Chapter Text
The day after Manfred von Karma is arrested, Miles Edgeworth leaves the detention center. He goes back to his apartment and sits on the couch. His hands are still shaking too much for him to trust himself with tea. So he sits, and stares around, and wants to call Wright, and doesn’t, and if there was any justice in the world, he would be dead.
*
When Miles Edgeworth was very young, he couldn’t keep his room clean. It seems impossible, now, sitting in his big empty Japanifornia apartment that has never been disgraced by so much as a dirty dish in the sink. But it is true. He was a sloppy, selfish child, who used his toys and broke them, ate finger food and laughed too loudly for too long.
Of course, von Karma set about changing those habits from the moment Edgeworth came into his care. Miles was given a bedroom in the von Karma mansion. It was expansive, full of white wood and soft velvet, and he absolutely could not ruin it. He was given clothes. He was taught manners. He was trained. For the first time in his life, he was expected to take real responsibility.
Young Miles was an unpleasant boy. For example, when he got too excited about something, his voice would go nasal and his hands would flap. He refused to go to sleep when he was told, he would often eat from the kitchen cupboards without permission, and, perhaps most importantly, he had a thick skull and needed to be told everything twice. Franziska was the same.
They were, both of them, disappointments. A brilliant man such as von Karma struggled daily with the unremarkable children he wished to mold into a legacy. They were strikingly pretty, a trait which von Karma acknowledged would be useful in court, but beyond that, their natural talents were minimal. In order to succeed, they would need to pursue their goals with dogged hard work. Prosecutor von Karma pledged himself to helping them realize their fullest potential.
He never gave up on them. He never coddled them, either. He pushed them hard, sometimes punishingly so, but his cruelties were necessary and good. They were not taught to expect special privileges. Materially, they were given everything a child could want—food, shelter, luxury, and (for Franziska) any trinkets, treats and toys that caught her fancy. Prosecutor von Karma was not often at home, but when he was, his attention was absolute, and they both benefited from it. They were tucked into bed and kissed on the forehead each night by one of a rotating cast of maids.
As they grew older, the two children became more difficult still. Franziska had a vicious streak, and when she got into one of her rages, it was difficult for anyone, least of all her father, to calm her. She would destroy valuables, scream, hit, and lie. Miles, on the other hand, developed a tendency to shut down completely when scolded, dumb and mute, incapable even of speaking an apology. He grew sullen. Von Karma attempted to stamp out the habit, to no avail.
"If I could just feel things less," Franziska said once, with the curl of a sinister smile on her face (it wasn't sinister, really, her face just looked like that sometimes) "and you could feel things more, we wouldn't have nearly so many problems."
"Hmm," said Edgeworth.
That was how they entered into their teenage years—Edgeworth, a sulky young man who seemed to lose the ability to speak whenever it was convenient for him; Franziska, equal parts sweet and sour, clinging and repulsed, and always a hair’s breadth away from anger. Safe to say, they made no allies.
Disagreeable though they may have been, no one could doubt that they were efficient. Their upbringing had molded them into competents, and in the sea of incompetents that riddled the justice system, they were able to rise quickly. Franziska and Edgeworth became prosecutors only a few months apart. Edgeworth went first.
He left for America one day on a private jet with Prosecutor von Karma at his side. Together, they terrorized the flight attendants and insulted the food, and Edgeworth was sure he had never been happier before in all his twenty years of life. However, that day was the beginning of the end of his bond with Franziska. She called him crying and screaming while he was moving into the new apartment. He had taken her father away. She would never again be able to see him as anything more than a threat.
"I will never forgive you, Miles Edgeworth," she said. "You have left me behind for the last time. I will surpass you. Do you understand that? I will surpass you and I will never look back."
Miles didn't say anything at all, not even when she yelled and begged and stomped her foot. He just steadily unpacked boxes, his jaw tight, and in the end she hung up the phone.
In the US, Edgeworth’s life became far more difficult. Prosecutor von Karma was a constant presence, looming over his shoulder—he had a key to Edgeworth’s apartment, and would come in whenever he pleased to discuss business—Edgeworth lived in a state of constant vigilance waiting for heavy footfalls. What was more, von Karma had always been scornful of Edgeworth’s mulish adherence to a “code of honor.” When Edgeworth applied it to his practice, he became enraged.
Von Karma was correct. It was far easier, when a defendant was obviously guilty, to use whatever methods were available to him to achieve his verdict. However, on those occasions when he had the opportunity, the desire, even the need to forge evidence, he found himself simply too afraid to carry it out. In the end, he always achieved the correct verdict—however, as von Karma assured him, his luck would not last. He could not remain young and naive forever.
He compromised. He did anything and everything to achieve his ends—to the point of illegality, never past it. He was, to his core, a rule follower, and he believed in the law.
Miles was twenty-one when the first scathing article came out in the local newspapers. “Dark Suspicions of a Demon Attorney.” He moved all day in a haze of fear and guilt, waiting for the hammer to fall. But that night, von Karma appeared unannounced at his apartment with the paper clutched in his hand and a bottle of champagne. He took down two glasses from Edgeworth’s neatly organized cupboards and poured each half-full of bubbly gold. He handed one to Edgeworth, and lifted his glass, eyes glittering.
“To the Demon Attorney,” he said. “You must be doing something right.”
The moment von Karma set his empty glass down, Edgeworth picked it up and began carefully hand-washing the crystal in the sink. Von Karma watched him the way one would watch a peculiar lab rat.
“Did I teach that to you?” he said.
Edgeworth smiled, thinly. “Yes, sir.”
“Hmm.”
He swept out of the kitchen. Edgeworth finished up with the glasses, and then followed him.
