Miles Edgeworth (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
takethestairs) wrote in ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png)
maskormenacelogs2014-11-20 06:06 pm
takethestairs) wrote in maskormenacelogs2014-11-20 06:06 pm
Getting in the swing of things [OPEN]
WHO: Miles Edgeworth and you!
WHERE: All over Heropa! Specifically: the local library, a greasy spoon diner, and his own humble abode over in the Govt. Apartment Complex
WHEN: 11/17 to 11/21
WHAT: Edgeworth's finally settling into the city, and he does what he does best: research the situation
WARNINGS: Incoming existential crises
There's a table, near the very back, that's covered with teetering towers of books. There's a litany of law books, a hoard of history books, a barrage of biographies, all scattered and piled between miscellaneuos texts. No subject is too big or too small; politics and geography are the topic of the day, but there's also books on technology, literature, and even pop culture and fashion. Old newspapers and magazines fill up the negative space, and, if one were to look closely, one might notice an actual human being hidden between the stacks. He's a young man, with a soft face that places him in his late teens or early twenties, though his gray hair and serious demeanor add a touch of artificial maturity to his appearance. His fashion is surprisingly casual for those who might know him, his brocaded suit traded in for a pair of khakis and a pale pink oxford shirt, though it's a sensible enough choice for the Florida weather.
He stares down at an encyclopedia, scrutinizing the page before he flips to another, shifting his attention from the book to his stack of notes. The cycle repeats itself, flitting from book to notes and back again, broken only to check another reference or jot down a new line of text. The world outside of his table might as well be nonexistant to him, so focused is his attention, until the SNAP of graphite against paper breaks him out of his trance. Edgeworth glares at his now useless pencil before he reaches for his trusty satchel, tugging at it lightly... and forgetting the last pile of books that he placed so carelessly on the strap. It shakes, it quivers, and Edgeworth jerks forward, bracing the pile with both hands. It's...it's steady! Success!
The rush of victory is replaced by palpable embarassment, and he sits back down immediately, his face as pink as his shirt. He's just going to tidy up his table and pretend that never happened.
===
He's moved from the library to a local diner, and the piles of books have been replaced with piles of plates. There are stacks of pancakes, dripping with butter and golden syrup; sausage links, glistening with fat and still sizzling from the pan; hashbrowns covered with cheese, toast points slathered in jelly, and bowls of mixed fruit that seem to exist only to assuage feelings of guilt. A more current newspaper is folded and forgotten, next to an abandoned, half empty mug of tea, the only edible substance on the table that's been ignored. With a fork in one hand and his notebook in the other, he absentmindedly stabs at one of his sausage links, until the waitress comes by to refill his water. He clears his throat and gives a quiet, stiff, and apologetic thank you.
All eyes are on him now, or so it seems like. He doesn't normally eat this kind of food, and even if he did, he wouldn't eat this much of it... but it's hardly his fault! Extraordinary powers come at an extraordinary price, specifically in the form of infinite restaurant tabs and grotesque grocery bills. He simply cannot be blamed for this indulgence. And, to drive the point home, he gives a quick glance around the diner, ready to greet anyone who stares too long with a sharp glare. If not... well, then he'll set his notebook aside and pick up the paper, and return to his pancakes.
===
Edgeworth trudges to his door, a brown bag of groceries in one arm and a pile of books in the other. Shouldn't hyper metabolism mean hyper energy? So much for his file... he mutters to himself and shakes his head, with no other desire than to get inside and melt into his couch. He fumbles for his keys, doing his best to get them one handed- oh hell, the books are slipping out - okay, okay, he's got those, he's good...
And then, at the exact moment he slips his key into the lock, the bottom falls out of his grocery bag. The food crashes on the cement, starting with a bag of apples, but quickly followed by his pears, his celery, his meat and his eggs and his bread. And all he does is stop. He stops, and breathes, and closes his eyes, and pointedly ignores the yolk and whites and the entire disgusting mess that's pooling at his feet. He's calm, he's calm, he is perfectly calm and composed...
===
OOC: Don't like the options, but you still want CR with Edgeworth? Feel free to make up your own scenario, either in Heropa or in another city! I'll be glad to tag it back.
===
OOC: I started with prose, but I'm okay with brackets and action tags as well! Just tag me in your preferred format and I'll change to match
WHERE: All over Heropa! Specifically: the local library, a greasy spoon diner, and his own humble abode over in the Govt. Apartment Complex
WHEN: 11/17 to 11/21
WHAT: Edgeworth's finally settling into the city, and he does what he does best: research the situation
WARNINGS: Incoming existential crises
There's a table, near the very back, that's covered with teetering towers of books. There's a litany of law books, a hoard of history books, a barrage of biographies, all scattered and piled between miscellaneuos texts. No subject is too big or too small; politics and geography are the topic of the day, but there's also books on technology, literature, and even pop culture and fashion. Old newspapers and magazines fill up the negative space, and, if one were to look closely, one might notice an actual human being hidden between the stacks. He's a young man, with a soft face that places him in his late teens or early twenties, though his gray hair and serious demeanor add a touch of artificial maturity to his appearance. His fashion is surprisingly casual for those who might know him, his brocaded suit traded in for a pair of khakis and a pale pink oxford shirt, though it's a sensible enough choice for the Florida weather.
