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[bratworth]

Greetings, Exsilium. I am Miles Edgeworth and I have an announcement to make. In preparation for Thanksgiving, a silly American holiday where people gorge on turkey and celebrate historical inaccuracies by painting bald eagles with gravy, I have attempted to cook a simple but delicious mashed potatoes dish.

I have failed. It has been less than two hours since I stepped into the kitchen and I have already managed to soil my cravat, stain my vest and slightly singe my sleeves. It will take a lot of effort to rid the delicate embroideries on my vest with the potato bits that have gotten between the threads. It would take more effort to get rid of the stench of curdled milk, failure and shame that now permeates every corner of this kitchen.

I must now admit that I am not only a failure in the kitchen but also a failure as a man. I am a foolish fool who can not foolishly comprehend recipes so simple even a fool of the utmost foolishness can foolishly cook. I submit myself to your mockery, Exsilium. I deserve to be punished for my incompetence.

That is all.

[ Note: Franziska von Karma was here. Miles Edgeworth smells.

Franziska has hi-jacked her brother's communicator. She wrote this entire post. Expect tags from Franziska pretending to be Edgeworth, Edgeworth, and Franziska... probably. ]

Comments

[bratworth]

[ Not that bad? He scowls -- Franziska should know how this feels like, but she wouldn't, of course, because he wasn't about to do anything like this to her.

Was it too much to ask for her to act her supposed age? ]

I don't think you have any right to lecture anyone on being unreasonable. [ A pause in which he's seriously considering just turning around and storming into his room, but that reminds him... ]

By the way, you still have something of mine, don't you?

[perfectionisms]

Are you stooping to foolish accusations now? I don't have anything of yours anymore!

[bratworth]

My key.

[perfectionisms]

Shouldn't you have your own copy by now?

[bratworth]

I do. However, I see no good reason why you should have my spare.

[perfectionisms]

Earthquakes.

[bratworth]

[ Low blow, Franziska. He turns his head, biting his lip. ]

Funny, I don't recall asking for your help.

[perfectionisms]

[ He can wibble all he wants. That's not going to work. ]

I'm keeping the key.

[bratworth]

[ He stands his ground, not yet retreating into his room despite how greatly he wishes to do precisely that. ]

It's not yours to keep.

[perfectionisms]

It's mine to keep as much as it is yours. [ Because neither of them owned the place anyway. ]

[bratworth]

I didn't see your name on this apartment's rooming assignment.

[perfectionisms]

I'm not moving in with you, even if you do get into a lot of trouble.