AN: So...I wrote this about a hundred years ago, and it only just hit me that I had not posted it here. Go figure. So I thought I'd rectify that. Better late than never and all. This is a crack fic, one hundred percent. Further explanation is at the bottom. I don't own Ace Attorney. Thanks!
Target in Sight
It had taken a lot of time, planning, and one little tiny stroke of luck, but for the moment, Kristoph Gavin was a free man. Though he was an inordinately self-centered individual, he did spare a moment to offer his thanks to the god of lightning strikes and the god of electrical outages. Give credit where credit was due and all that rot.
But now that he was temporarily free, he was a man on a mission. Namely, there was a certain person that he wanted to have a few words with. And by "have a few words with," he meant "smash this person's head in with the nearest heavy object."
And that person was one, Phoenix Wright.
Target in sight.
Armed and dangerous with an empty bottle of wine—err, grape juice, he trailed after his quarry. It wasn't that difficult to spot Phoenix Wright in a crowd, after all. That god-awful hat made him stand out like a sore thumb. And the rest of the ensemble just cinched in. He followed casually, waiting for the prime moment to strike.
Unfortunately, the man ahead of him went into a crowded hotel. Kristoph sighed. Why was he being so secretive, anyway? He already had two murder convictions and one attempted murder tucked safely under his belt. What else could they to do to him anyway? He was being ridiculous. There was nothing to hide at this point. So why not just walk up and brain the man and be done with it?
Secure in this new and much more efficient plan, he quickened pace and followed his quarry into the building, past a crowd of people, into a room full of oddly-dressed folks…and froze in his tracks.
Kristoph stared over the crowd of people in shock. It wasn't necessarily the number of people that puzzled him as it was the number of people who were all dressed alike, if that made sense. There seemed to be no less than six people wearing hoodies and that ridiculous electric blue beanie.
Why in the bloody blue blazes were there six Phoenix Wrights? No, wait, make that seven—there was another one over there engaged in some, err…interesting activity with a rather handsome young man with silver hair, wearing a magenta suit and a cravat.
Kristoph Gavin could appreciate a good suit, and the color was interesting but workable. But the lacey white cravat? Please. Such frills were SOOOOO game three.
…seriously, though, where was Wright's hand going??
He shook it off and, for lack of a better idea, called out, "Excuse me, but which one of you is Phoenix Wright?" It seemed like a decent enough way of finding his true target.
What he got in response to his query were a few blank stares, before one person (who strangely enough, looked like a woman) raised her hand and loudly crowed, "I am the hobo!" The rest all laughed and began waving their arms, also declaring themselves to be the hobo.
Gavin scratched his head, thoroughly bewildered. It doesn't make any sense. Who is the hobo? Err…I mean, which one of them is Phoenix Wright?He also couldn't quite figure out why he had this sudden urge to loudly declare that he was Spartacus. Must have been a passing impulse.
Another glance around brought yet another surprise to the confused convict. Klavier? What the hell is he doing here? Playing a show? No, he disbanded the band. So why is he here? And why does he look even more like a girl than he usually does? And…WHAT THE HELL IS HE DOING WITH JUSTICE? They looked a bit too cozy for his comfort, plzkthx.
He stepped aside as a man in a vest walked past, one hand adjusting a mask over his face while the other clutched a coffee mug; this man joined several others in similar garb. There was a woman in a white dress with a parasol who seemed to be standing over the prone form of a person in a pink sweater. And there were several girls who actually seemed to be whipping a man dressed as Wright always had during his lawyer days (the blue suit and pink tie combo, such a sartorial eyesore).
…Kristoph did pause a moment to wonder if any of those ladies were available. Rawr.
Who the hell were these people? And why were so many of them dressed alike? And they were calling each other by names that sounded vaguely familiar to him, though he could not place but a scant few of them. And seriously—what the hell was Klavier doing over there with Justice??
A hand touched his shoulder, and he looked down at a young woman wearing a black suit with a skirt, with a strange pendant and cleavage—err, nice long brown hair. And she looked, well, impressed was the best word he could think of. "That is the best Kristoph costume I've ever seen!" she said with a big smile. "How long did it take you to make it?"
Kristoph stared, baffled. And after a moment, he even managed to get his gaze up above the poor girl's neck. "Costume? What costume?"
Now the girl frowned and pointed at a sign hanging near the door.
He blinked at it, now completely lost. First there were seven (no, now there were nine) of the bloody hobos who called themselves Phoenix Wright. Then Klavier (who really looked like a girl) was snuggling with Apollo Justice (who also looked like a girl, but that was nothing too out of the ordinary, to be frank), and Wright was still canoodling with that magenta-suited guy (what was his name again?). And now some girl was asking about his Kristoph…costume?
…and what the hell was cosplay?
PS. I wrote this for the "Who is the hobo?" contest. This is called taking the theme a bit too literally. So thanks for reading! I…err…koff… *points over everyone's heads* Look! Something shiny! *RUNS LIKE THE WIND, DODGING THROWN THINGS*