[Phoenix Wright] fic: Famous Defense Attorney
Title: Famous Defense Attorney
Fandom: Phoenix Wright: Ace Attorney
Words: ~1100
Summary: "My name is Phoenix Wright, and I think I have memory problems."
Notes: My first finished piece for the Phoenix Wright kink meme, only because I managed to keep this one short. Rated PG like nearly all my fics. I wrote this on a whim around 2 weeks ago when the first line came to me. This one's a fusion between Detective Conan and Phoenix Wright, with Phoenix Wright characters in similar roles as the ones found in DC. This is more meant for PW fans. No knowledge of Detective Conan is necessary, but if you do know the series, this piece would be more amusing.
My name is Phoenix Wright, and I think I have memory problems.
Why do I think that, you ask? Well, to put it simply, I don't remember how I'm getting my clients acquitted. This has happened more than once when I was faced with dire situations that would require miraculous turnabouts. I would be sweating buckets, unable to find the crucial contradiction that would unravel the prosecution's case, and the next thing I knew, Maya would be congratulating me on the win, and the little boy she had picked up would be peering up at me with a smug smile on his face.
They've taken to calling me "Sleeping Wright" because I always seem to stagger back and appear as if I were sleeping when I come up with the miraculous turnabouts that have saved me more than once. I don't like the nickname at all. While I'm thankful they're not calling me Sleeping Beauty for my "sleeping" stunts, I still feel like I'm a walking advertisement for some mattress company.
I'm glad that I've been getting my clients declared innocent, but it sucks majorly that I don't remember how I've been doing that. I can never remember the crucial moments, so I leave all the paperwork and documenting to Maya. All I know is that I always feel more refreshed when I finally regain my senses.
I'm not stupid. I've noticed that this started when Maya brought home that silver-haired kid who has eyes that look way older than he appears. He can't hide them even with the glasses he wears. He's merely seven, but he's sharp and inquisitive for his age. He tags along with Maya and me to crime scenes even when I try to stop him, which I've stopped doing because I would be hit with two sets of pleading eyes. It's bad enough that I have a teenager like Maya helping me. Now I even have a kid who's merely a second grader poking at evidence and examining dead bodies. I don't look forward to parent conferences--his teacher must surely wonder what exactly I'm exposing him to.
Though really, I should wonder how I ended up as his guardian in the first place. It was all Maya's fault, really. She needs to learn that she can't take home little boys as if they were stray kittens to be adopted.
I still remember the day she came bursting in, her feet trailing muddy footprints over the entrance of our office. I would have berated her and left it at that if it hadn't been for the unusual boy who was holding her hand. If the boy had been a teenager, I would have made a lot of noise. You can be sure of that. But since the boy didn't even reach her waist, I convinced myself that Maya's chastity was safe. She was merely being a good older sister, providing a drenched little boy some shelter from the rain, which was surprisingly mature and thoughtful from her.
Or so I thought until she opened her mouth.
"Nick! Look who I found! Isn't he cute? Can we keep him? I've always wanted to be an older sister!"
Kidnapping little boys just because one wanted to be an older sister was just not done. It didn't matter how drenched the boy was, or how cute he might appear, it just wasn't done. Where in the world had Maya found the boy, and why had she taken such a liking to him? I peered at the little boy in his neat little button-up shirt and his rolled-up shorts and his red little bow tie. He was completely soaked with rainwater, and he was creating a miniature puddle at my front door. He kept pushing his glasses up as they were sliding down his nose. He looked like a stuck-up little kid who probably didn't know how to enjoy Maya's brand of humor.
I was about to ask Maya what she saw in him when the little boy spoke, his voice clear and cutting. He reminded me a bit of Edgeworth at that moment, but that was silly. Edgeworth was an adult, and he was in Germany.
"Pleased to meet you, Mr. Wright. My name is Manella Dee."
I groaned. Maya had brought home a stray little boy just because his name was a combination of the producer and the director of the Steel Samurai!
