Chapter Text
Miles Edgeworth didn’t think his week could get worse than being completely and utterly ignored by the Chief Prosecutor, pressing the man for a new case half a dozen times with only an annoyed secretary as a response. The surprise phone call from Franziska von Karma, however, nearly took the cake.
It wasn’t as though he didn’t miss her after leaving Germany, nor did he hate speaking to her, angry teenage attitude and all. Miles enjoyed the updates on Franziska’s life, as long-winded as they inevitably were. Her constant critiques and jabs, though, were grinding his already pressed nerves into a fine powder.
“—but you really must be more careful of your appearance next time, Miles Edgeworth. The photographs in the newspaper are printed in black and white, you know, so you must compensate for the lack of color with more frill, as to not sully the von Karma name with your ridiculous, lackluster clothing choices. Truly, you looked quite foolish, and Papa even heard a rumor that your cravat was twisted for the entire first half of court!”
As if he could make such an obvious mistake. Miles didn’t spend ten minutes in the courthouse bathroom before every case, looking over even the most minute detail of his outfit, for his cravat not to be perfect. As for who started the rumor, it could be any of his fellow prosecutors, most of whom were insecure enough to see his mere presence as a threat to their jobs. Fiddling absentmindedly with his neckwear, he nearly didn’t hear the quick, quiet knock at his door before it cracked open.
An intern slid through, unable to meet Miles’ glare as he mumbled a meek, “Your next case, Mr. Edgeworth, sir…”
If the young man didn’t hold what Miles had waited for all week, he would have given a lesson in what happened to interns who didn’t wait for approval before entering private offices. He nearly told off the man anyway, if only to release some of the week’s frustrations, but Franziska’s sharp voice rang in his ear.
“You must be reverting back to your American tendencies after spending so much time over there. Papa and I taught you better, Mile Edgeworth! You should return to Germany at once, so that I can correct your horrid wardrobe before you embarrass yourself further.”
Miles sighed, a short, clipped sound that made the intern jump as he gingerly placed the case file on the desk. Waving the young man away with a flick of his wrist, Miles opened the folder, reading the summary.
“Also, Miles Edgeworth, how on earth did it take you an entire day to win that case? I obviously could have finished it in the first twenty minutes. An hour, at the most. Certainly, faster than you! And speaking of things I can do better than you, I recently took a…” Her voice faded away as Miles scanned the case details, a sinking feeling settling in the pit of his stomach.
A hard laugh escaped him. “You must be joking,” he muttered, rubbing a hand over his eyes.
Franziska laughed as well, though hers was warm and real, “I am, of course, very serious. I would never lie about scoring higher than you on an exam, Miles! I don’t need to, as I am obviously better than—”
“Can I call you back, Franziska?” He cut her off, nearly feeling bad when silence filled the other end of the line. Miles tried again, as soft as his irritation could manage, “A new case just came in. I have a few things to take care of.”
“...oh. Well, I am also busy, Miles Edgeworth.”
“Should I wait for you to call me, then?”
“Yes. I will call you when I am ready. Farewell.” She hung up before he could respond, and he rolled his eyes.
Franziska always had to have the last word.
Dialing the Chief Prosecutor’s office, Miles once again heard the elderly secretary’s voice, “An intern should be arriving with your case any moment, Mr. Edgeworth. Please be patient and leave this line open.”
Feeling himself go red at her chiding tone, Miles cleared his throat, aiming for indignant rather than embarrassed. “I received a case, Ms. Clark, but there has been a mistake. It is—” Before he could continue, she cut him off, sighing.
“There is no mistake, Mr. Edgeworth, I assure you. The Chief Prosecutor handed it off himself. Didn’t want to keep you waiting after you had been so…persistent.”
…ah.
So this was a punishment.
Miles had assumed the silence coming out of the Chief Prosecutor’s office resulted from interoffice politics. His last trial was larger than anything he had prosecuted before, and successfully landing a guilty verdict had only painted a larger target on his back for the ire of his coworkers. Not to mention the baseless hearsay—more insidious than anything including his cravat—surrounding the evidence, and witnesses, used in the case.
As if he would debase himself by fabricating evidence. He didn’t need to; Miles Edgeworth was more than competent enough to win a trial without resorting to such unsavory methods. And if he told the witness to avoid a certain topic, it was only to stay focused on the actually important matters.
He didn’t think when he was finally given a case, it would be nothing more than an attempted robbery! The woman was barely even stabbed. “Ms. Clark, I’ll ask you to allow me a conversation with the Chief—”
“He told me to remind you, if you happened to call, that your job is to prosecute the cases you’re given, regardless of topic. Also, that everyone, even ‘Demon Prosecutors’ with genius mentors, had to take cases they thought were beneath them sometimes. But if you have a different opinion and would like to argue it, I can go ahead and schedule a meeting with him for you?”
Perhaps he shouldn’t have called her so many times this week. Even with her dry voice, she seemed to be enjoying this. But even as affronted outrage boiled within him, Miles knew he could only bite his tongue. Everyone here understood Manfred von Karma and his worldview. There was no room on this stage for the weak or foolish, and asking his mentor for protection from silly office spats would deem him both.
