Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

It is fascinating, seeing how quickly one’s perspective on the world can shift.

At first, the line upon the log is innocuous. It is just another entry to explain the movements and whereabouts of this android, ensuring that no sensitive information has accidentally been intercepted somewhere. This is just a routine check, a habit which has been engrained in him since he was but a child; checking the location history is something which most people would never even bother to do, and he knows it is naught but his paranoia and his upbringing which spurs him to connect his work phone to this machine’s systems to read over these logs.

And yet, upon a second read, the line stands out more to him. He does not recognize this location. The only places which his office android assistant should be going is the Prosecutor’s Office, the Criminal Affairs Department, and perhaps Miles’ own home if he ever forgets work there over the weekend; these coordinates do not match any of those three places, however.

Unease begins to well up in his heart. “What is this location?” he breathes, finally looking at the machine seated before him.

The android does not respond, its eyes locked onto the same fixed point on the wall which it has been staring at this entire inspection.

He clears his throat. “Request: clarify location indicated by line 76 of the log.”

The ring floating above its head flickers green at his request, inputting his command into its system. The light shimmers, reflecting off of dun-brown strands which hang loosely down its back and frame its face, the facsimile of a young woman’s calm, imposing stare echoing into the wall. Its dark eyes finally light up with its response. “The location indicated is located here,” it says in a robotic, even voice, its gaze never wavering from the wall.

Miles watches the android with displeased distrust looming in his heart, eyes lingering upon its seemingly-calm expression for a moment before turning to the holoscreen which is projected from her hand. A map of Los Angeles appears, the brightness irritating his eyes after a long day of sifting through scanned evidence. He squints, searching for the tracer marker which indicates the specified coordinates.

Wordlessly, he enhances the image, then shifts the map into a view of the street. It is naught but a closed alleyway, he realizes, his heart pounding painfully. There seems to be nothing there aside from a dumpster, a gas indicator, and a small side door to the northern building. What in the world could it have done here?

“Request: state purpose for coming to this location,” he breathes.

The ring-like android indicator flickers green once again, a forest-like halo illuminating his office. “To buy you tea, Master,” it replies.

Irritation causes his temple to pound, his eyebrow twitching upwards. “Ema, don’t you give me that-“

“Do you still call that thing by a name, little brother?” a haughty voice calls from behind him.

Letting out a long, weary sigh, he immediately snaps his phone closed, shutting off the holoscreen projection. Then, he shifts in his seat, gesturing for Franziska to come inside. His adoptive sister barely needs the welcome, always content to work at her own pace; languidly, she struts inside, throwing herself comfortably upon his sofa. She crosses her leg over her knee and leans back, arms sprawled out to the sides, the green light of Ema’s halo-like indicator casting a neon tinge to Franziska’s pale, silvery hair. “You say that you are unattached to these things, and yet you use some startlingly, foolishly fond names to call to them,” she says, her smile wicked, eyes invasive.

Miles sighs, leaning back into his chair and crossing his arms. “Franziska von Karma, I’m assuming you won your trial for the day?”

She shrugs, her smug pride oozing off her form in waves. “Of course! Unlike my little brother-“

“I’m six years older than you,” he mutters under his breath.

“-I have a perfect record.”

He nods, more to calm her down than anything. “Yes, indeed, we all know you’re very talented, Franziska,” he says. There is no point in reminding her that he, too has a perfect win record in court, nor is there any reason to tell her just how much better his reputation is in comparison to hers in the Prosecutor’s Office and around the courthouse. She will not listen, and her baseless boasting has never phased him before. It shall not begin to affect him now.

She offers a few more words of unsolicited advice here and there before she is back on her feet. “Take it from me, Miles Edgeworth,” she says, her snub nose in the air, “you’d best stop referring to these things with a name. It’s unbecoming of someone with our connections.”

Miles gives her an empty smirk and a half-bow before gesturing to the door. “Be safe on your way home, Franziska.”

“Hmph. You as well, little brother.” And with that, she sweeps out of his office without a second glance, leaving him to continue staring at the logs which he had managed to hide from her.

The moment the door clicks shut, he opens up the device once again. His personal office assistant android, an EM 476-A model- or Ema, as he takes to calling it, although he will never admit it outside of the walls of his office- continues to stare blankly at the wall, holding its shirt up to expose the open-up panel in its stomach which is connected to his phone.

