Work Text:
Purchasing twenty magazines featuring people who were wanted for layers would net a man wary looks. However, if said man took on the attire of a tattered jacket splashed with different hues and threw a few paintbrushes into the purchase, those looks would soften into something more comfortable. An eccentric hairstyle, consisting of sleek spikes pointing backwards, also certainly helped. The cashier would be at enough ease to make some kind of small talk, at least.
“You using these as references?”
“Yeah. I do figure studies and portraits.”
“That’s really cool! You know, I have a friend who makes paintings. You people are all so amazing, I could never draw even a stick figure.”
And so it went.
Phoenix Wright, active prosecutor for the state of Japanifornia, left the local neighborhood convenience shop twenty magazines richer than when he entered.
His apartment was modest on the outside. He unlocked the front door, a dull shade of blue like all others on the street. As he climbed up the stairs, the plastic bag in his hand rustled, echoes bouncing off of the stone steps. Phoenix reached the third floor and entered the first door to the left. The thick chemical scent of acrylic and oil paints stung his nose.
Shoot!
Without taking off his shoes, he stomped across the flat, coughing and trampling over layers of paper sheets laid on the floor, and hurled the nearest window open. A clean puff of wind entered to clear the fumes of paint away. Phoenix stuck his head out to inhale the fresh air and let out a sigh. The red scarf wound around his neck fluttered and bounced in rhythm to the gentle, pulsing breeze.
The new magazines were placed in a stack next to an easel. He fixed the white sheets of paper that he rustled earlier; they laid out over the hardwood floor, set underneath an easel and a small table topped with a panoply of paint tubes, palettes, and petite pitchers of water. It gave the appearance of a little studio, constructed within the edges of the paper. Opposite to the art setup, sunlight from the window at the other end of the room softly washed over a simple wooden work desk. Law books took up one corner, while manila folders and case files scattered across the rest of the surface. The space was complete with a big, clunky desktop computer.
Today, Phoenix would work from the art studio side of the room. In preparation, he put on an old apron and rolled up his sleeves. He picked up the stack of new magazines and observed the covers in more detail. The one on top featured a swimmer with gray hair and sharp features. The hairstyle, smooth and swept back due to being wet, resembled the way a certain defense attorney did his own.
That defense attorney defeated him twice in a row. Not exactly a remarkable feat, if Phoenix had to be honest about his track record. Yet both of the times he fell at the hands of Edgeworth, that man had not merely squirmed his way through cross-examinations to earn a “Not Guilty” verdict, but undertook full pursuit of the true murderer. The display was striking amidst the many defense attorneys he had faced off against in court, who sought only to rub contradiction after contradiction in his face in order to wiggle their client free from the grip of the law. He was as exuberant as Phoenix remembered him, the ten year old boy who came to school wearing the hats from his father’s old lawyer attire while lecturing everyone about the importance of the law. He grew into a suit of his own, now, treading his own path. Edgeworth’s conviction shone pure and bright, like a fire in a forest.
Bright, illuminating. Yellow and white. The power of his creed was the red he wore, the clothes which made the man. A portrait.
Next magazine. A close-up shot, the model had a piercing gaze and confident smile, one that, if Phoenix squinted, looked exactly like the smug smirks that Edgeworth gave him in court, just before unleashing his arsenal of evidence.
That face pierced him from the depths of his conscience. He dabbed a paintbrush into the acrylics. A thick drop of brown fell from the bristles into the evenly spread silver mixture on his palette, like a splotch of mud on white clothing.
What right did Edgeworth have to judge him, though? He might not have said anything to his face, but Phoenix noticed the disapproving frowns and pity in Edgeworth’s eyes as though he were a defrocked lawyer, fallen from grace.
So the silver paint was muddied up a little, did it matter? The results still looked good. If Phoenix had to stomach criticisms for his unconventional court tactics, so be it if it put those wretched weasels in their place. A design.
The next magazine featured business fashion. Men and women with tall-standing postures and striking suits of different colors posed for the cover. Phoenix was drawn to the one in the rich red. The same shade of clothing that Edgeworth wore.
Hypocrisy oozed through that man’s actions. The truth? Believing in his clients? What else could Phoenix say to that, not after everything he had put him through. Edgeworth had left him without a word. When he resurfaced into Phoenix’s life, he came back as a smug face in a lavish newspaper article, preaching about ideals and justice beside Mia. Mia . To think that he put himself at the same level of her caliber. Mia believed in people sincerely. And then she was gone. Edgeworth inherited the defense attorney’s path from many brilliant figures– his father, and now Mia. But behind that suit and noble goals was a man capable of betrayal, Phoenix knew.
Dark, darker, yet darker. Consumed by a fire of his own, of loathing and jealousy. Fierce, angry marks, a deep purple shade which he created by mixing heavy blues, slashed at the canvas. There, he was a demon of Phoenix’s making. A perspective.
