isleofavalon | ⏪ humbug

Entry tags:

⏪ humbug | OPEN

Who: Leone Abbacchio and OPEN
What: Various prompts include getting shrunk down by angry pixies, barhopping, and trying to find some old lady's lost cat.
When: Throughout December
Where: Various places throughout Camelot and its surrounding areas
Warnings: N/A

⏪ I. HONEY I SHRANK THE MAFIOSO

[It's a bit ironic considering what his familiar is, but-- well. Here he is, just shortly after he'd told the gaggle of pixies to fuck off after they attempted to pester him into their little party.

Apparently, they did not take well to it.

So: Leone Abbacchio is now suddenly much smaller, no bigger than his own familiar. Once a very tall man, now a small angry pixie-sized disaster. He grumbles to himself, trying to find his way back, but it turns out being this small means it's going to take forever to get anywhere.]

Stupid little fuckers.

⏪ II. HUMBUG

[Working on his own is not one of Abbacchio's strongest feats. As such, he's felt listless since his arrival, mostly spending his time indoors and away from people if he can help it. But even he, as antisocial as he is, cannot live purely as a hermit. Besides, his wine bottle is empty and he'd rather try to be anywhere but his flat to be miserable for the holidays.

Seated at a fairly quiet bar, Abbacchio is pouring himself a glass of wine. His familiar, the little blue pixie, is sitting cross-legged on top of the bar.

He considers.]

Hey. Leave a shot glass for her.

[The bartender does, and Abbacchio pours some wine for her.]

C'mon. You might as well get something out of this.

[The pixie looks curiously at the glass in front of her, then takes a sip.]

That's the spirit.

⏪ III. THE HUNT FOR MITTENS

And where did you last see your cat?

[Oh, goodness. Just right here on this porch. I went inside for just a moment to pull out my cookies from the oven, and when I came back out she was gone! An old lady sniffles, dabbing her eyes with a tissue. You don't think someone kidnapped her, do you?!]

Depends on if you pissed off anyone recently. [There's a pause, then a meager attempt at manners:] ...Ma'am.

[Well, I know the neighbors get very jealous of my turnips. I grow them as big as a watermelon! Do you like turnips, young man?]

I'm, uh. ... I'm good. Listen, I'll have an ask around about your cat.

[Shoving his hands into his pockets, he slips away before the old nonna starts chatting away at him.

Ugh. He shakes his head. This would be so much be easier if he still had his Stand.]

⏪ IV. WILDCARD

[Make your own prompt or request one!]

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[On a different night, maybe, he might've waved that assumption off. Maybe it's just that it's that time of the year, dark early, cold outside the warm amber glow of the bar interior. Maybe it's that he's already feeling unlike himself, privately intrigued by the prospect of being an anonymous nobody for a few hours and eager to test its boundaries. Maybe it's that he's had enough brandy to feel warm without actually having a buzz yet, and that's a pleasant enough feeling, too.

Tonight, he doesn't wave the assumption off. There's an intriguing thread running through its tapestry, after all, and he wants to tug on it a little.]

Oh, I don't? What makes you say that?

[The pixie continues to sip from her glass of wine, looking more and more delighted to drink. Abbacchio, for his part, refills his own glass before continuing on with the stranger.]

You're decently dressed out in an empty bar on Christmas Eve. So either you got dumped or you're trying to avoid something, and this place isn't exactly high class to begin with.

[It's probably rude to say that kind of shit to someone whose name you don't even know, but, well, no one's ever claimed Leone Abbacchio was the nicest man around.]

[Normally, he might've kept his face impassive; as it is, he doesn't bother to disguise the way his eyebrows go up. That was a level of clarity and reason that he admittedly wouldn't have expected from a man who, well. Looks like he just rolled off of a goth rock band's album cover.]

You're observant. Either that, or a lucky guesser.

[But this, now — no, there's intrigue in this. Something to take his mind off of things. A challenge, to go with the passing of the time and his drink.]