The log is still baffling to him. Why in the world would Ema be buying tea from there? He leans his head back, pinching the bridge of his nose. It does nothing to stave off the stress-induced headache which is building up pressure like a tempest within his skull. There is no shop. I hope it isn’t anything dangerous.

As quickly as that idea emerges, he shuts it down. He sets down the phone and wanders over to his set-up chessboard in the corner of the room, idly moving a piece on either side; the action is mindless, but the sight of the blue and red pieces battling for dominance has always been strangely soothing for him. This android cannot hurt you, he tells himself. Franziska mocks, but you know the rules: a robot may not injure a human being or, through inaction, allow a human being to come to harm; a robot must obey the orders given it by human beings except where such orders would conflict with the First Law; and a robot must protect its own existence, as long as such protection does not conflict with the First or Second Laws.

It is easy to summon up these rules into his mind, the words flowing as easily as ink from a pen, for he has engrained these words into the fibers of his very being. Miles knows the Three Laws of Robotics better than most people, considering his cases tend to revolve around android-related criminal prosecution; turning back to look at Ema, he moves one final pawn upon the board before taking up his seat in his chair once again, retrieving his phone. There is no way this android would ever do anything to hurt him.

“But that leaves the question,” he murmurs aloud, his brain buzzing through the haze of his impending migraine. “Why would you go there? What is in this alleyway?”

Absently, he clicks through Ema’s stored files. There are not many saved images, for the vast majority of things he uses it for do not require the storing of information; to do so would be a security risk anyways, considering the sensitivity of the information he handled daily. Although its storage is encrypted to high hell and back, he still refuses to risk saving many things onto this android.

Yet, there is a new file on here, he realizes in dawning horror. It is a tiny movie file, but he does not recall recording it whatsoever. He never asks Ema to record anything.

His fingers tremble as he clicks the movie, flinching as the holoscreen lights up, projecting the movie file. It is barely audible. Quickly, he turns up the volume, leaning in to her shoulder where her speaker lays hidden underneath her smart dress shirt’s sleeve.

At first, the visuals are blurry, focusing upon a wooden countertop. Ema’s hands are clutched around a small mug, her reflection visible in the reflection of the dark liquid inside. Miles narrows his eyes as he hears a low, soothing tenor rumble out, “Enjoying your tea?” before Ema’s eyes lift, her gaze settling upon a singular figure leaning over the countertop in front of her.

The video ends, freezing upon this image. Dark, wide, trusting eyes crease into a gentle smile, that knowing gaze boring through Ema’s circuits into Miles’ very soul as he looks at a handsome, clean-cut man in an apron projected upon this holoscreen. This man looks at Ema with all the familiarity in the world, his black hair pushed back out of his eyes, a crooked, welcoming grin upon thin lips that betrays nothing but kindness.

Miles does not know this man. So… how does Ema?

His perspective has indeed shifted this day. He wishes it hadn’t; he does not enjoy the fear ringing in his heart thanks to it, causing every nerve ending to fire in uncertainty- all thanks to this smile he does not recognize.

Chapter Text

“This cannot be correct,” he grumbles as he looks up at the non-descript, metal grey backdoor before him. “Where in the world have you taken us, Detective?”

“I dunno what to say, pal,” Detective Dick Gumshoe replies, scratching the back of his neck in flustered embarrassment. “This seems like the location- look, even my map says so! The coordinates match and everything!”

Miles groans, for while indeed knows that Detective Gumshoe has done a good job in leading them to the location indicated in Ema’s log (heavens knows he wouldn’t have ever found it on his own, considering his own complete lack of direction), the reality is still utterly jarring to witness in person. Just as the satellite images had indicated, this alleyway is nigh deserted. It does not feel unsafe- rather, it simply feels empty, abandoned, a dusty path leading up to a broken fence and a gas line and a dumpster that cannot be up to code. He feels far too visible here, too exposed, dressed in his bright red suit and his pristine, fluttering ascot. Maybe I should have worn more… easily camouflaged civilian attire, he thinks glumly, standing before this strange, menacing, imposing door.

“Well, Mr. Edgeworth, sir?”