At the end of the week, Phoenix’s apartment floor was littered with twenty magazines featuring models who met at least one of the following criteria: gray hair, sharp features, a cold, professional decorum, and the color red liberally highlighted across the covers. Five new works of art depicted men who all shared the following traits: gray hair, sharp features, a cold, professional decorum, and the color red quite liberally applied over the painting. Phoenix set the canvases against the wall in a not-particularly-straight line and stepped back to evaluate them.
Now it’s like all of these Edgeworths are watching me… If the artist’s purpose was to turn ideas and feelings into something tangible and real, then Phoenix perfectly recreated the throes of his inner turmoil. Now he could experience it twofold– once in his mind and then in the comfort of his own home.
With the portrait of five Edgeworths looking down at him, some with a chilly glare, others with judgemental righteousness, Phoenix begrudgingly made his way to the lawyer side of his workspace. He opened a drawer and pulled out a piece of paper with a frayed edge from being torn out of a notebook. The surface was smudged with ink and scrawled with crossed out words. Heavy black words bled into the page reading, “Leave of Absence”.
Phoenix gave the sheet a cursory skim, then turned to his out-of-date computer, hands poised over the keyboard. He glanced down at the sheet of paper every so often while his fingers typed away with quick taps. The cursor hovered over the send button but changed course to close out the window. It wasn’t happening today . He slid the drawer open with a grating metallic ring. Resting at the top of the piles inside was a pamphlet titled “Oh! Cult!” displaying a young woman with long, black hair and a docile countenance. She wore a set of monastic robes. It was the one magazine in his home not used for art. He placed the draft back on top of it.
One final email check, Phoenix believed, and then he could have a peaceful night. One final email check, however, read as follows:
Subject: Local Artists Fair Waitlist - Table Confirmation
Dear Mr. Wright,
We are pleased to inform you that, due to a cancellation, you have been selected from the waitlist for a place in the LA Local Artists Fair 2016 and are looking forward to your display. Attached to this email is a document that will provide you with specific details necessary to help your setup go smoothly, as well as the fair schedule, your table number and location, and where to park.
We are excited to support local artists like you.
Sincerely,
S. Laflin
LA Art League Events Coordinator
Eh? Phoenix stared blankly at the email. When did he sign up for this? Heat built up in his head as it spun in circles trying to figure out what this was. Scanning the document revealed that it was just short two weeks until the fair. Why drop out at the last minute, and why choose me?! Could he get out of doing this? He didn’t even have a display ready, and there was no way he could produce a complete exhibition of quality in such a short time.
Wait.
The line of Edgeworth portraits returned his inquisitive look with contemptuous glares– and maybe even a hint of disgust. Still… Maybe I can make some money like this.
If there was any subject that could fuel his creative tank with enough passion to develop a gallery in under two weeks, it was definitely Edgeworth. That man tormented his soul so. Blessed, cursed, Edgeworth. Plus, it was a small, local art gallery. There was no way anybody would recognize him or the subject he chose as his artistic study.
Gradually, his apartment accumulated more and more portraits. Some were full-body, others half-body; a few were bright and inspiring, while others dark and moody; but they all depicted the same defense attorney. It was like the steady process of a teenager filling their bedroom with posters of a favorite celebrity, only accelerated within the span of just under two weeks. The five Edgeworths doubled to ten, then another five made fifteen. They all stood in a row against the back wall from one end to the other. From the kitchen, Phoenix felt their gazes boring into his back as he cooked. From the easel, Phoenix painted while they patiently waited, still against the wall, for a new Edgeworth to join their ranks. By the work desk, they huddled beside Phoenix, monitoring his work in an unnerving silence.
Phoenix was pleased with his progress.
He was so pleased that even while biking to the gallery with a backpack carrying fifteen canvases, heavy against his back, he could smile (head pressed down to the bike handle from the sheer weight, but really, it was all worth it). Sometimes, selling off original paintings of one’s childhood friend-turned-nemesis was the best thing a man could do for his life. The fresh wind blew against his face, and bright green trees evenly dotted at the edge of the sidewalk opened up the road ahead of him. Cycling forwards, his red scarf trailed behind him.
At the gallery, Phoenix found his stand without any fuss. A picnic table draped with a blue velvet tablecloth, easels made of smoothed wood, and a metal plate engraved with his name were there to greet him. With this setup and the power of fifteen Edgeworth portraits on his side, Phoenix felt the professional energy seep into his being. Studio Phoenix Wright was officially open for business.
