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Whenever Agent Lang or Franziska turn up, Miles knows something bad is soon to happen. After all, his experiences with Interpol tell him that Interpol deal with some very dangerous smuggling groups and other organised gangs, and several Interpol officers have been injured (such as Lang, who got himself shot defending the woman who turned out to be Yew, the criminal they had been after for seven years) or even killed (such as Agent Hicks, the poor victim of that terrible airplane murder) in the process of finding the truth. So, yes, forgive him for thinking trouble will follow when both Lang and Franziska arrive in his office one day, totally out of the blue.
It has been several years since the case that first brought him and Lang together, and Miles can tell he and Franziska have aged. His adopted sister looks more mature (and somehow more aggressive), whilst Lang, like Miles, has started to get a few wrinkles. But they both still look like they’d kill you for looking at them the wrong way.
“So what has brought you here, pray tell?” Miles says, peering at the agents over his glasses. “I’m very busy.”
“Yeah, we know that, Mr Chief Prosecutor,” Lang says, that annoying nickname having clearly been updated since Miles’ promotion.
“This will not take long, Miles Edgeworth,” Franziska says, and she hasn’t lost her quirk of calling everyone by their full name. “We simply need your cooperation. We are on the trail of a group smuggling—”
“My my, history does like to repeat itself, does it not?” Miles mutters despite his attempt to stay professional; however, he has known these two for so long professionalism isn’t the most important thing.
Franziska rolls her eyes. “Yes, thank you for that insightful comment, Miles Edgeworth. And Agent Lang, smirking like that does nothing but encourage him,” she adds, shooting Lang, who had been smirking wolfishly, a glare. “As I was saying, they are smuggling counterfeit documents, and we have traced a member back to this district’s High Prosecutors’ Office.”
Of course, Miles knows corruption happens everywhere (after all, one of the members of the smuggling ring last time was a prosecutor), but… he has tried so hard these last few years to rid his office of corruption that the thought of a criminal in his office makes all of his hard work seen for naught.
“Are you certain of that?”
“Of course we’re certain, you fool!” Franziska says, pulling her whip out of her bag (ah, so she hasn’t stopped using that thing either). She doesn’t whip Miles, but keeps it gripped tightly in full view. “Are you calling us incompetent?”
“I don’t think that’s it,” Lang says, eyeing the whip with caution. “I just think pretty boy here’s being protective of his office.”
Franziska’s whip strikes his desk, the crack loud enough to make Miles flinch. He certainly didn’t miss this.
“You foolish fool, Miles Edgeworth. Stop being sentimental and listen to reality. Look, someone in this office, therefore a prosecutor, is part of the smuggling ring. Deal with it.”
Miles rolls his eyes. “I see. So that’s why you are here, is it?”
“Yes, to investigate corruption. Although, personally, I trust you, just be aware that your office will be searched too.”
“Fine,” Miles says, more than used to his privacy being invaded with Franziska is around. “But that doesn’t explain why Agent Lang is here.”
Lang grins. “Oh yeah. I’m your bodyguard, Mr Chief Prosecutor!”
Miles’ eyes widen. “What?”
“We’re a bit, uh, concerned Agent von Karma’s presence here will cause the smuggler to panic and act rashly,” Lang explains. “So Interpol insisted she take me with her, mainly because I’ve done bodyguard work before, and I’ll be there to protect you if the smuggler tries to murder either of you.”
“How reassuring,” Franziska says, voicing Miles’ thoughts.
“Well, whatever the reason for you being here,” Miles says, eyes flicking between the pair of them. “I hope you find them quickly. The thought of corruption weaselling its way back into my office fills me with nausea.”
“Fool,” Franziska mutters. “But, yes, we hope to find them quickly too.”
“Now would you two mind leaving me alone? I need to get on with my work.”
“Charming,” Lang says, and Franziska whips his desk again.
Honestly.
Although Miles has to hope he will not need Lang’s bodyguard services.
---
The moment Miles steps out of the High Prosecutors’ Office a few days after the Interpol agents started ransacking his office in search of a smuggler, something feels wrong. He doesn’t know how to explain it, but Miles has been kidnapped and held at gunpoint often enough to know that when things seem off about his surroundings, there is usually a reason why. Although Miles says nothing, Lang must sense it too, because he moves closer to Miles, eyes scanning their surroundings through his ridiculous sunglasses. And Lang must see something that Miles can’t, because—
“Get down!” Lang yells, not bothering with any annoying nicknames.
Lang pushes Miles back against the wall, and Miles obeys, ducking and covering his head. But before Miles has even had a chance to reach the floor, a shot rings out.
A shot clearly muffled by a silencer on the barrel of the gun, but a shot nevertheless.
Lang gasps, stumbling backwards, and makes sure to block Miles from the gunman. So Lang and Franziska were right – someone really was out to get him.
“Oh my God, he’s been shot!” someone cries, and Miles doesn’t have to open his eyes to know who they refer to.
“I know you’re up there!” Lang shouts, stumbling slightly.
He turns around and looks down at Miles; Miles stares up at him, and sees blood soaking through his pant leg. Lang grits his teeth, but actually smiles down at him.
“Get up, I need to get you inside.”
Miles nods, scrabbling to his feet. As he walks the short distance to the doors to the offices, Lang walks close beside him, limping and shielding Miles from the range of the gunman, who must be using a rifle at a high vantage point.
Just before Miles opens the heavy doors, he hears another shot. His bodyguard lets out a muffled yelp, and Miles knows Lang has been shot again. Lang exhales, wheezing, and staggers into Miles, pinning them both to the door.
“Get inside,” Lang says, his breathing hissing.
His hands trembling, Miles throws the door open and dashes inside the lobby, making the receptionist jump to her feet. Lang shuts the door and locks it, and staggers over, grabbing Miles by the arm and saying, “On the floor, now. And you, call, call the police. There’s a gunman outside.”
“Oh God,” the receptionist whispers, but she nods and picks up the phone.
Lang pushes Miles to the floor and tells him to cover his head, just in case something else happens. His breathing wheezing and hissing, Lang stumbles, the colour draining from his face. Miles glances up at him, and sees… blood pouring from a bullet hole in his shirt. And Lang collapses to the ground, making sure to drag himself over to Miles before he passes out.
“What the everloving fuck is going on?”
Miles looks up to see Prosecutor Gavin in the doorway. He frowns and dashes over to Miles and Lang, flinching backwards when he sees the blood.
“Has he been shot?”
Miles nods. “Yes, someone tried to snipe me, and my designated bodyguard took the bullets. Could you call an ambulance?”
“Ja,” Gavin says, pulling out his cell phone.
Miles sits up and crawls over to Lang, grimacing at the blood pouring through the hole in his shirt.
You better not die, you self-sacrificing git, Miles thinks, knowing he would probably be dead right now if not for Agent Lang.