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Dear all,
As you may well know, Halloween is just around the corner and as Chief Prosecutor I have received several requests from various individuals regarding whether or not costumes will be allowed. I do not see any issue with this, however I must ask that if you do plan to dress up in any way on October 31st, please keep it professional and both office and courthouse appropriate. I also suggest that you limit your costume to a few accessories, as you will still be expected to work as usual and distracting or impractical clothes will only be a hindrance to your performance. If you are concerned as to whether your costume of choice breaks this rule, simply do not wear it.
Anyone caught breaking dress code will be reprimanded as I see fit, which may include cuts in next month's salary.
Many thanks,
Miles Edgeworth
Chief Prosecutor
Miles studies Phoenix’s frown like a piece of evidence as he picks up his briefcase and pulls his coat over his shoulders.
“What on earth is that look for?” he asks, returning the expression with a sigh.
Phoenix opens his mouth to answer, hesitating for enough moments that Miles swears he’s about to be late for work. “...It’s just,” he finally says, clearly picking his words carefully, “I didn’t expect you to dress up, is all. Are you sure that’s not, like... inappropriate ?”
Miles lets out a dry laugh, shaking his head. “Inappropriate?” he asks, “It’s only a headband, darling. It’s hardly going to get in the way.”
He catches sight of himself in the hallway mirror behind his fiance - for once not hidden by one of Trucy’s many props or magic tricks - and quickly adjusts the pair of plastic devil horns sat atop his head. It’s small and easily removable, but it serves its purpose as something that lets his subordinates know that, despite what they may think, he is not above having a little (office appropriate) fun. Besides, he knows his colleagues well enough to know that his own costume is the least of his worries.
Yet this doesn’t seem to satisfy Phoenix, and he continues to furrow his brow in concern. “No, it’s not that,” he says, “I mean, I’ve dressed up for Halloween before, but it’s just… Isn’t it a little… You know… Literal?”
“... What do you mean?”
Phoenix stares at him like he’s just said something incredibly stupid, and Miles stares back, wondering if it’s worth telling him that they’ll continue this discussion in the evening so he can leave for work. “You really don’t see it?” his fiance asks.
Miles sighs. “See what?”
“You know… the whole ‘demon prosecutor’ thing?”
Oh.
Oh.
Miles watches the mirror as his reflection’s eyes widen in realisation. He hadn’t even thought of that, the nickname having not crossed his mind in years. Yet now that Phoenix mentions it he can absolutely see how it would come across as rather… on the nose. “I see what you mean,” he finally answers, “Goodness, I hadn’t even thought of that.”
Phoenix chuckles. “I could tell,” he laughs, pauses, then, “Though it has been a while since anyone’s called you that.”
“That’s true,” Miles agrees, “Plus, I don’t exactly have anything else and not partaking in the festivities will probably just make me look… ah, how should I put this?”
“Like you have a stick up your ass?” Phoenix offers and Miles snorts.
“Not the exact phrasing I would’ve used,” he answers, “But yes.”
Then Phoenix purses his lips in thought for a moment, stroking his chin in his hand in the same way he does when deciding which piece of evidence he’s going to present in court. “I mean,” he eventually says, “I think Trucy’s got some fake blood you could use--”
“Absolutely not.”
“Why not?”
“I made it very clear in my email last week that Halloween costumes should be court and office appropriate,” Miles explains, folding his arms over his chest, “And looking like I’ve just come off the set of a slasher film does not fit that criteria.”
“Right.”
“Besides, it’s a bitch to get out of white clothes,” he gestures to his cravat, exposed underneath his coat, “And unless you’re willing to do that load of laundry, that fake blood is going nowhere near my skin.”
Phoenix nods. “Understood,” he says, before wrapping his arms around him and pressing a quick kiss to his lips. “Alright, have a good day at work, Miles. Don’t have too much fun.”
Miles kisses him back and rolls his eyes. “No guarantees there, love.”
The drive to work only takes around half an hour, but it feels like days. Every time he catches sight of the plastic devil horns poking out from behind his bangs in the rear view mirror he has to fight the urge to take them off, and with every red light he stops at he feels like the entirety of LA is staring and laughing at him. By the time Miles reaches the prosecutor’s office he’s seriously regretting his decision to dress up. What if he’s the only person in costume? What if he’s gotten the date wrong and it’s actually already November 1st and his subordinates see him in plastic devil horns and think he’s finally lost it?
