Disclaimer: I do not own Phoenix Wright. It is the property of Capcom; I merely borrow the characters for my own amusement.

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Lab Analysis: Glimmerous Fops

Excerpted from a page found in a file on Detective Ema Skye’s (extremely cluttered) desk:

Purpose: To discover if glimmerous fops contribute any manner of usefulness to the world at large.

Equipment: 1) 1 bag of snackoos 2) tape recorder

Chemicals: 1) Aluminum Fingerprinting Powder 2) Luminol Testing Fluid (there is an arrow pointing to this from a messy scribble that says, “I never used it during the investigation, but it’s still awesome”)

Safety: 1) Beware of direct contact with subject(s). Stupidity may be contagious.

Introduction—Background Information: A certain kind of person known as a “prosecutor” is nearly a different breed of human altogether. Prosecutors possess utmost power here at the precinct (with the exception of Winston Payne, who may only possess terrible fashion sense and miracle hair-growth formula). It certainly is a shame the quality of such persons has severely diminished since the reign of the last prosecutor (a certain eccentric java-addict, or so the records state). Prosecutors must be “cool of wit and furrowed of brow” to merit even the title (several tiny hearts are penciled in the margin near here, surrounding a scrawl that may read “Miles Edgeworth”) yet clearly, with the current chain of command, real prosecutors are in short supply nowadays.

Hypothesis: GLIMMEROUS FOPS ARE USELESS. (the words are boxed, underlined, and highlighted in a garish pink)

Procedure: (This section is found blank with the exception of a doodle that looks suspiciously like a porcupine on a stick.)

Data: Whew, I never knew this report stuff was so hard! I had to get Mr. Wright to write this for me (haha, pun so intended) because he knows this lawyerly formal-words stuff so much better than I do. I asked him to make up a procedure for me too, but I think he got bored. Oh well. (That’s either a badly-drawn portrait of himself or an anorexic Blue Badger, but I could be wrong.)

Anyways, I started my investigation today. At least, I was going to, but I kind of got sidetracked trying to figure out who stole my bag of Snackoos. (It was Mr. Wright, by the way.) By the time I finished, my shift was over. I didn’t complain. After all, the supermarket opens until ten at night, you know. When I got there though, you wouldn’t believe the crowd gathered outside the building.

I have to admit: I panicked a little. With all these people, the Snackoos would be gone faster than a new bottle of Luminol fluid! What would I munch on tomorrow at work? (As a side note, snacking during work hours is not permitted.)

That was when I noticed exactly what the commotion was about. You don’t need any guesses—all that screaming is a pretty a big clue. If you guessed that pretentious, foppish diva, then I’d say, scientifically speaking, you’re not far from the truth.

In fact, you’d be completely right.

It’s just like him to create the mother (and brother and aunt and cousin) of all fire hazards right in front of the door. Right in front of a door that needed to be entered within the next hour before IT CLOSED. But of course, the glimmerous fop just stood there, waving and encouraging the crowd to stay and gawk at him. Jerk.

I remember pushing through the crowd with a file of papers over my face, explaining to a sea of dirty looks that I “only want to get into the supermarket, dammit”, and nearly slipped in the door unnoticed when his voice stopped me with a statement I couldn’t let go.

He said, and I quote: “Fraulëin Detective, I didn’t expect that you’d join my fans in stalking me.”

Did I call him a jerk before? I take it back. Jerk doesn’t even begin to describe him.

I can say with certainty that I was opening my mouth for a sharp retort when he dragged me over to face immediate death by exploding lightbulbs.

“Smile for the cameras, Fraulëin,” he had the nerve to say. Maybe when I can see again. Jerk.

I ended up not getting what I went to the supermarket for in the first place. From now on, I’m going to keep a month’s supply of Snackoos at work so I don’t have to make any more late night trips to the supermarket.

Results definitely seem favorable; the hypothesis appears accurate so far. I’ll collect more data tomorrow.

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Oh, the nerve of that glimmerous, foppish, bleat-brained prosecutor! He waltzes into Criminal Affairs, calling out in a way-too-cheerful voice and waving the newspaper like it’s some kind of an overrated flag, drawing the attention of every police officer and their dog. And he comes straight up to me, humming that song of his, 13 Years Hard Time for Stupidity or something like that, and melodramatically slapped the morning paper onto my desk.

Did I mention that everyone was looking at him? I think some of them were trying to break their necks, craning unhealthily far out of their cubicles in an attempt to see what was so special about the newspaper.

Apparently, he’d made front page news. “Rock Star Prosecutor Shops at Local Grocer.” Big deal, right?

Then I looked down the page and realized that it was me being attacked by a mob of reporters. This is clearly libel. I’ve attached the newspaper clipping as evidence, see Attachment A.

(There is a messily cut-out paper clipped to the report: “Rock Star Prosecutor Shops at Local Grocer” reads the bold headlines, and a photo of the prosecutor, smiling easily at the camera with an arm slung casually about the shoulders of a flustered woman in a trademark white lab coat. “Who is this mysterious ‘Fraulëin Detective’? An unknown woman was seen with Star Prosecutor Gavin last night in front of the local supermarket, looking particularly cozy togeth…” Here, the words are cut off by particularly vicious swipes of appear to be scissors.)