Go on. What else?

[Ah ha. Got 'im. Abbacchio's lips twitch, but he manages to not look too amused as he goes in to have a sip of his wine.]

I'll let you decide.

[He considers, then turns to look at Mr. Fancypants, actually observing him more.]

You don't look stiff in your clothes, so you're used to them. And they're not cheap either. So either you're a spoiled brat, or you're used to a lucrative living. Maybe it's both.

[Well, what do you know. This might actually be...not fun, exactly, but an acceptable diversion. Certainly the prospect of solving a puzzle is far preferable to sitting around thinking about a boat and a lake and a gun and an erroneous indictment for murder.]

As opposed to you, who wears your attire like a shield. You don't invite remark so much as dare anyone who sees you to comment.

[Idly, he makes a small circle with his glass, making the amber liquid begin to circle the edges like a tiny whirlpool.]

You haven't let your glass go empty yet, and that bottle isn't a particularly quality vintage — you're not a connoisseur. You'll drink what's available, because it's the outcome that matters, not the experience.

[He considers a minute, head tilting very slightly to the side.]

I probably infuriate you. A spoiled brat with my fancy liquor, taking up space on your bar. Thinking I know anything about you. Everything about me is pretense, and at least you're authentic, for whatever result that gets you.

[The turn of phrase makes his fingers tense over the stem of his wine glass. The outcome that matters. He's heard that from the two most important men in his life; where's this guy get off saying that to him? Abbacchio scowls for a moment. His familiar finishes her glass with a giggle and hugs the bottle.]

You have pretense because you're supposed to. That's what you tell yourself anyway. I get needing to adapt like that. I've known a few people who need to wear a mask like that.

So you have or used to have a high stakes life.

Less so, these days.

[Hmm. Something he said touched a nerve, did it? Still, it's impressive just how much presence of mind the man has, after drinking for at least as long as Edgeworth has been here, and perhaps then some.]

All right. What did I used to do for a living?

Seriously?

[Abbacchio could just disengage from this. But he doesn't, because now he's thinking, giving a good look at the other man with a frown.]

You're observant. Well educated. But you spend your time behind a desk instead of hitting the streets, so you handle a lot of paperwork. You don't have the frame of someone that does physical labor. [you're not FUCKING RIPPED my dude] You need to analyze people. So there's a couple of possibilities.

You wouldn't dress so nice if you were a P.I., and you're not a cop. [he would know] But you have to deal with people in some capacity, or you wouldn't bother perceiving people.

[It doesn't narrow down what this guy did before, but Abbacchio is clearly considering this hard.]

Is it legal? [As in, not being in the mafia.]

[Unfortunately, what Edgeworth's law-structured mind hears isn't "is your profession legal to be a part of", but "is it, your profession, the legal profession".

Fortunately, that just leaves him vaguely impressed. Not that he's going to parade the sentiment around, of course, but clearly he'd underestimated the other bar patron at first glance. Shame on him for giving in to the deception of looks, he supposes.]

That's right. I'm a prosecutor.

[I am, he says on instinct, without thinking. Not I was. Even now, he hasn't truly "killed" Prosecutor Miles Edgeworth; he's only out to redefine what that really means.]

Which leads me to believe that you're defense counsel, hm?

[Oh. This guy is a lawyer. Honestly, that explains a lot. Not a horrible profession, he supposes. Fugo originally went to school to be one, didn't he?

Then there's the kicker. The sheer suggestion that Abbacchio is an attorney. He barks out a laugh, finally putting down his wine glass.]

Holy shit. That's a good one.

Sorry, Signore Prosecutor. Not this guy.

[look one half of this courtroom knows how to dress themselves, and the other half is defense counsel]

...Italian?

[That's a clue, maybe. It also leads him to believe his second guess would be further off-track, being that it's "Max Galactica's Emo Doppelganger". Hm.

