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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It's not, actually. Wine is fermented; spirits are distilled.

[So says the anonymous gentleman on a stool a few seats down, in shirtsleeves and a black vest and two fingers of brandy idling in a glass in front of him atop a napkin. Normally he wouldn't commentate at all, but the fact of the matter is, this bar is basically dead but for the two of them, and it almost seems a little silly not to acknowledge each other, given the circumstances.

Also, like. Is he going to turn down the opportunity to be Technically Right About Something™? Of course not.]

I'm surprised you aren't recommending the Green Fairy, for your blue one.

[God, he's so fucking clever.]

[And here Abbacchio was perfectly ready to never speak to another human being, and this guy has the nerve to address him. Oh? You're speaking to him?!

He tsks, mildly annoyed but not largely bothered. Maybe he's had enough wine to make it tolerable.]

Wine's my preferred poison. Figured she should have a taste if we're stuck with each other.

Wasting time until the night is done? You don't come to these kinds of places often. [He says it, like he knows who this guy even is.]

[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?

[The stupid little fuckers grabs his attention and the squeaky voiced source-

Is the same bastard that took him for a ride in the snow the other day.

This is karma at its finest. Superb. Beautiful. Lady fortune loves him specifically for taking him through his particular path.

He blows some smoke from the lit cigarette in his hand directly towards the tiny bastard below him with a laugh.]

Looks like you picked a fight with the wrong group. I'm not surprised.

[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.

[THIS MOTHERFUCKER.

If he was in his full size, he wouldn't hesitate to land a punch to his stupid fucking face. As it was, it's a long way from his hand to this asshole's face.

So he does the next best thing without much hesitation: he's gonna run for the ankles and start biting the shit out of him, like a pissed off feral cat. Which isn't a bad description for Leone Abbacchio.]

[What did he expect? Really?

Caesar's torn between anger and amusement-the sheer audacity of this pixie sized bastard nipping at his ankles making him straddle the line between the two emotions.

And those little teeth? Are like tiny kitten nips against his skin. They do hurt in the same way papercuts do. It's annoying and he drops a hand down to lightly flick at his tiny ass legs.]

Knock if off, you little shit. Someone might confuse you for a mosquito and smash you.

"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.

[It's entirely stupid and if Abbacchio wasn't blinded by how much he just hates this fucker he'd have ignored him.

But alas, here we are, with Li'l Leone whipping around and biting at the closest finger as he's about to get flicked.

Oh and he flips off Caesar with the world's smallest middle finger.]

[You know what? He should let someone smash the bastard like the a bug he is. The magic here will heal him as well as any hamon afterwards and-

There's another 'papercut' on his finger, he sees one on the tiny man's hand fly up and knows exactly what he's implicating with it.

So he pinches his forefinger and thumb around that raised middle finger, pulling him up from the ground and closer to eyelevel.]

Stop being such a nuisance. Your attitude is going to get you killed like this.

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.]

Like you're one to talk, coglione!

[He'd probably sound more threatening if he was not Ken doll sized right now. As it is, he's seriously debating spitting in Caesar's eye.]

Piss off already. Unless you think you can only pick a fight with me when I'm like this.

[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.

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⏪ humbug | OPEN

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