Unlike Edgeworth’s office, which was chock-full of plush and frills, the apartment was embarrassingly plain. Edgeworth simply hadn’t had the time to decorate it after moving in. Von Karma had seated himself on the couch with his arms folded, his fingers digging into the fabric of his jacket. Against the black-white-gray minimalism of the room, in his decorated attire, he looked like a relic. Edgeworth supposed he must look the same.
“Sit.”
“Yes, sir.”
Edgeworth moved to the stiff-backed chair he used to watch Steel Samurai reruns, and turned it to face the couch. He sat.
Von Karma regarded Edgeworth with the piercing and vacant stare that was his custom.
“What I want to tell you tonight,” he said, “is something that I have attempted to explain to you many times before. I think you shut your ears off when I speak. This is important, Edgeworth. If you are ever going to take my advice, take it now. This could very well be the turning point of your career.”
Edgeworth inclined his head. His hands were clasped together between his knees, and his feet were solidly on the ground, and he felt breathing would be impertinent. “Sir.”
“Very well. What I want to tell you,” said von Karma, “is—”
*
Edgeworth’s phone is ringing. He moves to answer it on instinct.
“Hello—Edgeworth speaking.”
Before anyone answers, he knows it’s Wright. Even the man’s hesitations are distinctive.
“Spit it out, Wright.”
“H-huh? How did you know—ah, never mind. I guess I just wanted—”
Wright breaks off. Edgeworth purses his lips.
“Before you start a sentence,” says Edgeworth, “do you ever stop to think how you will finish it?”
“Hey, fuck you.” Wright’s voice is warm, without a trace of pity. Edgeworth’s chest starts to loosen, fully of its own accord. “Here I was going to ask you over to my place for a home cooked meal.”
A home cooked— he must be joking. “I’d rather not be an accessory to arson.”
“Are you ever nice? Are you ever just nice? To anybody?”
“Anything I say on the matter would be conjecture.” Edgeworth tilts his head back, looking up at the blank expanse of the ceiling. His hands are already shaking less. Damned Phoenix Wright. “Only evidence can reveal the truth.”
Wright snorts. “OK, then we’ll call it a testimony.” He puts on his lawyer voice. “The defense calls Miles Edgeworth to the stand—”
“The prosecution calls witnesses.” Edgeworth leans back, into the couch cushions, and exhales for the first time in what feels like years. “Did you not learn that at the Bluffing Academy of Law?”
“Bitchy, bitchy.” Wright’s doing something on the other end, Edgeworth can hear it—the faint sounds of shuffling. There’s a clattering sound in the background. Edgeworth narrows his eyes.
“Wright.”
“Mm?”
“Are you actually cooking?”
“Wow,” says Wright. “Handsome and smart.”
Edgeworth’s body goes through a series of intense emotions in the space of a moment. He says, “I will hang up the phone.”
“Do it.”
He wants to, just to be perverse, but he’s pretty sure Wright’s voice and the sounds of life coming over the phone are the only thing keeping him from drifting back into unpleasant memories. Still, he stays silent contemplating it for long enough that Wright laughs, as if Edgeworth’s supplied the punchline to some inside joke between the two of them.
“Look,” says Wright, “do you want to come over or not?”
“I’m fine, Wright,” says Edgeworth.
“That’s,” says Wright, and sighs in a strange happy way, the same way he sighs when that Maya girl gets over excited or Gumshoe does something imbecilic. He’s so indecipherable sometimes. “That’s not what I asked.”
“I know that.”
“Do you want to come over?”
Edgeworth’s hand rests on his knee, and his feet are firmly on the ground, and breathing seems impertinent.
“Edgeworth?”
There are several things that a von Karma understands, that a Wright apparently does not. For example, openly speaking about wanting something is not only insufferable, but tactically foolish.
“If there is anything left of your apartment after you attempt to cook in it,” says Edgeworth, his fingers tight on his knee, “I will come over.”
“That’s great, Edgeworth.” Well, now he just sounds patronizing. He sounds as if he somehow knew all along what Edgeworth would say, as if Edgeworth is a dog performing tricks for affection, and he is patting him on the head for his trouble. Damnable man. “You know I’m actually a good cook, right?”
“Evidence, Wright.”
“Yeah, yeah.”
*
Where was he? Ah, yes. Von Karma was sitting on the couch. “What I want to tell you is this.”
His eyes pinned Miles to the spot. Miles’ gaze was unfocused—he couldn’t look away, but he couldn’t look at his mentor directly, either, so he let von Karma’s face become a mess of meaningless lines all spelling out anger.
“The law has limits,” said von Karma. “One day, you will learn them. You are not a servant of the law, Edgeworth.”
Edgeworth must have looked puzzled, because von Karma’s mouth twisted. “No, you are not. You are a servant of something far more important. That is justice. Do you understand?”
“Yes, sir.” It all seemed rather straightforward. Why was he…?
“There are worthless people in the world,” said von Karma. “They exist only to cause pain. Your job is to eliminate them. Some call that cruel, but…”
His eyes flashed. “Edgeworth, you’re not looking at me.”
Miles started. “I—I’m sorry—“
“Look in my eyes.”
“I’m sorry, sir. I’m so sorry.”
Von Karma’s mouth was a flat slash, downturned at the edges. “As I was saying.” His fingers gripped his arm, digging into the fabric in the old familiar expression of annoyance. “Some people call it cruel. But, Miles.” At the use of his first name, Miles' eyes widened involuntarily.
“I’ve been an attorney for nearly forty years,” said von Karma. “I know criminals.” His fingers clenched, clenched around his arm. “They do not deserve our pity.”
His eyes on Edgeworth were knowing. Too knowing. Edgeworth felt a little faint. His hands were folded between his knees, and his feet were flat on the ground.
“Do you understand?” said von Karma.
“Yes. Yes, sir.”