Anyway, I've gone off in a tangent. The point is, ever since Manella Dee showed up at Wright and Co, my reputation skyrocketed. During investigations, Manella Dee would make offhand remarks like, "Hey, this urn looks really funny!" which usually pointed me in the right direction. I can chalk that up to curiosity from an overly inquisitive boy, but when he can explain in great detail how the victim died, I have to be suspicious that something's funny, and that something isn't as simple as a broken urn. He always clams up right after his brilliant remarks and looks up at Maya and me, claiming that he learned about it from TV, but I know the only thing he watches is the Steel Samurai. I doubt he learns so much useful trivia from the show. Their death scenes aren't even all that accurate.
This time in court, I keep an eye on Manella Dee. Just like how he tags along during investigations, he's come to every single one of my cases. I've prepared thoroughly for the case, so I know I won't get stuck. Still, the prosecutor is in top form today and crush my objection as if it were nothing. The next thing I know, there's a tiny prick on the back of my neck.
I gasp, my hand flying to my neck. The court is hushed. I can hear whispers about how my Sleeping Wright show is starting once again. Is this how it always happens? I struggle to remain alert. I try turning around. My hand brushes the back of my neck--there's a tiny dart sticking out of my neck--and I see Manella Dee staring at me out of the frame of his glasses. I'm on to him, and he knows it. He drops his hand, but it's too late. I've seen his guilty aim at me with that funny watch of his.
When I come around again, I hear the judge proclaim my defendant innocent. Maya jumps at me. Confetti flies through the air, and I can already see the headlines declaring another miracle from Sleeping Wright in tomorrow's newspapers. I ignore all that and grab Manella Dee's small wrist.
"A word," I say.
He stares at me with hardened eyes.
"Not here," he replies.
Those are not the eyes of a child, and that cold tone does not belong to a child either. I manage to keep silent until we reach the relative safety of our office. I wait for him to speak. He waits until Maya leaves the room.
When she does, he takes off his glasses and stares at me with Edgeworth's eyes.
----
the end
Fandom: Phoenix Wright: Ace Attorney
Words: ~1100
Summary: "My name is Phoenix Wright, and I think I have memory problems."
Notes: My first finished piece for the Phoenix Wright kink meme, only because I managed to keep this one short. Rated PG like nearly all my fics. I wrote this on a whim around 2 weeks ago when the first line came to me. This one's a fusion between Detective Conan and Phoenix Wright, with Phoenix Wright characters in similar roles as the ones found in DC. This is more meant for PW fans. No knowledge of Detective Conan is necessary, but if you do know the series, this piece would be more amusing.
My name is Phoenix Wright, and I think I have memory problems.
Why do I think that, you ask? Well, to put it simply, I don't remember how I'm getting my clients acquitted. This has happened more than once when I was faced with dire situations that would require miraculous turnabouts. I would be sweating buckets, unable to find the crucial contradiction that would unravel the prosecution's case, and the next thing I knew, Maya would be congratulating me on the win, and the little boy she had picked up would be peering up at me with a smug smile on his face.
They've taken to calling me "Sleeping Wright" because I always seem to stagger back and appear as if I were sleeping when I come up with the miraculous turnabouts that have saved me more than once. I don't like the nickname at all. While I'm thankful they're not calling me Sleeping Beauty for my "sleeping" stunts, I still feel like I'm a walking advertisement for some mattress company.
I'm glad that I've been getting my clients declared innocent, but it sucks majorly that I don't remember how I've been doing that. I can never remember the crucial moments, so I leave all the paperwork and documenting to Maya. All I know is that I always feel more refreshed when I finally regain my senses.
I'm not stupid. I've noticed that this started when Maya brought home that silver-haired kid who has eyes that look way older than he appears. He can't hide them even with the glasses he wears. He's merely seven, but he's sharp and inquisitive for his age. He tags along with Maya and me to crime scenes even when I try to stop him, which I've stopped doing because I would be hit with two sets of pleading eyes. It's bad enough that I have a teenager like Maya helping me. Now I even have a kid who's merely a second grader poking at evidence and examining dead bodies. I don't look forward to parent conferences--his teacher must surely wonder what exactly I'm exposing him to.