Phoenix smiled at his seat, hands folded over the table. An hour passed, and he fell into the rhythm of the event. Small groups, usually families or a clique of art students, strolled through the gallery. People turned their heads side to side as they checked out each display with an appreciative glance, drifting towards some tables at a leisure pace. Occasionally, a local student would approach him and ask, often in a soft-spoken voice while avoiding eye contact, about the materials he used, how to find inspiration to paint, or the life of a small artist. To the last question, he freely admitted that his art was more of a hobby and made a living as a full-time practicing lawyer. A photographer who enjoyed documenting crowds even stopped by his table and expressed interest in buying one of his portraits, to Phoenix’s delight.
However, the strangest encounter of the hour took the form of an old woman in a bright blue security outfit. She had been wandering through the gallery, evaluating the people more so than the art, and was about to brush past Phoenix’s stand when she suddenly whipped her head back around to stare at a portrait. She had a deep scowl etched into her face, but it magically transformed into a giddy grin like a schoolgirl meeting her first date on prom night. Phoenix couldn’t believe his eyes; it even looked like she was skipping towards his portraits.
“My, my! Who is this handsome fellow?” She didn’t even turn to look at Phoenix.
He supplied her with one of his prepared responses: “Ah, he was a co-worker who modeled for me.” Technically, not a lie.
“My, he looks like a dashing young man I know.” She brought a hand up to touch the one on the easel.
“Um, please don’t touch the artwork-”
“Quiet whippersnapper!” she snapped, glaring at him. “I just want to take a closer look, you youths are so rude to an old lady like me. My eyesight is fading and isn’t getting any better as I age, sowhydon’tyoufindthekindnessinyourhearttograntthisgentlegrandmajustoneofherwishes. Why, backinmydaywewerealwaysrespectfultoourelders, whenoldgrandpapawanteddinner, nomatterhowoddtherequestwewerealwayshappytotrekmilesandmilesawayintothenexttowntogettheingredientsrequiredtopreparehisfavoritedishes!”
“O-okay, sorry. Er, I suppose you can pick up just this one. Ms…?”
The old lady, now winded, seemed to have forgotten her request. Her snarl softened into a nonchalant smile. “Oh, my name is Wendy Oldbag. For such beautiful paintings, I can let it go this time,” she said, waving her bony hand as she dismissed his wrongdoings.
“I’m Phoenix Wright. Please, take your time to browse my paintings for as long as you’d like.” He braced himself as he scanned her face for the slightest hint of a scowl.
Thankfully, she returned to admiring the Edgeworth portraits. Phoenix released the tension in his body with a sigh.
“Hmm? Maybe the reason he looks so familiar is because…”
“No way, Mr. Edgeworth! This is definitely the place!” came an all-too-familiar peppy voice. Phoenix’s heart skipped a beat. From the entrance of the gallery, he saw the girl clad in purple robes appear. Please, no… how did they even learn about this place?! He began to feel his muscles stiffen anew.
Red. That same shade of red he now knew how to mix by heart. The gray hair, smoothed back save for two bangs which perked up from his forehead, which he could paint from any angle. And even from afar, Phoenix identified those narrow eyes that slanted downwards ever-so-slightly. That man was here.
To hear his rapid heartbeat and feel warm sweat forming behind his head was all Phoenix could do. His mind screamed at him: He can’t see me or my Edgeworths!
Edgeworth and his legal assistant meandered between tables, peeking over at the artists and their works. They had not noticed him yet. Phoenix wracked his brain for a way to escape their inevitable encounter. Even if he slipped away somewhere, they would certainly recognize Edgeworth’s likeness in the portraits.
Ms. Oldbag, completely oblivious to the internal drama playing out Phoenix’s mind, turned to him and addressed him respectfully for the first time. “How much for these portraits, dearie?”
“J-just take the entire thing! Free of charge!” Phoenix blurted out. As soon as he spoke, Phoenix started grabbing all of the canvases and collected them in a stack. The canvases were individually bubble-wrapped in haste and then slid one by one into large canvas bags, like he was feeding a slot machine. As he worked, he made sure his back faced the direction of one particular defense attorney (and company) to conceal his face. The fifteen portraits of Edgeworth soon had their ownership transferred to Ms. Oldbag, with the transaction finalized with a brisk handshake and Phoenix passing over the bags of valuables. It was done.
A thrilled Ms. Oldbag thanked him and went on her way. In a matter of seconds, Phoenix heard a shrill cry of “Edgey-pooooo!!” and he was grateful for this strange turn of fate that allowed him to take advantage of the distraction she provided. How does Ms. Oldbag know Edgeworth? No matter, while she kept Edgeworth and his assistant busy, Phoenix swiftly closed his stand. The velvet tablecloth and easels were shoved into a plastic bin, while he swiped the metal plate for himself. He could use it for his real office…
With that, Phoenix removed himself from the gallery without a trace. He returned to the busy streets of the city, slipping into anonymity granted by crowds. When his pulse returned to normal and the wind slapped him in the face, back to reality, Phoenix’s heart sank. He made a grave mistake.
Wait, noooo… but I came here to make some money off of my suffering!