He stares down at an encyclopedia, scrutinizing the page before he flips to another, shifting his attention from the book to his stack of notes. The cycle repeats itself, flitting from book to notes and back again, broken only to check another reference or jot down a new line of text. The world outside of his table might as well be nonexistant to him, so focused is his attention, until the SNAP of graphite against paper breaks him out of his trance. Edgeworth glares at his now useless pencil before he reaches for his trusty satchel, tugging at it lightly... and forgetting the last pile of books that he placed so carelessly on the strap. It shakes, it quivers, and Edgeworth jerks forward, bracing the pile with both hands. It's...it's steady! Success!
The rush of victory is replaced by palpable embarassment, and he sits back down immediately, his face as pink as his shirt. He's just going to tidy up his table and pretend that never happened.
===
He's moved from the library to a local diner, and the piles of books have been replaced with piles of plates. There are stacks of pancakes, dripping with butter and golden syrup; sausage links, glistening with fat and still sizzling from the pan; hashbrowns covered with cheese, toast points slathered in jelly, and bowls of mixed fruit that seem to exist only to assuage feelings of guilt. A more current newspaper is folded and forgotten, next to an abandoned, half empty mug of tea, the only edible substance on the table that's been ignored. With a fork in one hand and his notebook in the other, he absentmindedly stabs at one of his sausage links, until the waitress comes by to refill his water. He clears his throat and gives a quiet, stiff, and apologetic thank you.
All eyes are on him now, or so it seems like. He doesn't normally eat this kind of food, and even if he did, he wouldn't eat this much of it... but it's hardly his fault! Extraordinary powers come at an extraordinary price, specifically in the form of infinite restaurant tabs and grotesque grocery bills. He simply cannot be blamed for this indulgence. And, to drive the point home, he gives a quick glance around the diner, ready to greet anyone who stares too long with a sharp glare. If not... well, then he'll set his notebook aside and pick up the paper, and return to his pancakes.
===
Edgeworth trudges to his door, a brown bag of groceries in one arm and a pile of books in the other. Shouldn't hyper metabolism mean hyper energy? So much for his file... he mutters to himself and shakes his head, with no other desire than to get inside and melt into his couch. He fumbles for his keys, doing his best to get them one handed- oh hell, the books are slipping out - okay, okay, he's got those, he's good...
And then, at the exact moment he slips his key into the lock, the bottom falls out of his grocery bag. The food crashes on the cement, starting with a bag of apples, but quickly followed by his pears, his celery, his meat and his eggs and his bread. And all he does is stop. He stops, and breathes, and closes his eyes, and pointedly ignores the yolk and whites and the entire disgusting mess that's pooling at his feet. He's calm, he's calm, he is perfectly calm and composed...
===
OOC: Don't like the options, but you still want CR with Edgeworth? Feel free to make up your own scenario, either in Heropa or in another city! I'll be glad to tag it back.
===
OOC: I started with prose, but I'm okay with brackets and action tags as well! Just tag me in your preferred format and I'll change to match
It's fine! Sorry for the late tag
"Yes," he says, "But not the one you're familiar with, I'm afraid."
While Matt may not be able to see the differences between this Edgeworth and the last, he may be able to hear them. Aside from the slow, tired tone of his voice, it also sounds younger, as well; still adult, but not as deep as one would expect from a man in his thirties.
np it's the holidays after all
Finding himself on the other side of these conversations, Matt can now appreciate how truly awkward this situation actually is. At least with Steve there had been a common ground, mutual acquaintances. The only one they shared is one Matt fervently hopes Edgeworth never runs into again, if only for his own sake, and one that rather defies explanation. Who knows what Young Edgeworth would make of Reformed Harvey Dent?
"I can hear that," he says, hoping to avoid any elaboration on that, or how he knew who it was to begin with. (He could say he sort of smells the same, and it would be true, but nobody likes to hear that. Matt is fairly certain Edgeworth would not be pleased.) "And I assume that you know to ask that means somebody has already explained the whole, er." Visibly doesn't know how to put this. "Doppelganger mess."
no subject
Then Edgeworth looks up and notices the glasses. Ah. Well, that explains that. He doesn't think much of it afterward, though, focusing more on Matt's words than appearance.
"Doppelganger?" He scoffs a bit, not at Matt, but at the situation and just how absurd it was. "That's one way to put it. But yes, the situation has been explained to me, or at least, it's been explained as well as anyone can around here. Nobody really has any solid answers, I'm afraid."
no subject
"On how it happens, or what happened?"
Just to be absolutely sure on the politest way to go about filling in any details. It would only be right, so nobody bothered to do it for him, and he's still paying the price for that.
no subject
He breathes in, gathering his thoughts.
"I know some details, but I'm still filling in the blanks. It's not as if Herr Doppelganger left behind any detailed memoirs."
It's easier, isn't it? Thinking of his previous self not as, well, himself, but a different person altogether.