Though really, I should wonder how I ended up as his guardian in the first place. It was all Maya's fault, really. She needs to learn that she can't take home little boys as if they were stray kittens to be adopted.
I still remember the day she came bursting in, her feet trailing muddy footprints over the entrance of our office. I would have berated her and left it at that if it hadn't been for the unusual boy who was holding her hand. If the boy had been a teenager, I would have made a lot of noise. You can be sure of that. But since the boy didn't even reach her waist, I convinced myself that Maya's chastity was safe. She was merely being a good older sister, providing a drenched little boy some shelter from the rain, which was surprisingly mature and thoughtful from her.
Or so I thought until she opened her mouth.
"Nick! Look who I found! Isn't he cute? Can we keep him? I've always wanted to be an older sister!"
Kidnapping little boys just because one wanted to be an older sister was just not done. It didn't matter how drenched the boy was, or how cute he might appear, it just wasn't done. Where in the world had Maya found the boy, and why had she taken such a liking to him? I peered at the little boy in his neat little button-up shirt and his rolled-up shorts and his red little bow tie. He was completely soaked with rainwater, and he was creating a miniature puddle at my front door. He kept pushing his glasses up as they were sliding down his nose. He looked like a stuck-up little kid who probably didn't know how to enjoy Maya's brand of humor.
I was about to ask Maya what she saw in him when the little boy spoke, his voice clear and cutting. He reminded me a bit of Edgeworth at that moment, but that was silly. Edgeworth was an adult, and he was in Germany.
"Pleased to meet you, Mr. Wright. My name is Manella Dee."
I groaned. Maya had brought home a stray little boy just because his name was a combination of the producer and the director of the Steel Samurai!
Anyway, I've gone off in a tangent. The point is, ever since Manella Dee showed up at Wright and Co, my reputation skyrocketed. During investigations, Manella Dee would make offhand remarks like, "Hey, this urn looks really funny!" which usually pointed me in the right direction. I can chalk that up to curiosity from an overly inquisitive boy, but when he can explain in great detail how the victim died, I have to be suspicious that something's funny, and that something isn't as simple as a broken urn. He always clams up right after his brilliant remarks and looks up at Maya and me, claiming that he learned about it from TV, but I know the only thing he watches is the Steel Samurai. I doubt he learns so much useful trivia from the show. Their death scenes aren't even all that accurate.
This time in court, I keep an eye on Manella Dee. Just like how he tags along during investigations, he's come to every single one of my cases. I've prepared thoroughly for the case, so I know I won't get stuck. Still, the prosecutor is in top form today and crush my objection as if it were nothing. The next thing I know, there's a tiny prick on the back of my neck.
I gasp, my hand flying to my neck. The court is hushed. I can hear whispers about how my Sleeping Wright show is starting once again. Is this how it always happens? I struggle to remain alert. I try turning around. My hand brushes the back of my neck--there's a tiny dart sticking out of my neck--and I see Manella Dee staring at me out of the frame of his glasses. I'm on to him, and he knows it. He drops his hand, but it's too late. I've seen his guilty aim at me with that funny watch of his.
When I come around again, I hear the judge proclaim my defendant innocent. Maya jumps at me. Confetti flies through the air, and I can already see the headlines declaring another miracle from Sleeping Wright in tomorrow's newspapers. I ignore all that and grab Manella Dee's small wrist.
"A word," I say.
He stares at me with hardened eyes.
"Not here," he replies.
Those are not the eyes of a child, and that cold tone does not belong to a child either. I manage to keep silent until we reach the relative safety of our office. I wait for him to speak. He waits until Maya leaves the room.
When she does, he takes off his glasses and stares at me with Edgeworth's eyes.
----
the end