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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[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?

You? No.

[Edgeworth never said anything about being a former prosecutor. And although he hardly knows this man, he doesn't get the sense he would kill.

He's not like Abbacchio.]

But that's not my question. The law doesn't always give a shit about the truth.

Clever.

[He's right; he didn't ask whether he did it or didn't do it. No, Abbacchio had asked how he was found. And what a near thing it had been, but for the lone enduring faith of Phoenix Wright.]

I no longer have any use for a justice system focused only on prosecutorial records and conviction rates. I did, once; I hated criminals, and wanted nothing more than to win as many guilty verdicts as I could.

But that isn't justice. The courtroom should be a battleground where, once the dust finally settles, only the truth remains. It doesn't matter whose side that truth falls on. All that matters is that it's reached, whatever it takes. Whatever the cost. That's what being a prosecutor means to me, now.

[He raises his glass, staring at the amber liquid inside it, watching as the lamplight filters through.]

I was found innocent because one man was willing to fight until the truth was revealed, even in the face of insurmountable odds. Every defendant who sits in that chair deserves nothing less.

It's good business, to focus on your record and personal vendetta. ...But it's shit for the people that deserve a fair trial.

[And too many times, Abbacchio had seen the wrong people go free. The opposite of a problem; too many corrupted people paid off judges and lawyers to walk the streets again. Paying off cops, doing what they want.

It's hard to not respect this kind of resolve. Maybe it's the wine, who the hell can say.]

Some people don't come to that realization. That a corrupt system is worth fighting against. Doing right by those who can't help themselves.

Better you woke up to it than not at all.

Edited 2020-12-29 13:35 (UTC)

It infuriates me that I was complicit in it for as long as I was. I didn't have delusions of moral superiority or anything like that, but — it's not unnatural to take pride in one's work. To believe you're accomplishing something.

[Thoughtfully, he takes another sip of his brandy, working it down in the glass to nearly empty.]

A thought problem for you, Abbacchio. You know a man is guilty of heinous crimes. You're certain of it. But you don't have the evidence to convict him. He's accused of multiple murders, but the charges won't stick. If he walks free, you're certain he'll kill again. Society would be better all around without that man on the streets.

And for one moment, you think to yourself — if only I had a crime scene with conclusive evidence, I could make sure that monster never hurt anyone else again.

Where do you think justice lies, in that?

[He picks up the bottle of wine, the one that he'd let Edgeworth cover; Abbacchio looks at it thoughtfully, as clearly as he can at the question. There's the distinct warmth in his body from all of the alcohol, his mind a little muddled, but he can still pick apart the scenario.]

You're asking the wrong guy, I think. Since I gave up playing by the fucking rules awhile ago when it was obvious nobody else cared about 'em.

[Abbacchio looks at Edgeworth, feeling a little tired from the idea.]

Don't get me wrong. Never thought the system was perfect. Just that you deserved the chance to make a difference. If a man could go free because you didn't have the right evidence, then you gotta decide for yourself how you wanna handle that.

Me? There's no justice in that. Letting someone like that walk free.

That's why the truth needs someone to defend it, I think. At all costs, unflinchingly. Because the allure of defining justice by personal opinion is so...easy.

[Damon Gant was the best of the best, once. He didn't need the Joe Darke case to land himself in the seat of Chief of Police. He just did what he did because it was the outcome that mattered.]

I'm not saying that I think you're wrong, to be clear. But I've chosen to answer that thought problem with — it doesn't matter where justice lies. My role is not to mete out justice. My role is to find the truth. That's the only way I can make sense of it anymore.

I'm a flawed guy. I already know that, Edgeworth.

[Abbacchio sides and leans his chin against his hand, closing his eyes.]

...Someone told me something important not that long before I got to Avalon. He said: "When you desire only the result, you start taking shortcuts. And when you start taking shortcuts, you might lose sight of the truth. Eventually you'll lose your motivation too."

It was definitely true for me. But he believed that the will to seek out the truth? That's what was important. "As long as you have the will to seek it out, then, even if the criminal gets away, you'll get to your destination."

So yeah. I'd say he'd agree with you.

Eloquently put.

[Honestly, he almost wants to get that framed or like. Cross-stitched on a pillow or something. What a perfectly concise way of summing up something that'd taken an entire year and a Vision Quest™ for him to arrive at, himself.

Wryly amused, he raises his glass.]

A toast, then. To your friend, wiser than both of us.

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teaserving - 2020-12-29 21:35 (UTC) - Expand

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