her own heart thudded, as she met P’s eyes. They practically shone.

“It feels…” She tried to catch her breath, but it felt difficult. “The same.”

“The same?”

“The same.” She took his wrist – the one that wasn’t mechanical – and brought it to her own chest. (The impropriety hardly seemed to matter, anymore – seemed easier to forget about it, entirely.) She pressed his palm against her own racing heartbeat.

P stared at their hands. His fingers twitched, and his palm pressed against her breastbone. Alice was very aware of how fast it was beating. She watched P’s expression of awe.

“Like butterfly wings,” he murmured, with his soft voice.

Alice nodded.

Neither of them moved. They stayed in the courtyard, in the weak morning light.

Until it began to drizzle.

Alice was not repulsed by P. She’d been fascinated by his P-organ; fascinated by him. She didn’t pull away when they touched; didn’t scramble away in horror. She’d stayed. She’d showed him her own heartbeat.

It had felt magical.

When it had began raining, they had moved. Slowly, as though in a dream, picking up their respective weapons and heading to the safety of the hotel. They stood, just in the doorway, watching the rain pitter onto the cobblestones.

P stood next to a human, who didn’t care he was a puppet. Who treated him, he thought, as if he was just as human as her. He liked that feeling.

Alice’s cheeks weren’t crimson anymore. They weren’t deathly pale, either, but pink. As pink as carnations. P liked seeing her blush. He fiddled with the hilt of his sword, flexing the fingers of his legion arm.

"I think we can both admit you are the more capable fighter," Alice said. She didn't look at him. That was fine. His mind was still full of her very green eyes. Eyes like he imagined the grass would be. Eyes like the tree leaves in summer.

"I was taught to fence," he said. That made it sound like it was something he'd learnt, and not something ingrained within him. As if he was built for a purpose other than to fight. "That's all. I can teach you."

Alice fingered the blade of her dagger. Her hair fell forward, shielding her face from view. She didn’t reply.

He continued, "If you teach me the moves you used on me."

"That's how we fought in the streets," she replied. "It isn't fair fighting."

He thought about that. He thought about how it felt to fight puppets, when they were only under orders to fight. He thought about how he would use any weapon in his arsenal to win against them, including pipes and chains. He thought about how he didn’t want to fight sometimes. He hadn’t wanted to fight some of the humans he’d faced; they’d only fought him because he was a puppet. He wasn’t like them; he didn’t bleed, and he didn’t tire.

"Is any fighting fair?"

She brushed her hair back then, and examined him with cat-like eyes, like she had before. Like he surprised her; like she was intrigued by him. "Are all puppets so philosophical?"

When anyone said something like that, it reminded P of what he was. (How could he forget, even for a moment?) He felt very aware of his springs, ticking inside him, instead of a real heart. He looked back towards the courtyard, letting his own hair fall forward. His father had cut it back, when it had grown, and he wished he hadn’t. Wished he could hide behind it too.

"I'm not like other puppets."

Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Alice let go of her hair, and clench her fist. As though she was aware she'd hurt his feelings, and felt bad about it.

"I can teach you how to fight like a street urchin," she said. "If you teach me how to fence. Is that a fair deal?"

P turned back to her; her hair was messy from the rain and half-frizzy – beautiful – and it sounded like that was her apology, and he liked that better than the word 'sorry.' He nodded. Smiled a little.

Alice smiled back. She held out her hand again, for him to shake. He took it, and felt Gemini's vibrate against his hip. He'd kept mercifully quiet all morning.

P hesitated. Then, with the same push he felt when he went into battle, brought Alice's hand to his mouth. He pressed his lips against the back of her fingers, his eyes on hers. Her cheeks had turned back to red, and her eyes were wide. But she still smiled. A small, shocked smile.

"I'll find you a foil," he murmured.

Alice nodded. She tucked her hair behind her ear.

P found himself turning jerkily, turning and heading back through the foyer.

His arm was caught, as he passed, and he stopped himself just in time from powering his legion arm and attacking. It was only Vegnini. Grinning at him like a Cheshire Cat.

"Very smoothly done, my friend," he said. "You're more of a Casanova than I expected."

P raised an eyebrow at him. It was easier to be impassive with Vegnini – he suspected it amused him. He was the only one not intimated by P's silence. It was strangely refreshing.

"You know I have had many partners in my three decades, don't you? Gentlemen, ladies, a few puppets, so you know I have plenty of advice." Vegnini leant closer. "For starters, you look much too nervous. Ladies notice that, you know."

P looked over his shoulder, wondering how he could look anything. Vegnini's voice carried, and Alice had no doubt heard. She was brushing down her apron and seemed to be politely ignoring the conversation about her. Because she was a lady.

"Thank you," P said. "I'm alright."

"Suit yourself, my friend." Vegnini let his shoulder go, though not without giving him another sharp elbow.

P didn't reply. He gave a single, sharp nod, and continued on. How was it that Vegnini could read how he felt so easily? (If that even was how he felt?) And he didn't find the idea of a puppet in love impossible?

Love was a powerful word. He didn't know anything about love. Love was for humans, surely.

P wouldn't think about it. That was simpler.