He's observant. Intuitive. He's capable of gathering up a smattering of facts and putting together a picture out of them. And — wait a minute.

He's clarified all of his conclusions, except one. He's been able to cite to evidence for all of them, except one. One he just offered up as a certainty, with no additional elaboration.

You're not a cop.

...Well. They let Jake Marshall be a detective, didn't they.]

...You knew I wasn't a police officer, because you'd recognize a member of the police force if you saw one. Or should I say, you'd recognize one of your own?

[are you trying to tell me winston payne is the pinnacle of fashion

The conclusion this man draws makes him pause. Abbacchio picks his glass up and takes a moment to just finish what's inside. There's still complicated feelings he has about it. The last time he evidently saw his late partner. Kind of. He still isn't sure about that one.]

Former officer. [He says that finally, with an empty glass.] That was awhile ago.

"Former" isn't the same thing as "retired".

[An observation. This isn't a cross-examination, and in a way it's a bit of a shame to see their game peter out. He was enjoying himself a little, hazarding guesses and drawing conclusions.

Shame to put a damper on the mood. Not that he can think of a way to salvage it, outside of making some abrupt personal admission that verges on oversharing.]

What line of work did you go into, instead?

Sure isn't, is it.

[And that's as far as he'd like to go with that story. He doesn't even know this guy's name. As fun as it was to pick each other apart.]

Bit of a jack of all trades after that. Sometimes I'd do personal investigations, sometimes it was something else.

Not a real consistent payroll.

Still. You had a skillset at your disposal, at least. Something to leverage.

[He pauses, motioning the bartender over briefly before nodding at Abbacchio.]

Put his next drink on my tab.

[Was it the talk of inconsistent payroll that prompted it? Something else? He doesn't altogether know. There's just something about it that's bothering him, something nagging that he can't put his finger on, and it takes him a minute or two of reflection before he starts to think out loud, almost.]

You had something. You're a competent adult, you can find work. You can make it if you need to. You've had training. You're able to make assessments and judgments.

...You know they let children accept the bargain. The pact to come here, that is. They turn up here and discover they can't go back, but there's no safety net waiting for them. A hotel and breakfast. And where does that leave them? Casting around on the network because there are no jobs for children. No one telling them how to begin, even. Nothing stopping anyone from taking advantage of them. It's appalling.

[He sighs, and sips his drink, before his train of thought continues and more contemplation spills out, mostly by accident.]

You catch the ones you can, of course. The ones who think to reach out. Who knows how many others are out there, silent, because it didn't occur to them. It's just not —

[And that's about when common sense catches up with him, and he pinches the bridge of his nose, shaking off the impulse to continue his tirade.]

Apologies. It's irrelevant, just — never mind. You were saying, you did odd jobs, investigative work. Is that what you do here?

[Huh. Well. He's not gonna say no to the generosity from this guy. So, he gets another bottle, but something a little nicer this time.

And... he listens. Maybe to be considerate, but despite how it sounds this prosecutor is actually worried about the kids here. That makes sense, but maybe Abbacchio is also desensitized to it. Kids are capable, kids are in the fucking mafia, even if they shouldn't be. It's a nice thought, isn't it? Trying to make it better for them.

Hah. That's a little bit like someone he knows, Abbacchio thinks fondly.]

You're worried about them.

[But he doesn't push. Even if it's tempting on some level, but he's decided that maybe this lawyer isn't too bad.]

Basically. I don't know how this place plays out yet, but I do enough to get by. To be honest, I'm more used to having direction from someone else to keep myself busy. Despite how it sounds, I did have someone I answered to.

Now I'm just making it up as I go. [He knows how he is. He's shit without someone to answer to. Someone stronger than him. But at least he isn't as bad off as when Bucciarati found him.]

[He flicks his fingers at the rim of his glass, glancing off the lip as he seems to consider what he wants to say, and what might run the risk of another unintentional rant.]