“Hm?” he replies, distracted.

“Are ya gonna go inside?” Detective Gumshoe gulps, worry shining in his big, clear eyes.

With a sigh, Miles steels himself. “Of course.” He straightens out his shoulders, takes in a deep breath, reaches out-

And opens the door.

The doorknob is cool, heavy in his hands as he opens up the port, a gust of cool air washing over him from within. Immediately, he is forced to squint- the inner corridor is dark, made of a shadowy staircase illuminated only by a single green light above a door at the bottom of the steps. It is narrow- it is claustrophobic.

He gulps. He does not want to go inside. He hates small spaces- it is too dark, too closed. For a moment, his mind races, silently crying out for a singular presence in his life; then, he shuts it off, forcing his fear back down into his gut before taking a strong, forceful step inside. He needs to get to the bottom of this mysterious trip made by Ema eventually, and he will not be able to accomplish anything if he is unable to take this journey.

It’s some sort of restaurant, isn’t it? he wonders warily. That’s what it looked like- Ema had a cup of tea in her hands, did she not? He pauses, then takes a step backwards outside to search for a sign, a billboard, a bulletin of some sort. There is nothing but the dusty alleyway.

With a deep, heavy sigh, he walks down the stairs. “Detective Gumshoe, wait there,” he instructs coldly. “If I should need you, I shall send you a message.”

Immediately, alarm rings clear in the detective’s face. “But- but sir, you can’t go alone! I don’t even know what kinda establishment this is- dontcha think a police officer should-“

“Detective.”

Gumshoe audibly retreats, a pout clear even in his tone of voice. “…I’ll go sit in the car, sir,” he says softly.

Nodding, Miles carries on down the stairs. For a moment, he has to take a pause to breathe, to try and calm his nerves which explode painfully the moment the door behind him clangs shut at the top of the stairs, shrouding him in naught but that sickly green light. He shudders and stresses, gripping onto his elbow, anxiety rising up like bile in his throat. He hates this.

Just open the door. You’re almost there.

Swallowing thickly, Miles grabs onto the cool doorknob with a trembling hand, takes in a deep breath, and pulls it open.

What awaits him within is nothing like he had expected.

The first two steps inside are tentative, unsure- he blinks rapidly, trying to adjust to the sudden influx of light and colour and warmth assailing his senses after the cold, unnervingly nondescript corridor leading down here. The door closes behind him and he starts, placing a hand against his racing heart as he turns. There is a light on this side of the door as well; however, with his entry, the colour has shifted from green to red, colouring the white door with a rosy hue.

There is no point standing here. His mouth goes dry as he takes in a long, light brown bar stretching off from this front door, blocking off a floor-to-ceiling wall of tea and coffee canisters. There are elegant, simple teacups and pots and mugs, numerous espresso machines and other tools lining the far side of the countertop, with barstools placed in front of the patrons.

He draws in a haggard breath, glancing upwards. It’s a modest café, he realizes numbly as he looks at the few simple paintings, nothing professional, hung up on the wall, lit up by industrial lights hanging from a barren grey ceiling above. There are numerous sofas and small round tables lining the rest of the café, leading up to a washroom sign in the back of the room near an adjoining corridor and a staircase leading up to a small, but similarly-decorated upper level.

His eyes fall back to what stands before him. There is a small chalkboard propped up against the counter, holding a basic menu. Miles barely skims over the first few options, registering finally what this establishment truly is.

It’s really just a café- one with no customers, he also realizes. The entire room is empty, save for one person: the man at the counter, watching Miles’ stupefied form blankly.

The same man from Ema’s log.

Miles words are ripped away from his lips as he takes in this man’s visage. He’s far more handsome in person, in a messy kind of way- hardly proper for Miles’ standards, but attractive nonetheless. Built muscles show faintly through a neat white button-up with rolled-up sleeves, a black apron thrown overtop bearing a small logo, too small to properly make out from this distance. His chin is lifted proudly, but not rudely, a pleasant smile pulling at his lips, laughs lines surrounding his mouth and large, deep brown eyes, set under slightly unruly brows.

