For a man whose entire life was false names and false identities, Shelly de Killer was having a really hard time choosing a costume.

As bellhop, butler, or purveyor of sweets, or simply as an inconspicuous bystander in a crowd, his costumes were as varied as they were disposable. Even his name was a symbol, a mantle donned when he took over the de Killer title. His original name, the placeholder his mother sang to him as she rocked him to sleep, was long discarded and forgotten.

The trouble was that prosecutor, Miles Edgeworth, the bane of his existence. He was always there, asking inconvenient questions and sticking his persistent nose into matters that did not concern him. Having his plans unraveled not once, but twice, both times recorded for posterity in court transcripts, de Killer was worse than a wanted man.

He was an unwilling celebrity.

An assassin with a moral code, impassable but nonetheless honorable: it was enough to make the heart swoon. There had been a movie made about him. He'd been played by the handsome, brooding Bogert Battinson, a tortured heartthrob if there ever was one. De Killer had cringed looking at the movie's poster.

The effect was immediate. Overnight, his mail increased a hundredfold, and not a single work proposal in sight. Plenty of the other kind of proposal, the romantic kind, tearful entreaties to bare his lonely heart to the letter-writer's everlasting love. De Killer shuddered, dumping the whole heap of letters into the fire. To make matters worse, his physical description had been in those records. There were too many people who had seen him and survived to tell the tale. This was unusual—de Killers did not fail in their missions. Then again, it wasn't his fault his clients were conniving degenerates.

But casting blame was no solution to his problem of being recognized on every street corner. At that moment, a flash of white caught his attention. He bent over and retrieved the letter from the floor, fallen from his massive bins of fan mail. His breath caught in his throat.

It was a request for an assassination.

"Yes," he breathed in relief. Work once more. He smoothed back his hair in the mirror, fingered the calling card in his pocket. De Killer was back, armed and ready to strike fear into the hearts of his misguided admirers. This time, he would not fail.


But how to carry out his work when his face was so easily recognized? His usual disguises would no longer cut it. Luckily for him, the requested assassination was to take place on All Hallows Eve, a week away. A week of outlandish decorations and lowered inhibitions, with no shortage of tacky costume parties. It would be the perfect opportunity to try out some new disguises.

His first attempt was an absolute failure. "Oh, you must be Shelly de Killer disguised as a KB Security Guard!" the greeter said immediately. "Love the ray gun!"

"I'm simply a security guard," he explained.

"Committed to the character, I see! Have a good evening, Shelly de Killer," she replied with an exaggerated wink.

De Killer sighed.

- O -

Nor did he have better luck with firefighter, police officer, construction worker, or paramedic. "No, you're not supposed to be a Hotti Clinic nurse," the bespectacled film geek complained. "In the animated series De Killer's Killer Heart, Nurse de Killer is clearly wearing General Hospital scrubs!"

And usually, something like that wouldn't have gotten to him. He would simply have said Of course and gone on his way, but his mask was slipping. As each of his carefully-crafted characters was peeled and stripped away, it seemed a piece of his calm façade went with it. He dimly registered the unfamiliar internal itch as annoyance, and then he was annoyed at himself for feeling it.

"Kid, if you have nothing nice to say, don't say anything at all," he ground out.

- O -

It must be his face. The teddy bear face with the neat line of stitches, impossible to disguise as a tattoo or hide under make-up. He'd have to try a mask. The next time he left his house, he went as the Blue Badger, face buried under a bulky mascot head.

He made it through most of the night without being recognized, and it was grand. He chatted with guests, and mingled with the crowd, and no one bothered him for a handshake or a kiss. But then, as the night was winding down—

"Noooo! Cassie, baby, don't go with him! I thought we had something special!" A commotion was starting up somewhere behind him, and he'd barely started to turn when someone's fist connected with the back of his costumed head. He came to in a puddle of punch, with a splitting headache and a man with ridiculous orange hair standing over him. "Oh man, sorry! Didn't mean to hit you there! Cool Shelley de Killer undercover as the Blue Badger costume, by the way!"

De Killer wanted to scream. Masks that limited his range of vision were out.

- O -

Perhaps something more unexpected? Something a shade more. . . exotic?

Shelly the Shapely Shimmying Sheila was a tongue-twister he could have done without, yet here he was, arms and legs covered in tinkling beads and bangles, and his midsection conversely bare. He was in peak form for carrying out his missions, and his chest and stomach were enviably toned. It seemed to be working: partygoers were too entranced by his moves and his muscles to notice his identity. But he felt exposed—in more ways than just physically.

He finally placed the problem when an aggressive admirer crowded him too closely. De Killer stepped back and reached for his switchblade, only for his hand to come up empty. There was no room on his costume to conceal a weapon. Growling, he kneed the leering man below the belt and beat a hasty retreat.

- O -

He would have to resign. It was impossible. He was too recognizable, and that was, after all, the death knell of a professional assassin. It was time to pass on the title and duties, if he could find a suitable heir. His last responsibility was to attend the All Hallows Eve costume party, the intended site of his assignment. There, he would find his would-be client and decline his last mission, a last failure to mar his storied career.

He didn't even bother with a costume.

He walked into the room, into a sea of Shelly de Killers.

They were there in every stripe and variety: bellhop de Killers and butler de Killers, bodyguard and salesman and statesman de Killers. Himself in suits and himself in tatters. Crossover versions of himself made of steel, alternate versions of himself that had opened up a coffee shop, and genderbent versions of himself with ponderous cleavage. Every imaginable de Killer was there at that party, and most of all, just his plain, ordinary self with no disguise at all.

A slow smile spread across his face. It was the perfect cover. He could carry out his assassination in full view, with hundreds of himself to bear witness, yet none would be able to implicate him. The detectives would look upon the crowd in despair. Yes, de Killer did it, but which one?

He readied his weapon and set out to find his target.

Yes, his fame would work to his advantage after all.