No, Miles Edgeworth could not ask for help.
Especially not after his first time in court, nearly a year and a half ago. He could still remember the tense weeks that followed, waiting for an angry, disappointed phone call from his teacher to tell him what he already knew: if the trial had continued, he would have lost his very first case. And to a rookie, of all people. Disgusting. Disgraceful. A failure to the von Karma household. An embarrassment to the profession. Miles didn’t sleep for days, staring at his phone, waiting for news to reach Germany. Waiting for his mentor to lash out at the lack of perfection.
Almost more horribly, the call never came.
And Manfred von Karma had barely spoken to him since.
Gritting his teeth, Miles forced out the words, “No need. I’ll win the case on day one. We can discuss meeting times after that.” He would fix this on his own and prove to everyone that he deserved his tutelage, as well as his reputation.
“We will see. Also, our intern should have mentioned that you’re meeting with the lead witness tonight. He should be finishing up his statement at the precinct as we speak. Meeting room B, I believe.”
The intern had barely looked him in the eye, let alone given him such necessary information. Still, it wasn’t worth the effort it would take to explain that to this woman, who obviously delighted in his misery. If she wanted a reaction, she wouldn’t get one. “Understood,” he said, hanging up the phone.
…how dare they.
He had won how many cases for the prosecutor’s office in the past months, and they still treated him like this? And because of foolish office politics? Because he was good at his job, trained by a man who was even better? He almost wondered if this treatment was some twisted, indirect recompense from those too cowardly, or too smart, to utter their dislike of his mentor openly.
Because they could never treat Manfred von Karma like this. They wouldn’t dare.
But you’re not Manfred von Karma, and you never will be.
Miles ignored the traitorous voice in the back of his mind and stood, collecting the case file and storming out of his office. He owed Manfred von Karma so much—for taking him in after the death of his father, for teaching him all he knew. Even for expecting nothing less than perfection in all endeavors. Miles would pay him back by becoming a prosecutor worthy of that debt.
Someone perfect, and resolute in said perfection.
Someone who would make Manfred von Karma proud.
Inside the precinct, Miles hurried towards Meeting Room B. The sooner he could get this trial behind him and over with, the sooner he could move on to cases actually worth his time. It didn’t matter that this case was as good as won—trials a rookie could win meant nothing to his record.
Quantity of wins mattered, of course, but quality of wins took precedence every time. The hardest cases, the fastest trials, the most horrid, vile criminals locked away forever…
That was what mattered to Miles Edgeworth.
Turning a corner, he heard a loud, familiar voice echoing down the hall, “The prosecutor on this case is actually my partner. He’s a bit young, but he’s the best person we have!”
Miles huffed, frowning. Detective Gumshoe always had to mention his age, didn’t he? The man barely had room to talk; he wasn’t much older than Miles, or much more experienced, for that matter. From the room, Gumshoe laughed after a muffled reply, and Miles couldn’t continue ignoring the compliments, his face flushing as the detective spoke.
“The very best! Never lost a case! Real focused on catching criminals, you know? So you don’t have to worry a bit! He’ll tell you what to focus on in your testimony, and what to avoid. In fact, he should be on his way now.”
…at least someone appreciated his talents. And his commitment. He made a mental note to put in a good word for the detective during salary discussions.
His momentary rise in mood vanished as the witness said hesitantly, suspiciously, “Sounds kinda like coaching the witness…”
“Hey, pal, he would never! He’s just here to help you out, you know?”
Gritting his teeth, Miles took a deep breath and stepped into the room. He held the case file in front of him like a shield, trying to look aloof as he pretended to read the words.
“I’m here,” he snapped at them, “to ensure you don’t make a fool of us both on the witness stand. Now, let’s start this so we can—” Miles jumped, the words dying in his throat as a chair clattered to the ground, the witness who once sat in it now swaying on his feet, staring straight at Miles with wide eyes.
“...Miles?”
…Miles?
…how did he—
The young man’s whole body seemed to stutter for a moment, as if he didn’t know what to do next. Mouth hanging open, he gripped the hem of his—frankly, ridiculous—pink t-shirt with clenched fists, and Miles took a step back involuntarily, shooting Detective Gumshoe a sharp glance.
If this man could so quickly become affected merely by seeing Miles’ face… Did Miles put away one of his relatives? Was he one of the horrid interns in the office? The man did look familiar, but who would dare to call him by his first name—
“Miles, it’s me. It’s Phoenix! Phoenix Wright!”
Miles froze.
…no.
No, it couldn’t be him.
Playgrounds and classrooms and a stack of unopened letters flashed through his mind, the face of the man before him transitioning into another, one younger and softer, but still the same, nevertheless.
He took another step toward the door.
Other memories would appear soon, as well. Incidents he couldn’t think about. Events connected to this man, to that time.
“You haven’t been answering—” The man’s voice cut off as Gumshoe pushed between them, a hand on his shoulder. Miles took the chance to escape, ignoring the words thrown at him, “Wait, Miles, I—”
Miles Edgeworth was already gone. He wouldn’t wait around for his already bad day to get worse.