Luckily, both of these worries are resolved the moment he pulls into the office parking lot. The moment the engine is off he checks his phone a grand total of four times, making completely sure that it is, in fact, October 31st and his choice of accessory isn’t going to seem completely ridiculous. Then, as he gets out of his car and locks the door, he spots Winston Payne doing the same, his usual dull cheap-looking suit replaced with an even cheaper-looking purple one, decorated with a gaudy print consisting of pumpkins and ghosts and other Halloween-related iconography. The two of them make the briefest of eye contact, at which point they both physically relax, their sigh of relief happening nearly in unison. Apparently he’s not the only one worried about looking like an idiot - though based on the hideous design of Payne’s outfit of choice he’ll at least only be the second silliest-looking person in the building today.
Still, if Payne is anything to go by, the ugliness of his subordinate’s outfits will be the only thing he has to worry about. As long as none of them blatantly disregard the email he’d sent out, everything today should go exactly as planned.
Simon blatantly disregards the email the Chief Prosecutor had sent out.
Halloween had, of course, been his favourite holiday growing up; he and Aura used to spend weeks, if not months, planning and making their costumes each year, spending what little money they could spare from pocket money and student allowances on fabric and special effects makeup only to lose the costume competition to a kid in a store-bought princess dress. Still, it was worth it, if only to make trick-or-treaters cry and parents roll their eyes in disgust when he handed them shitty candy with a surprisingly realistic slit throat.
So, naturally, he’s going to go all out for his first Halloween since his acquittal, regardless of what the Chief Prosecutor thinks is “office appropriate”.
In his defence, he could’ve done something much worse. Sure, his clothes are covered in gore and the several hundred dollars worth of makeup on his face create a rather lifelike impression of a Glasgow smile, but somewhere online there are pictures of him with his eyes gouged out (fake, of course, but that didn’t stop them from being taken down several times) so this is pretty tame, all things considered. Besides, even if he does get pulled up for it, it’s nothing he can’t handle. He’s been on death row. A little scolding from Miles Edgeworth over a Halloween costume is nothing.
Despite having woken up at four to ensure he’d had enough time to do his makeup, Simon still arrives at the office twenty minutes late. He’d already gotten a few stares during the journey from the taxi to the Prosecutor’s Office building (the taxi driver hadn’t even acknowledged him - he’d probably seen worse anyway) but it’s not until he reaches the elevator that he receives his first proper scream.
The scream, naturally comes from Klavier Gavin, who catches sight of the fake wound and immediately looks like he's about to throw up. Simon, naturally, just laughs.
"Good morning, Gavin-dono," he says with a grin as he presses the call button for the elevator, “Is everything okay? You seem… disturbed by something.”
Klavier does not look impressed. "What the fuck is wrong with you, Herr Blackquill?" he asks, "You call that an office-appropriate Halloween costume?"
Simon laughs some more, thoroughly enjoying the way his colleague's disgusted gaze seems to land anywhere except for his face. "I don't exactly call yours office-appropriate either," he points out, "What are you supposed to be anyway? Barbie?"
Klavier lets out a gasp of indignation, folding his arms. He’s wearing a bubblegum pink blazer and pencil skirt that almost certainly doesn’t pass office dress code, his hair styled in neat waves around his face instead of pulled into its usual side-twist.
“Barbie?” he exclaims, his painted pink lips forming a pout, “I am very obviously dressed as Elle Woods!”
“Hmm…” Simon narrows his eyes and stares at his costume long and hard. He can see where Klavier’s coming from, though there’s absolutely nothing that marks his outfits as specifically being Elle Woods and not just ‘blonde and pink’ - which he, along with 99% of the population, associate far closer with Barbie. “If you say so, Gavin-dono.”
“I do say so,” Klavier scowls, following Simon into the elevator as the doors slide open, “I’ll have you know I paid good money for this.”
Simon raises his brow in disbelief, unable to stop a chuckle from passing his lips. “You did?” he asks, “I think you might’ve been scammed.”
“ Halt den Mund ,” Klavier snaps, and Simon doesn’t need to know German to understand what he’s saying, “I look like Elle Woods, and that’s that. Besides, my legs look incredible in this skirt and I’m not going to let someone who calls covering themselves in blood a costume tell me otherwise.”
“I never said they didn’t.”
