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The city Japanfransisco was the law capital of the world. Within it walked and had walked the finest lawyers in the world, the largest and most elegant court buildings in the world dot the sky line and defense offices blanket the city. In such a city, it was not a question of finding someone to represent you in a court of law, it was merely a question of who.
The city had ascended past its murderous streak hundreds of years ago, the people who lived and dwelt there were of the law, prosecutors and defense attorneys lived together in harmony, detectives and forensic scientists could be found grabbing a cup of coffee together, retired judges shambled through the streets whistling jaunty tunes and telling tales of the strangest of their cases. Pursuers of the law outnumbered the normal folk in the city 10-1. Plaques memorializing everything from the first courthouse to the case against Manfred Von-Karma dotted the streets and in the mornings when the sun was bright and the cherry blossoms were fluttering it seemed the whole city gleamed.
It was were all major cases were brought, no matter where they started, if you were being prosecuted this was the city to go. The prosecutors were ruthless, the defense were clever, the investigators thorough. It hardly went by that a case received the wrong verdict, and even then cases were reopened within a year of the initial sentencing. It was the city of Lady Justice, and she ruled with a fair and just iron fist.
Statues of lawyers of the past and judges known for their fairness stood at nearly every street corner. Some like Gregory Edgeworth were depicted reading their newspapers briefcase in hand but ever casual, others like the infamous Mia Fey stood a picture of rapt attention in the park dedicated to her name. A smile on her lips and the wind in her hair.
The memorial on 5th street to Apollo Justice depicted the man as the child he was when he first took on the legal system, then the one eyed crusader for justice, then the old man still standing up for what was right. Museums covered the city dedicated to lawyers and investigators alike, the Cykes museum, dedicated to Athena Cykes was the best place to go to learn about using magic to find the truth. From old legends of a stone that could grant the wielder the ability to see lies called the magatama, to scientific wonders like a device called Widget. There were discussions of perception and spirit channeling and debates were held in the Cykes museum every week discussing whether these old methods should be trusted.
But in the heart of the city stood the biggest court building in the world. Its catacombs housing evidence and case files for nearly 4 million cases, its halls echo with the presence of the best of the best, domed in gold and surrounded in cherry trees the building was the capstone of the city. The clicking of shoes in its halls and the pounding of gavels rang with the song of justice.
In the plaza before it two giant statues stand, Each 40 feet tall and formidable in its own right they are statues of the two greatest lawyers the city has ever held. They face the street and not the court building. To the left stands Miles Edgeworth, the greatest prosecutor of all time. In stone they capture his steely gaze, in his right hand he holds his briefcase, the rims of his glasses even now glint with the promise of swift justice. To the left stands Phoenix Wright the most reliable defense attorney. His spiky hair is swept back even in stone, and his eyebrows quirked in a promise that he will do his absolute best to defend you. Justice for the guilty and the innocent respectively they stand and hoards of people walk between them to have their photos taken.
Despite the fact that they face the street, their heads are turned to look at each other, and they have each raised their innermost hand clenched in a fist that demanded a swift and fair trial, drawing taught the golden chain that stretched between them. Once one walks under their chain and between the formidable figures two life-sized bronze casts of the men stand shoulder to shoulder this time the prosecutor's eyes are fond, and the defense attorney seems to be in the middle of an animated story. In the prosecutor's hand a briefcase, guided by the defense attorneys' hand the man’s original bike is held.
A plack before them reads: Miles Edgeworth and Phoenix Wright, the prosecutor and defense attorney that brought us out of the dark age of the law. 500 years ago they stood here after their 10th case together and for the first time in the public eye they were seen doing more than simply defending and prosecuting, shaking hands and nodding, they were seen laughing together. With their determination they heralded the dark age of the law and with the help of countless others brought justice back to our city. This memorial was erected to memorialize the demon prosecutor and the turnabout terror for their great strides in the realm of justice.
Two men sit in the restaurant across the street from the court building, 5 stories up the man with silver hair regards the monument with mild interest while the dark haired male regards it with unveiled fondness, swirling a glass of something not quite alcohol. They don't turn towards each other, but the smile on their lips and the fondness in their eyes is directed towards the other. The silver haired man aloft holds a glass of champagne, the dark haired male rises to meet it with his own glass of grape juice. With only a glance at each other they clink glasses and each take a sip of their respective drinks.
“Our finest achievement.” The man dressed in blue says and the man dressed in red merely hums in acknowledgement.
Sure their face have changed, and the hair isn't quite the same as it once was but if one were to be caught in their gaze it would remind them of something. Somewhere in your head you would swear you could hear the clicking heels down tiled halls, the drum beats of freedom, you would see a cold blue fire blazing and seeking what every man was owed, you would see silver that festered with cool calculation. Somewhere deep in your soul if you were to look in your eyes you would feel it, a memory, a whisper of something you could no longer place and despite how the years have aged them, despite how 500 years had treated them, they were still the same. Their hands still ached to hit wood and the shape of their war cry still lingers upon the crest of their lips. They aren't quite the same, but the changes run only skin deep, because for all 500 years could do to the minds of men, it had not touched them, for justice, lived outside of the boundaries of time.