I ought to sue—hang on, the chief’s calling me.

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I HATE JOURNALISTS. They’re disgusting, they have no sense of hygiene, they smell funny, talk funny, and they’re way too nosy to live. (In the margin to the right, there is a rather bizarre doodle of a balding man being strangled with a strangely long tongue.)

PEOPLE LIKE HIM MAKE ME WISH I WASN’T A POLICE OFFICER.

(There are several dark scribbles that nearly tear through the paper for a few inches following, and several messy creases that indicate that the report has been severely mauled.)

--

Okay, I think I’m feeling better now. A little. For now, I’ll refrain from mentioning the snide comments from my coworkers and focus on getting this report done.

…

…

…

On second thought, I’ll tell you exactly what they said, those insensitive jerks.

“Getting cozy with the Prosecutor, eh, Skye?”

“I thought you hated him, Skye. Guess you’re just a girl after all, aren’t you?”

“Hey, invite me to the wedding, will ya, Skye? And give me exclusive rights to the baby pictures.” END QUOTES. …Oh great, that stupid reporter is contagious.

Why can’t anyone see that I hate him to every last strand of his pretentious, perfectly-gelled hair?? THEY’VE GOTTA BE BLIND. I’m the one with the pink sunglasses over my face, I mean, hellooo?

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…I just want to get this report over with—I really don’t want to do this anymore… I’ve added a tape as Attachment B, and the transcript of the file as Attachment C.

(Attachment B is a standard tape, as used in police interrogations in the Detention Center. Attachment C is the neatly-typed record of the tape:

Skye: Hello? Hello? Testing, one two, one two? This is the amazing Forensic-Detective-Scientist Ema Skye speaking. I’m testing the department’s recording equipment right now, and I’m bored! Aren’t there any forensic investigations to do around here?

Gavin: I wish I could be of some help, Fraulëin Detective, but unfortunately—

Skye: Oh my freaking—Prosecutor Gavin!! You almost gave me a heart attack! Couldn’t you have, I don’t know, said something?? (there are shuffling sounds, presumably the Detective setting down the tape recorder)

Gavin: (laughs) Fraulëin, something in your eyes tells me that you are rather less fond of me than usual, ja? Whatever could be the matter?

Skye: I don’t know what you’re talking about.

Gavin: Very well, Fraulëin, I won’t press the matter further. By the way, have you seen the morning newspaper? Makes for an interesting story, ja?

Skye: (incoherent mumbling) ...hydrogen… helium… lithium… beryllium… boron… carbonnitrogenoxygen—FORGET THIS!! YOU GLIMMEROUS FOPPISH JERK HOW DARE YOU?? (a thunderous bang, assumedly the Detective slamming her hands on the desk, then the flutter of papers falling to the floor) I just went for some Snackoos, definitely not to get assaulted by a bunch of freaks with cameras!

Gavin: (laughs) Ah, Fraulëin, they are only doing their job—

Skye: They can do it without me. My reputation’s totally shot because of you. I’m a detective, not your groupie, get it right, Gavin! (a deep sigh) I didn’t even do what I went there to do. It’s probably some sadistic rock star thing, making my life miserable like this. (a brief period of silence)

Gavin: …I’m sorry you feel that way, Fraulëin. It was honestly not my intention to inconvenience you in any way. All in good fun, ja? (another brief period of silence, then the crackling of a dense plastic package) I suspected you were unable to obtain your beloved snacks last night, so I stopped in early this morning to pick them up for you.

Skye: You-you what?

Gavin: My apologies for your trouble, Fraulëin. Have a nice day, ja? Auf wiedersehen.

This ends the Attachment C transcript.)

…Yea. I’m just going to finish this report now. This is… this is getting old.

Conclusion: Through extensive research and gathering of data, the evidence shows, and scientifically speaking, I have no choice but to conclude that glimmerous fops— (here, there are several scribbles that obscure any writing that may have existed, followed by a scrawled and equally frustrated “I GIVE UP”)

This ends the excerpted from a file on Detective Ema Skye’s (extremely cluttered) desk.

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A note, a little crumpled, absconded with for the sake of journalism from Detective Ema Skye’s (extremely cluttered, end quote) desk:

Dearest Fraulëin Detective,

I’ve just caught a reporter attempting to lift a charming little report from your workspace. Now that he has brought this to my attention, I must applaud you for your ingenuity—the document is certainly inspired. There is but one discrepancy I feel the need to point out: you appear to have omitted the “Equations” section of the report. Such a thing must be included for the report to be official, ja? Allow me to suggest one:

You + Me Chemistry

(signed with excessive flourish) K. Gavin

P.S. Would you be available to accompany me to dinner Wednesday night? I will be arriving at Criminal Affairs at around seven, listening for “13 Years Hard Time for Love” from your stereo, ja?

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“Police Officers Complain of Blaring Rock Music On an Otherwise Normal Wednesday Night,” end quote.

Spark Brushel, Law-Abiding Journalist.