“I have a boyfriend, Herr Blackquill.”
“And I’d rather cut my face open for real than go out with you.”
Klavier huffs, folding his arms over his chest with a scowl. It had taken a while for the two of them to graduate from colleagues-who-have-read-each-other’s-Wikipedia-page to friends, but now that they are friends (or at least, Simon’s fairly sure they’re friends) these petty but non-malicious squabbles are a fairly regular occurrence. Simon usually wins, of course, but there’s never any ill intentions behind them.
The button Klavier had pressed upon entering the elevator is the one for the third floor, the elevator stops at the first floor instead - and that’s when Simon receives his second scream of the day.
The doors open to Sebastian Debeste and Robin Newman, each carrying a case file under their arm. Debeste is the one who screams, of course, nearly jumping out of his skin the moment he sees the gorey wound on Simon’s face. Newman, on the other hand, just laughs from behind her home-made reverse bear trap, pushing past him and standing between her superiors in the elevator.
“Oh my god, Sebastian, it’s only make-up,” she laughs, “Even Prosecutor Blackquill’s not stupid enough to come into work with a wound like that!”
Sebastian pales, though that may be in fear of the glare Simon gives Newman instead of at the make-up. He does, eventually, follow her inside, reaching past Klavier to press the button for the second floor.
He nervously adjusts his mask - part of an expensive-looking Phantom of the Opera costume that might be from an actual production. “I’m not scared,” he insists, though the slight wobble in his voice gives him away, “It just… took me by surprise is all.”
“ Suuure , you’re not,” Robin grins, “Come on, don’t be such a P-U-S--”
“Alright, we get it,” Sebastian cuts her off, pauses, then, “You know, I still can’t tell who you’re meant to be.”
Silence. Robin gives Sebastian an incredulous so obvious that it’s visible behind her reverse bear trap and Simon raises his brow in disbelief.
“Have you not seen Saw, Debeste-dono?” he asks. Sebastian’s expression remains blank.
“Uh, that’s the one with Ghostface, right?”
“N-O-P-E, that’s Scream.”
“... They’re different movies?” Sebastian tilts his head to one side in confusion, “I thought they were a franchise.”
“They’re separate franchises, Herr Debeste,” Klavier explains, “Though, between you and me, I think your costume is more recognisable. Most people know the Phantom of the Opera, even if they haven't seen it.”
Robin turns her head to look at Klavier then, narrowing her eyes in annoyance. “Oh, so now Barbie wants to talk about good costumes?” she jeers, and Simon swears he sees Klavier’s eyelid twitch.
“Mein Gott, I am clearly Elle Woods,” he says, “You know, you’re the second person today who’s said that.”
“Maybe you should’ve gone with a more recognisable outfit,” Sebastian offers, and Klavier just rolls his eyes.
“Like what?” he asks, “I wasn’t about to show up to work in Elle’s party costume.”
Simon snickers. “He’s saving that one for when he sees Justice-dono.”
“Herr Blackquill, I swear to god--”
As if on cue, the elevator pings, signalling that they’ve reached the second floor. Sebastian steps out of the elevator and Klavier joins him, arms folded across his chest.
“I thought your office was on the third floor,” Simon hears Sebastian say.
“I’ll get the stairs,” comes Klavier’s reply, and Simon and Robin can only laugh.
Franziska only comes to LA if she has literally no other choice. It’s not that she hates it, it’s just that the city smells and costs way too much and going there usually means having to put up with her fool of a little brother--
Okay, maybe she does hate it.
Still, she’s overseeing a trial at the request of Interpol and is getting a sizable bonus for doing so, so she can just about bring herself to put up with the miserable city for three days. If she’d had it her way she wouldn’t be here at all, though one small benefit of her trip is that it takes place over Halloween.
Halloween isn’t something Franziska had been able to celebrate until adulthood, with her father seeing it as an “idiotic waste of time that would only distract her from her studies”. Now that she’s an adult and completely free of her family’s shadow she actually looks forward to October 31st. While she can’t quite bring herself to wear a full costume to court, she can bring herself to join in on a little of the holiday spirit by switching her usual court attire for a black dress with a white peter pan collar and pulling her hair into two braids. She’s not expecting anyone to notice, or even appreciate it; after all, it’s highly unlikely that anyone else at the Los Angeles Prosecutors Office will be dressed up. Her costume, if it can even be called that, is subtle enough that she can easily pass it off as just a regular outfit.