I hired one, a few weeks back. He hasn't come in to work in a while, and all lines of communication have gone silent.

[Hence, why it's been on his mind. The goth man is clever, he'll be able to read between the lines.]

My bailiff is the same way. Prefers to take orders — a former soldier, I think. There are similar roles open in the justice system. I'm aware of at least a few.

[This guy is giving him job suggestions. That's... kind of endearing. Even if Abbacchio can't help but give something of a bitter smile to himself.]

Law enforcement's not the place for me anymore.

[Even if there are things he misses. Figuring things out, reading people, putting the pieces together -- but he fucked up his own hopes and dreams awhile ago. And there's no taking that back.

You can't undo the past.]

But awfully considerate of you, Prosecutor. [He says that wryly, far from offended.]

I'm not normally so generous. Take advantage of it while it lasts, I suppose.

[Does he mean the advice or the drinks? Maybe both. Either way, tonight is definitely a fluke; he consoles himself somewhat with that.]

So why are you in a bar alone on Christmas Eve?

Of course you're not. You've been drinking brandy.

[Take that as you want, lawyer man.

Abbacchio snorts and arches a brow at the question, taking a moment to sniff the new wine he has. Shit, that's nice. He'll try to actually savor this.]

Mm. How about you try guessing? You were real good at it before.

[He hums to himself, contemplative. What were the two options that the officer had posited initially? "Just been dumped" or "hiding from something"? Hmm.

But no, that wasn't all. There are more clues here than just a superficial reading. The outcome that matters, not the experience. The fact that he'd described himself as directionless. Making it up as he goes.

...Hm.]

Because it's irrelevant that it's Christmas Eve. You'd be here, regardless.

[That's the terrible truth, really. The time of year doesn't usually matter. With a bitter smile, he lifts up his wine glass to the prosecutor, as if to salute him.]

It'd be dramatic to say this time of year means something to me. But every day is usually about as shitty as the last, so here I am.

[The pixie is asleep, because she's small and the wine is much for her size. So he gently scoops her up and puts her into his pocket. Hopefully that's cozy.]

But you, you could probably stand to have a distraction.

[There's a pause, then he offers:] Leone Abbacchio.

There. You've hit on the reason I'm here.

[He'd been a few barstools down before, content to have a long-distance conversation mostly because there's no one around to bother with it, but now he picks up his glass and shifts down to actually join Abbacchio properly.]

Miles Edgeworth.

[And maybe he should've picked a pseudonym if he was just going to transition smoothly into talking about his own associations with this time of year, but — it wasn't a secret back home. Every paper ran the story. Why should it bother him now?

...Maybe that's a little bit of the brandy talking. Hm.]

A year ago, I spent Christmas in a holding cell under accusation of murder. So the bar, lonely and shabby as it is, is still a significant improvement by comparison.

[Pre-wine and pre-conversation, Abbacchio might have an issue with his personal space being invaded. But as it stands, he kind of likes this guy and hasn't been bothered yet by their conversation.]

Huh. Hell of a difference. Last year, I was trying to make sure a couple of teenagers didn't burn a building down while they were setting up a fucking tree.

[He refills his glass. Again. He feels warmer. Nicer. It's better than being completely trashed, but there's the urge to follow down that rabbit hole. There always will be.]

Were you found guilty or innocent?

Mm. You tell me.

[Yeah, this one necessitates a stiff drink of his liquor. It burns down the back of his throat, and reminds him why he isn't altogether fond of drinking to begin with. The dulled faculties, the erratic behavior, the loss of clear thinking and solid judgment...he's never altogether understood the appeal of it.

But this glass isn't about enjoyment, isn't about pleasure. He's not outcome-oriented the way Abbacchio allegedly is. It's just —

It burns. And his jangling nerves quiet. Brandy makes him sleepy, just a little, so maybe he's just doing it for the respite.]

Did I kill a man, Leone Abbacchio?

⏪ humbug | OPEN

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