[This is not actually the worst day that Miles Edgeworth has ever had — actually, it probably doesn't even make the top three, all things considered — but it's certainly out to make itself a contender for a title, that's for sure. Between getting dropped into a lake (a lake!!) and then getting hauled up onto the shore and winding up lying on his back on the beach, soaked to the gills and massively uncomfortable in his expensive suit and fancy coat and — oh, hell, his briefcase, everything in it is probably ruined —
And then, on top of everything else, he'd closed his eyes to try to blink some of the stinging seawater out of them, and when he'd reopened them again, there'd been a pair of glittering sapphire eyes staring back down at him.
Said eyes, as it turns out, belong to a strangely-colored bird about the size of an eagle, which also happens to be sitting directly on his chest while it glares down at him. And really, like. What the fuck.
So naturally, he does what any sensible person would do: swings his waterlogged briefcase at it, which causes said bird to beat its wings once and then vanish.
Looking startled, Edgeworth rubs at his eyes, then rolls over and pushes himself up onto his hands and knees in the process of getting to his feet with whatever self-respect he can still manage to grasp at.]
Did I hit my head...? Seeing things...
[He says to himself, halfway to his feet, as he looks up and — there it is again, a few feet away and perched on the branch of a forgotten piece of driftwood, still glaring.]
...?!
[In this prompt: area man menaced by own familiar. Save him?]
ARRIVAL B — THE WHITE CLIFFS
[Okay, so he's not thrilled about the idea of moving off the beach, but ultimately it seems to be necessary; there's certainly no help coming if he just stays put, and it'd be stupid to let the whole caravan leave without him and strand him in the godforsaken wilderness with no resources and no way to contact someone to come to his aid. So Edgeworth follows along as people wind their way toward the Rent-A-Ride, whatever...that means...and pointedly pretends as though he hasn't noticed the eagle-sized flaming bird that has taken up residence on his shoulder.
HE IS VERY GOOD AT PRETENDING. THERE IS NOTHING TO SEE HERE. NOTHING WHATSOEVER.
Regardless, it's as they draw near the cliffs — and it quickly becomes apparent that their destination is at the top of them — that his footsteps falter, and he starts to look a little pale as the reality of the situation begins to sink in.]
...Ah. Is there...
[He swallows hard, trying to mask it behind a quick adjustment of his waterlogged cravat.]
...No other way to the depot?
WILDCARD — TAGGER'S CHOICE
[Want to encounter Edgeworth somewhere else? Feel free to drop me a starter for any of the other prompts, or write one of your own! I'm game for shenanigans, so let's have fun!]
Miles Edgeworth | Ace Attorney | OTA
And then, on top of everything else, he'd closed his eyes to try to blink some of the stinging seawater out of them, and when he'd reopened them again, there'd been a pair of glittering sapphire eyes staring back down at him.
Said eyes, as it turns out, belong to a strangely-colored bird about the size of an eagle, which also happens to be sitting directly on his chest while it glares down at him. And really, like. What the fuck.
So naturally, he does what any sensible person would do: swings his waterlogged briefcase at it, which causes said bird to beat its wings once and then vanish.
Looking startled, Edgeworth rubs at his eyes, then rolls over and pushes himself up onto his hands and knees in the process of getting to his feet with whatever self-respect he can still manage to grasp at.]
Did I hit my head...? Seeing things...
[He says to himself, halfway to his feet, as he looks up and — there it is again, a few feet away and perched on the branch of a forgotten piece of driftwood, still glaring.]
...?!
[In this prompt: area man menaced by own familiar. Save him?]
ARRIVAL B — THE WHITE CLIFFS
HE IS VERY GOOD AT PRETENDING. THERE IS NOTHING TO SEE HERE. NOTHING WHATSOEVER.
Regardless, it's as they draw near the cliffs — and it quickly becomes apparent that their destination is at the top of them — that his footsteps falter, and he starts to look a little pale as the reality of the situation begins to sink in.]
...Ah. Is there...
[He swallows hard, trying to mask it behind a quick adjustment of his waterlogged cravat.]
...No other way to the depot?
WILDCARD — TAGGER'S CHOICE