She’s expecting the Prosecutor’s Office to be it’s usual self - stuffy and professional, just as it should be. She’s certainly not expecting to be greeted at the reception desk by a woman in a pirate dress.
“I take it my brother isn’t in today,” she says, deciding to pretend that she hasn’t also dressed up. The woman at reception looks confused.
“Mr Edgeworth is in, Ms von Karma,” she tells Franziska, “Why, had he told you he wouldn’t be?”
“No, it’s just,” she gestures vaguely to the woman in front of her, then to the piece of orange and black tinsel she has wrapped around her computer, “I can’t imagine him approving of this.”
The woman in front of her lets out a chuckle. “Ah, not to worry,” she replies, “Mr Edgeworth gave us all the go-ahead to dress up last week.”
“He... did?”
“Uh-huh,” the receptionist types something into her computer, “Though between you and me, some of the other prosecutors have taken it a little too far.”
Franziska can only grimace as she imagines what on earth that could mean. “Of course my brother would allow something so foolish,” she mutters, still not acknowledging that she has also dressed up, “Whatever. Just let him know that I’m here. I’ll make my own way up to his office.”
Franziska’s been in this building hundreds, possibly even thousands of times. She’s seen it get a new lick of paint or a re-installed carpet every so often, but somehow it’s always managed to look the same, even after a dramatic refurbishment. Yet today, on October 31st, the place looks so different that she actually has to think about which corner she’s turning or which corridor she’s walking down. She has no idea who put up the decorations or when they had time to do it, but the hallways of the Prosecutor’s Office are lined with Halloween-themed trinkets and ornaments, with everything from orange and black tinsel wrapped around indoor plants to jack-o-lanterns placed outside offices (which she’s fairly sure is a fire hazard). It’s… strange. Horribly immature and unprofessional, of course, but there’s also a charm to it: an element of juvenile nostalgia that warms Franziska’s heart even though she’d never celebrated the holiday as a child.
Perhaps her brother has gone soft in his old age, and she tells him so the moment she enters his office.
“You’ve gone soft in your old age, little brother,” she snaps, and Miles looks up from his laptop, pushing his glasses up the bridge of his nose and adjusting the gaudy plastic devil horns that sit atop his head.
“Good to see you too, Franziska,” he smiles, looks her up and down, then adds, “I could say the same about you, Miss Addams.”
Franziska glares at him, placing a hand on her whip as a warning. “This is just a subtle nod to the holiday,” she tells him sharply, “But from what I hear, your subordinates have not been so sensible.”
This seems to take her brother by surprise, and his eyes widen in horror for the briefest of moments before he lets out an exasperated sigh and buries his face in his palms. “I see…” he mutters, “Isn’t that just brilliant? I specifically told them to not do anything inappropriate...” He looks so pathetic that Franziska struggles not to laugh.
“As fun as it is watching you fail so spectacularly, little brother,” she informs him, “I did only come here for a case file. My trial is tomorrow, after all.”
“Right,” Miles says, reaching into the top drawer of his desk and taking out a folder, “Here you go, Franziska.”
“Thank you, little brother,” she replies, taking the file for him and having a brief look at the defendant’s information, a woman fittingly named Cat Black. “I’ll be heading off now.”
Her brother nods in agreement. “Go ahead,” he tells her as she makes her way to the door of his office, “Oh, and Happy Halloween.”
Franziska rolls her eyes fondly. “You too.”
It occurs to Nahyuta, as he gets in the taxi at LAX and sees that he has a missed call and four new text messages from Ema Skye, that he should probably check his phone more often.
In his defence, he’d spent a considerable portion of his life with all communicative devices he owned being tracked by a dictator holding his family hostage, so it’s only been in the last few months that he’s used his phone for anything other than strictly work-related calls and messages. More to the point, he’s also just got off a thirteen hour flight and his phone has only just started to get service again. He frowns and opens the detective’s messages.
just so you know, i think they're dressing up
Sent 10:30
yknow for halloween. the fop just sent me a text to let me know.
