o2 ♫ Gourdy isn't the only seafood lover...
Characters: Klavier Gavin (guiltyguitar) and Phoenix Wright (notguiltyplz).
Location: A restaurant in the Middle District with outside seating.
Time: Mid afternoon (4pm).
Style: Um, third person/script since I'm too lazy for prose.
Status: Closed.
Klavier was still trying to adjust to living here--it was weird, to put one word to it. A lot of impossibilities were hanging around him. First there was the fact his brother, Kristoph, didn't remember anything about murdering someone and the fact he should be in jail for it. He also had no memory of Phoenix Wright being disbarred (which was strange), and it was honestly beginning to really cut Klavier's nerves. Not to mention everyone here was younger than they should be, Phoenix himself included. It was strange, because Klavier hadn't seen Wright like that for seven whole years, since his very first trial as a prosecutor. To him, everything was just a large blur in time, now, though, almost like all of that and the last seven years... had never happened.
He couldn't understand it, but in some ways, it was as unsettling as it was comforting. In a sense, he was very glad Phoenix was NOT disbarred--he could prevent it now that he knew the man wasn't such a bad person. He probably had been set up. ... Why hadn't Klavier seen that then? He was seventeen at the time, though, so how could he have known?
All these things were swirling around his mind as he changed, putting on his (now clean) clothes, the ones he'd arrived in. At least they no longer smelled of salt water. His jewelry was next, and the SFC was tucked into his pocket. For some reason, today he felt like not wearing his usual purple jacket, and a look into the mirror told Klavier he needed to smile more as he put his G logo necklace on, then his chain belt, and finally his boots. A lot had been going on around here, but at the very least, he could always find comfort in his music. Without hesitation, he picks up his guitar case, and slings it over his shoulder, holding it by it's strap, before locking the door and leaving his apartment. The restaurant in the Middle district was nearby, and it seemed like a nice place.
At least the day was nice--it was a comforting thought that even though this place was unstable, it still had it's own form of beauty.
Location: A restaurant in the Middle District with outside seating.
Time: Mid afternoon (4pm).
Style: Um, third person/script since I'm too lazy for prose.
Status: Closed.
Klavier was still trying to adjust to living here--it was weird, to put one word to it. A lot of impossibilities were hanging around him. First there was the fact his brother, Kristoph, didn't remember anything about murdering someone and the fact he should be in jail for it. He also had no memory of Phoenix Wright being disbarred (which was strange), and it was honestly beginning to really cut Klavier's nerves. Not to mention everyone here was younger than they should be, Phoenix himself included. It was strange, because Klavier hadn't seen Wright like that for seven whole years, since his very first trial as a prosecutor. To him, everything was just a large blur in time, now, though, almost like all of that and the last seven years... had never happened.
He couldn't understand it, but in some ways, it was as unsettling as it was comforting. In a sense, he was very glad Phoenix was NOT disbarred--he could prevent it now that he knew the man wasn't such a bad person. He probably had been set up. ... Why hadn't Klavier seen that then? He was seventeen at the time, though, so how could he have known?
All these things were swirling around his mind as he changed, putting on his (now clean) clothes, the ones he'd arrived in. At least they no longer smelled of salt water. His jewelry was next, and the SFC was tucked into his pocket. For some reason, today he felt like not wearing his usual purple jacket, and a look into the mirror told Klavier he needed to smile more as he put his G logo necklace on, then his chain belt, and finally his boots. A lot had been going on around here, but at the very least, he could always find comfort in his music. Without hesitation, he picks up his guitar case, and slings it over his shoulder, holding it by it's strap, before locking the door and leaving his apartment. The restaurant in the Middle district was nearby, and it seemed like a nice place.
At least the day was nice--it was a comforting thought that even though this place was unstable, it still had it's own form of beauty.