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
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A beat, before he tilts his head, looking at her thoughtfully.
"Speaking of... where are you living now?"
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Franziska's own employment at the so-called 'Teen Court' was still a sore spot. However, it was possible, perhaps even likely, that Miles had been told to work there too.
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His answer is prompt, firm, and purposely vague. Back home, he was a rising star, ready to take on real criminals. Here, though, he's been bumped down to petty traffic violations. Eurgh, the indignity of it all! Worse yet, if Franziska knew, she would never let him live it down. It's time to change the topic before she can press him further.
"And what do they have you doing?"
She may be a prodigy, but if he was given a demotion, then he doubted that Franziska was any better off.
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"The Teen Court," she spits, indicating exactly what she thinks of the existence of such an organization. "I don't even know what it is." To be truthful, she didn't even care what it was, or what it did. She simply did not want to be associated with anything with the word 'Teen' in its name. To be infantilized.
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"It's an alternative court for young delinquents," he explains, keeping his tone even and level. "The judges and attorneys are replaced with young men and women who work with juvenile courts to try suspects in their stead. That doesn't sound too dreadful, honestly - and besides, it could be a good learning experience for you."
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If you don't chase them off with your whip, he says to himself.
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His voice trails off and his face pales as he recalls the side effects of his powers. Eurgh, the last thing he needs is for her to find out! But changing his mind now would be suspicious... He straightens up his pile again, pretending that he was only momentarily distracted by his books.
"...get something to eat."
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The more time that he takes, the more frustrated Franziska will become. She hardly looks patient to begin with, what with the scowl on her face and the way her legs jiggle, toes of her boots scraping the floor but only barely.
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"Are you almost done yet?"
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It's a small pile, at least, and it doesn't take him long to finish up. He stuffs a couple in his satchel, along with his notes, and carries the rest in his arms.
"Are you ready?"
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Straightening her posture and running a hand over her riding crop, she says, "Of course I am. Where do you want to eat?" The question is mostly a formality. Franziska is not afraid to shoot down suggestions that she doesn't like.
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"There's a diner not too far from here," he says casually. "It's not exactly haute cuisine, but it's as decent as anything else around here... and, more importantly, it's within walking distance."
It's an important consideration for a man who no longer has access to a car. While it's a minor adjustment compared to some of the other changes he's gone through, it's still one of several things that he misses about home.
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So, she withdraws her complaint, trying to rearrange her facial features into an expression that looks slightly less disgusted. "Fine. Greasy American burgers it is. Lead the way."
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"What's your townhouse like, by the way? Are you living by yourself, or...?"
He knows that Franziska's independent, but even in Germany she had family to rely on. He doesn't like the idea of her running around Heropa by herself.
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"What makes you think I haven't been trying? No-one was home when I was last there."
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He shrugs, and says, "Surely there's enough evidence to make an educated guess about them. Their likes, dislikes, personal habits..."
After all, what the von Karma family lacked in actual, genuine social skills, they made up for with investigative talent.
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She looks up at Miles with a withering stare that suggests that he, in fact, might be such a person. Franziska is, of course, being somewhat facetious. If it was in her interests, she would have done a thorough examination already. Yet, she'd had more important things on her mind. Namely, ensuring that Miles hadn't been in any trouble.
"Anyway, how much further along is this establishment?"
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