They fought alongside each other. Alice followed P onto the streets of Krat, in the drizzly afternoon. He taught her footwork; taught her how to hold a foil and how to parry. They practised on quiet streets, before facing the puppets that still walked the streets. The factory was shut down, and yet, they still seemed to keep appearing, as relentlessly as the monsters in the outer parts of the city.

P had not told Alice about the monsters. Not yet.

She was a quick study. She moved fast; she was determined to be perfect. Her eyes gleamed in the soft afternoon light like a cat’s when she did. In return, she taught him the opposite; to fight with whatever he could. Small, underhanded tricks which were nothing like fencing, and often didn’t require a weapon.

“The heel of your palm,” she said. “Against the bridge of someone’s nose. It should break it, and get them off of you.”

They were stood very close, in one of the many alleyways of Rosa Isabelle Street. She’d shown him with her own hand, moving slowly, and she’d let him. Her skin just nudged his own, and he felt – something. Like sparks. Like he was breaking.

“Have you ever had to do that?” he asked, looking between her fingers to her face.

Alice bit her lip. She pulled her hand back, and held it against her chest. “London can be dangerous, if you’re a girl.”

He didn’t like the sound of that; he clenched his legion arm, and released his fist, slowly. Alice had proven that she could take care of herself – she had gotten the better of him – but he still didn’t like the idea of her having to defend herself like that.

She leant against the alley wall, glancing out onto the street. It was as deserted as Krat could be, meaning it was piled high with puppet parts and there was a leg poking out from underneath a carriage.

“I suppose Krat is a dangerous place for you, too,” she murmured.

P paused. He took a moment, then joined her against the wall, brushing dirt and oil from his legion arm.

“Yes,” he said, finally. “Almost everyone attacks me.”

Puppets, monsters, humans. They didn’t even give him a chance to speak, most of the time.

“Almost?”

“There’s the fox and the cat,” P said. “They’re – friends. And the hotel guests. And – you.”

“And me.” Alice ducked her chin, tucking her hair behind her ear. It was pale as bone compared to ink of her hair. “It’s certainly a surprise for me too. Normally, I’m besieged by monsters the moment I go to Wonderland.”

Monsters? She fought monsters too. It made sense; how she was so fearless about Krat, and so accepting of what he was. He wanted to know more – he wanted to know about London and Wonderland and how it was that Alice could travel through all of these places. He wanted to know about those places: places other than Krat; the world.

“What’s Wonderland like?”

“Impossible,” she replied.

But she did explain more, that evening. They sat at the edge of the gold coin tree, the courtyard painted gold in the setting sun. P admired the way that Alice leant her elbows on her knees, her boots slightly pigeon-toed, her striped tights disappearing into her petticoats. It was decidedly unladylike. And yet, elegant. He liked looking at her.

If she noticed, she didn’t admonish him for it. She talked about Wonderland, toying with the edge of her blade. She spoke about smiling cats and shrinking down to the size of a mouse. She talked about great, steampunk factories where the Hatter worked, just beyond a village made of teapots and plates. Of underwater worlds, worlds full of paper ants and wasps and castles manned by card-soldiers.

Wonderland sounded like a patchwork of strangeness. Strange, and fascinating.

P felt entranced. Felt as though he could never dream up anything like it, even if he was able to dream. He listened, his chin on his fist, and felt like a small child being read fairy tales. Felt as though he did like fairy tales, though he didn’t know where that came from.

“I would like to go there,” he said.

Alice looked at him from under her lashes. She seemed more comfortable now, sitting so close to him that their arms brushed against each other. “It’s dangerous.”

“I don’t mind.”

She smiled, with her eyes more than her mouth. “Maybe I’ll find a way to take you there. I’m still trying to figure out how all of this works.”

He smiled back. And there was another one of those pauses, where he could feel those butterflies in his chest. Where it felt like there was something, and he didn’t know what it was. Didn’t know he could feel at all, let alone feel like this.

Alice looked away first, slipping her blade back away. “Can I ask about your arm?”

P tilted his head. “My arm?”

“Your left arm.”

“It’s a legion arm.” P held it in front of him. It was his puppet string model; the others seemed too likely to hurt Alice in battle by accident. This one, he felt he had control over. “My Father created this one and gave it to me.”

“But didn’t give you another arm,” she said.

P blinked. He’d never thought about it, like that. It made him very aware of where his own arm ended, and how he could lose some of it. How it moved just like his own, but it wasn’t really his. Not to keep.

“He gave me a weapon,” he said. “To protect the city.”

To save his father. To save everyone.

Alice didn’t seem to understand. She looked at him, with her bright eyes. “He gave you a weapon, instead of another arm.”

She wasn’t wrong, but it left him confused. Because Geppetto cared about him, he’d said that so many times – that he was sorry to send P into battle. His arm – this arm – was a work of art. Eugenie had said that. An incredible gift. Surely, a weapon like this was better than another arm.

But Alice said weapon like it was a bad thing. Like there was something more he was made for, other than fighting.

Was there something more?

If there was, then what would that be? What did he want it to be?

How could he want anything more, when he was Geppetto’s puppet?

#alice x p #alice x pinocchio #alice in wonderland #american mcgees alice #alice madness returns #alice liddell #lies of p #lies of p player character #pinocchio #turnupswrites #best way to follow is to follow my writing tag #or on ao3 #because im not always great at linking next and previous chaps #fanfiction #fanfic #crossover fic

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