Sent 10:32
Lmaoooo he sent a picture
[image attached]
Sent 10:38
Oh wait ur on a plane arent u. Have a safe flight
Sent 10:40
Nahyuta sighs as he opens the photograph attached. It’s a screenshot of what he’s fairly sure is Gavin’s Instagram story, taken in front of the mirror in the gender-neutral bathroom on the second floor of the Prosecutor’s Office featuring the fop himself, Debeste, a slightly annoyed von Karma and a young woman he doesn’t recognise with some sort of strange contraption over her head.
Nahyuta is, of course, fully aware of Halloween. He’s never celebrated it himself, nor has he ever seen the appeal of it past childhood. In fact, up until now he’s very much been under the impression that it was a holiday almost exclusively celebrated by children and a few adults who needed an excuse to wear culturally-insensitive lingerie outside. Then again, it hasn’t exactly been a topic he’d felt the need to extensively research, though in hindsight that probably would’ve been a good idea considering he’ll be spending the final day of October in America.
He wonders, for a moment, if he’s somehow missing out by dressing up. Even Franziska von Karma appears to have dressed up (no doubt as a pop-culture reference that Nayhuta is yet to understand), and out of everyone in that photo she’s the only one that has Nahyuta’s full respect. Then, as quickly as the thought forms it disappears. There’s no mention of the holiday in Khura’inese scripture, of course, but with its (mostly disregarded) religious origins and… interesting traditions he figures it’s probably at least a little inappropriate for him to partake in.
Besides, there’s no way he’ll be the only one not in costume. The Chief Prosecutor at least will have the dignity to remain professional, even if he has let his subordinates not follow suit.
When he arrives, Miles Edgeworth is waiting for him in the lobby. He looks… exhausted to say the least, and Nahyuta wonders if that has anything to do with the pair of devil horns on his head or, worse , the contents of the picture Ema Skye had sent him earlier.
“Hap’piraki, Chief Prosecutor Edgeworth,” he greets him with a smile, “I came as quickly as possible… Is everything alright?”
Judging by Edgeworth’s expression the answer to that question is clearly no, but he puts on a practiced bureaucratic smile nonetheless. “Everything is… perfectly under control,” he lies, “I just hadn’t expected the response to the Halloween season to be quite so… enthusiastic .”
Nahyuta nods in understanding. “I see,” he says, “Detective Skye informed me that a number of prosecutors have dressed up for the event. Is that what is worrying you?”
Miles lets out a sigh. “Something like that, yes,” he says, then adds, “Your trial starts tomorrow - from what I hear it should be a fairly easy case, the defendant is currently pleading justified self defence. I have the file in my office.”
Nahyuta accompanies Miles to his office, politely thanks him for the case file before making his way to the break room. A quick flick through the folder lets him know that the Chief Prosecutor is absolutely right; the evidence very clearly points toward the defendant’s guilt, perhaps even pushing toward a second degree murder charge instead of justified self-defence. He sips his coffee - the shitty stuff from the break room coffee machine that tastes more like the machine than actual coffee - and closes the case file with a frown. He’s still not entirely used to being able to operate without royal guards watching his every move. While there is still some lingering paranoia that he can never quite seem to shake, the usual fear of his family’s fate relying on him not taking a single step out of line has, for the most part, been replaced with complete boredom. His trial doesn’t start until tomorrow morning and there’s very little information on it that hasn’t already been documented, and usually his doesn’t begin his afternoon prayers until at least three o’clock--
“What are you doing here?”
A horribly familiar voice pulls Nahyuta out of his own thoughts and he looks up, only to nearly spill his coffee in shock as he makes eye contact with Simon Blackquill, whose face has been cut open and clothes are covered in blood.
“Holy Mother, what happened to you?” he asks, only slightly ashamed of the concern in his voice--
And then Blackquill starts laughing at him, because of course he does, making his way over to the coffee machine and pouring himself a drink. As he gets closer Nahyuta can see a small crease in the skin just above where the wound ends and a few brush strokes where the blood is splattered across his face - and only then does the realisation hit him that for some absurd reason, the (literally) bloody panda has created the wound using make-up. In the back of his mind he remembers reading about Halloween events at theme parks, where people pay for actors in horrific makeup to scare them for reasons he can’t quite figure out. He feels his face go red as the prosecutor cackles, apparently taking immense sadistic pleasure in his discomfort.
“Did you think this was real, you pompous idiot?” Blackquill smirks, and Nahyuta silently asks the Holy Mother to give him the strength to not throw the remainder of his coffee directly at his smug face.
“Of course not,” he lies, “It simply took me by surprise, that’s all.”
“Is that why you’re staring at your phone instead of my face?”
“The fact that it’s fake does nothing to detract from how disgusting it is,” he says, “I can see why the Chief Prosecutor was in such a bad mood now.”
Blackquill hums in acknowledgement, taking a metal straw out of his pocket and placing it in his coffee, most likely to avoid ruining his make-up. He then sits down directly opposite Nahyuta, presumably so he’ll be faced with the horrible fake wound on his face every time he looks up.
“...Is this some sort of Halloween tradition I was not aware of?” he asks, re-opening his case file so he has something else to focus on. Out of the corner of his eye he sees the other prosecutor shrug.
“Depends,” he replies, “Some people are into the gore. Most people aren’t.”
“And I suppose that’s why you do it, you insolent worm?”
“If it gets reactions like yours, sure.”
First the make-up, then the laughter and now the pointed mockery - Nahyuta’s hand, out of instinct, reaches for his prayer beads, his jaw clenched in annoyance. “You know,” he says, “There’s a special place reserved in hell for the likes of you.”
“There is? How kind of them.”
Nahyuta’s grip on his prayer beads tightens, and he’s part way through removing them when the door to the break room swings open and several other prosecutors enter, led by the girl from the picture wearing a strange contraption over her head.
“Nah, I’m telling you maaaan,” she says, “ Psycho ’s the best one to start with, it’s all in black and white.”
“It’s a classic,” von Karma agrees, “But dipping your toes in the shallow end is no way to learn how to swim. My first horror film was The Conjuring .”
“Frau von Karma’s right, Frau Newman, ” Klavier Gavin runs a hand through his hair, the hot pink heels of what Nahyuta can only assume is a Barbie costume clicking noisily on the hardwood floor, “Though I’m far more partial to a good slasher. They’re more fun, anyway.”
Nahyuta’s not fully following their conversation, but it’ll give him something to focus on other than the impudent reprobate sat opposite him so he sits up anyway, clearing his throat to catch their attention. “If I may,” he says, “Would you be so kind as to explain what you’re discussing?”
Sebastian Debeste sits down on one of the break room couches beside the girl Nahyuta doesn’t know, letting out a dejected sigh. “They’re trying to get me to watch a horror movie,” he explains, “I’ve never seen one before and they’re all arguing over which one I should start with.”
Blackquill lets out a chuckle. “You could always start with The Human Centipede -- augh!” He cuts himself off with a cry as Debeste takes off his white mask and throws it at him with more force than someone of his stature should logically possess.
Nahyuta frowns, still not fully following the conversation. “I can’t say I’ve ever seen one before either,” he says, “Though Halloween is hardly a tradition observed in Khura’in.”
“That sucks,” the girl with the strange contraption on her head, Newman, says, “I think Klavier was gonna let us crash at his place tonight so we can show Sebastian a horror movie, though. You can join us if you want.”
Blackquill looks like he’d rather literally anybody else come, so Nahyuta smiles and nods. “Why not?” He says, “I appreciate the offer.”
“Is that why you’re not in costume?” Newman then asks him.
“Yes.” That and I don’t want to look like a fool.
Klavier crosses one leg over the other and - oh, that skirt is absolutely not up to dress code. “I have spare fangs in my bag if you want them,” he offers, “I brought them in case of an emergency like this-- ach, don’t worry Herr Sahdmadhi, they’re the glue-on kind, not the cheap bulky ones.”
“I…” Nahyuta starts, then cuts himself off as he pauses to think. He’s never had a chance to take part in Halloween before, even when he had been out of Khura’in for the holiday; that was partially a result of his own apathy towards the event and partially as a result of having to do exactly what a dictator told him to in order to keep his family safe. It could be completely humiliating, sure, but it could also be fun. He smiles at Gavin and nods politely. “I don’t see why I shouldn’t,” he says, “I might as well embrace American culture while I’m here.”
It’s then that the door to the break room opens for a third time, and the room goes quiet as Miles Edgeworth steps inside. He’s a surprisingly intimidating figure, even now with plastic devil horns on his head, and his ability to reduce a group of arguing adults (whose job it is to literally argue with others) to total silence would be impressive if it weren’t so terrifying. He glares at each of the prosecutors in turn, but spends extra-long glaring at Gavin, Blackquill, and Newman.
“I take it you all got my email last week?” he asks firmly, and everyone (save for Nahyuta and Franziska) either nods or mutters a vague confirmation. The Chief Prosecutor scowls, folding his arms over his chest in annoyance. “Then you all read the line about keeping your costumes practical--” he looks at Newman, “-- and workplace appropriate?” He looks at Gavin, then at Blackquill.
There's a pause; it's only a few moments long though it feels like it could be years, and Nayhuta can't help but smile to himself as he watches Simon Blackquill squirm uncomfortably under his superior's icy glare. When no one gives an actual answer (not that they were supposed to), he continues, “At risk of trampling your fun, I must remind you that Saw traps, open wounds and skimpy Barbie cosplays are not--”
“I'm Elle Woods .”
“I don’t care,” Edgeworth cuts Gavin off, “The point is that I made it very clear that your Halloween celebrations should be kept sensible and professional, and yet a number of you have openly disregarded that.”
“To be fair, Herr Edgeworth,” Gavin offers, “Your email was fairly vague.”
“Yeah!” Newman adds, “I mean, you said costumes should follow dress code, but there’s nothing in the office dress code about special effects make-up or large accessories.”
Blackquill grins. “But there is about skirt length,” he says, “So logically Gavin-dono is the only one who should get in trouble.”
Edgeworth looks like he’s about to snap, and Nahyuta can’t blame him. He pushes his glasses up the bridge of his nose and lets out an exasperated sigh. “This was not an opportunity for you to find legal loopholes,” he tells them, “But rather one for you to use your common sense. Something I had presumed you all possess.” He takes another moment to shoot daggers at his subordinates, all of whom (save for Franziska von Karma, who doesn’t technically work here and therefore is not listening) look either angry, embarrassed or, in Debeste’s case, like they’re about to shit themselves in fear. Finally, the Chief Prosecutor finishes his speech with, “I want to see you all in my office tomorrow morning. No excuses.”
A muttered apology ripples through the other prosecutors as Edgeworth turns to leave, gazes focused on the floor or random spots along the wall so they don’t have to meet their colleagues’ or superior’s gazes. Nahyuta watches with a smile, wondering how often this sort of thing happens and how on earth any of them manage to get any work done when they’re constantly squabbling. He drinks the last few drops of his coffee, waiting for someone to break the silence in the room.
It’s Franziska, of course, who eventually does the honours, clearing her throat as her brother begins to leave.
“Miles Edgeworth,” she says, commanding the room with a tone of voice so powerful that Nahyuta can only assume it runs in the family, “Before you leave, we’d like you to settle an argument.”
Edgeworth stops in his tracks and turns his head to face his sister. “Oh?” he asks, “And what might that be?”
“We were going to show Sebastian Debeste and Nahyuta Sahdmadhi a horror film,” she states, “And currently nobody is listening to reason, so we figured you’d be the best to tell us which one to watch.”
The Chief Prosecutor looks surprised for a moment, before he purses his lips and tilts his head to one side in thought. “My first horror film was actually The Blair Witch Project ,” he says, “I wouldn’t say it’s necessarily beginner-friendly, but it’s certainly more enjoyable than most of the gore-fests the genre has to offer. Is that what you wanted to know?”
Franziska smiles. “Yes, you’ve made yourself quite helpful for once,” she tells him, “Thank you, little brother.”
Klavier has seen The Blair Witch Project enough times to look at his phone the moment it starts. It’s one of those films that, while an impressive feat, loses its edge once you know a) what’s going to happen and b) that it’s fake. Still, as Simon and Robin explain the supposed “legend” behind Blair Witch to Sebastian and Nahyuta (the former appearing to believe them far more than the latter) he figures it’s not his place to ruin others’ fun - especially after their probably-deserved telling-off from the Chief Prosecutor earlier.
He’s going through his cupboards to find acceptable movie night snacks (despite what tabloids would have the public think, he hasn’t had many people around as of late) when Franziska von Karma approaches him, leaning against the counter as she watches him. They’re not exactly friends; in fact, they very rarely speak to each-other, having bumped into each-other occasionally in Europe over the years but never spending enough time together to make any sort of connection. They are, however, apparently close enough for her to start their conversation half-way through her train of thought and except Klavier to understand what she means.
“It could be much worse, all things considered,” she says. Klavier looks up at her and raises his brow.
“Verzeihung?”
Franziska glares at him, and he suddenly remembers the whip that still sits at her belt in spite of her last-minute Wednesday Addams costume. “You will let me finish, fool,” she tells him, and he obeys. “I remember when I first began working here in LA, things were… different. Sure, the ‘Dark Age of the Law’ or whatever you fools call it hadn’t quite started yet, but things were still… tense.”
Klavier hums in agreement. “I’m aware,” he said, “I’m not that much younger than you, you know… Ach, not that I’m calling you old, of course--”
Franziska places her hand on her whip and he shuts up. “You are aware of the reputation my brother had back then,” she says - it isn’t framed as a question but Klavier nods anyway - “But it went a lot further than that. My father… Manfred von Karma, was quite the figure in the legal world. He went undefeated for forty years, though looking back I wonder how many people he put away were actually innocent. And I think that had a domino effect on everything else.”
“Really?”
“Mhmm. When I first arrived in America back in 2017, the atmosphere amongst prosecutors was… tense. With the undefeated Prosecutor von Karma behind bars and the supposed suicide of the man he’d attempted to put away, there was this… strange fear. Anybody could be the next Edgeworth, or worse, the next Manfred von Karma. No-one got along. Not like you all do, anyway.”
Klavier hesitates, making sure she’s finished speaking before replying, “I… hadn’t thought of it that way.” He furrows his brow in confusion as he reads the instructions on the back of a packet of microwave popcorn. “Though I’m not sure if all of us get along,” he continues, “I still can’t tell if Herr Blackquill wants to kill Herr Sahdmadhi or screw him.”
Franziska snorts. “I think it’s both,” she tells him, and Klavier chuckles
“I wouldn’t be surprised…” He places the bag of popcorn on the microwave and turns it on before sitting up on the counter beside it as he waits. “I think…” he muses, “I think we’ve all had a lot to deal with, in one way or another. Between the Khura’inese revolution, Herr Blackquill’s acquittal and…” he hesitates for a moment, swallowing down the lump in his throat, “... and my brother the other year, being able to dress up for Halloween and bully Herr Debeste into watching Blair Witch is the least we deserve, ja?”
At this, Franziska smiles - not her usual sickly-sweet smirk, but a genuine warm smile that Klavier can only assume is a result of jet-lag and a few too many painful memories being brought up. “Yes,” she replies, “It’s the least we deserve.”
The movie is exactly as Klavier remembers it, of course, though watching Debeste jump out of his skin every five minutes (even when nothing scary has happened) is entertaining enough to make up for it. Nahyuta watches the whole thing with a completely blank stare, briefly flinching at the very end but otherwise showing no real reaction to it (which is probably why Simon checks when his flight home is before suggesting Final Destination ). It's fun, he thinks, getting to spend time with his co-workers without the prying eyes of the press or the contractual obligation to post a picture of every Halloween party he's invited to on Instagram. Sure, he still enjoys the occasional bit of attention (then again, who doesn't?) but sometimes it's nice to just have a bit of normalcy in his life.
They should do this again next year.
"I am not doing this again next year," Miles says with a frown, taking the horned headband off his head and glaring at it so hard that he feels a vein throb in his forehead. Phoenix lets out a laugh as he fixes his hair in the mirror behind him.
"Let me guess," he says, "Someone ignored your email and came as a slutty nurse?"
Miles lets out a groan as he remembers the length of Prosecutor Gavin's skirt - then shivers as he remembers that he keeps the radiators in his office turned off to stop his loudspeakers from overheating. "Something like that," he replies, "They were simple enough instructions, Phoenix. There was no reason for them to start finding loopholes."
Phoenix laughs again, doing up his cufflinks before pulling his blazer over his shoulders. "They're lawyers, babe," he reminds him, "That's, like, literally a part of their job."
Miles hums in begrudging agreement, running a comb through his hair before reapplying his cologne. "I suppose I shouldn't be too surprised," he admits, "That an ex-convict and a celebrity might take Halloween too far." He sighs, joining Phoenix by the vanity in their room and checking his appearance in the mirror - despite how he feels, his exhaustion from the day is not too obvious; with a quick cup of coffee on the way to the theatre he should be able to stay awake for the entirety of his not-yet daughter's Halloween stage show. Today was disastrous, sure, but it certainly could have gone much worse. This is just a learning curve, he tells himself as he and his fiance head out to the car.
He’ll know better for next year.