“Welcome to the Nest,” the man murmurs, leaning his elbows onto the countertop, his voice smooth and confident and inviting. His eyes clearly drag down Miles’ well-dressed figure, a hint of pleased curiosity entering those deep-set eyes, before he adds, “I hope you enjoy your stay. Please read the rules, then have a seat wherever you’d like. I’ll be over to take your order soon.”

Miles blinks at him, drawing a blank. Rules? What kind of café has rules? Where in the world-

And then, his eyes fall, landing back upon that chalkboard which stands before the entrance. Underneath the day’s specials is a small list labeled as ‘Rules of The Nest’ at the top. He frowns, peering down at them.

His throat seizes, heart plummeting to the floor. There are three rules listed here, all written in the same inoffensive, almost cutesy font; it is innocuous and gentle, sweet and innocent. These letters should not be depicting the message carried within. He does not want to believe that this list is real. This message should not be illegal.

1. Remove any indicator of whether you are human or android before entering.

2. Do not ask any patron about their status as a human or android.

3. Allow the light to turn green after a patron as departed in order to ensure privacy for our patrons.

Here, we are all equal. Welcome to the Nest. We hope you enjoy your stay.

“Is something wrong, sir?” the man asks gently, his voice softening as if not to frighten Miles. It is velvety and tender; however, in the back of Miles’ mind, he can sense the resignation hidden within that voice, too. A sense of fear. A sense of weariness.

This strange man knows what he has done.

His attempts to soothe Miles’ heart are not effective- Miles is going to be sick, he thinks, with his palms clammy, heart pounding in his chest as the reality of this establishment sinks in, the rising horror tasting like sour vomit and acid and fear in his mouth.

Androids must remove their identification- must turn off their lights in this place. They are equal here. Miles’ entire career dealing with prosecuting breaches of robotics law screams otherwise.

Chapter Text

He knows that he should have been more forthright about information when Detective Gumshoe had opened the car door for Miles, but Miles had been so flustered that he hadn’t been able to say a word. How could he have possibly explained what he had witnessed within that tiny, empty establishment?

It’s illegal, he repeated to himself silently in absolute disbelief the entire ride back to the precinct. They’re operating completely under the radar. I doubt they even have a license to operate- so to add the misuse of the property, tax issues, and the breaches of robotics law-

Rather than reporting it, however, Miles had swallowed down the nausea climbing up his throat and had simply sternly told Gumshoe, “Say nothing of this little trip to anyone, do you understand?” Gumshoe had almost complained, but Miles had cut that off right away. “I may need your help in the future as well, but that requires you not saying a word to anyone. Understood?”

Gumshoe’s face had lit up in that naïve, almost pathetic way of his, his clumsy, lopsided grin shining with joy and gratitude as the man threw up a crooked salute. “Yessir! I won’t go tellin’ nobody, don’t worry Mr. Edgeworth! Just let me know when you need me. I’ll come running!”

“I’m sure you will,” Miles had replied before walking away to where his own vehicle had been parked. As Gumshoe had waved goodbye, Miles had driven to his office in tense, uneasy silence, his heart hammering in his ribcage.

Unfortunately, when he had asked Ema about the café, he had received nothing. “I went there to buy you tea, Master.”

“You went to an illegal establishment-“

“It is a café,” she had smoothly cut in, “and they have a tea blend you seem to be enjoying more than your previous blend.”

Miles had chewed his lip and slammed the door shut behind him. Ema is more than capable of plugging herself into the charging dock and going into standby mode once Miles leaves each day, so he does not need to say another word to her.

Even if he had wanted to, however, he doubts he would have been able to- too much anxiety and confusion had clogged his mind the entire way home to even form words.

I’ve never said a word about liking one tea over the other, was all he had been able to come up with in the end.

And now, as Miles sits upon his couch in his pyjamas and robe, he still cannot parse what he had seen, heard, felt earlier that day.

He flips through channels upon his wall-size television uncomfortably. The light cast from the screen is all that illuminates his living room, and normally, that would be an issue- he is not a fan of eye strain, and watching the television in the dark gives him headaches- but tonight, he cannot be bothered, cannot find the strength in his legs to carry him to the light switch.

If I had an android, they could take care of this, his brain supplies.

Immediately, he stifles that thought. There will be no androids in his home. He knows better.

Shivering, he leans his head back against his comfortable leather sofa. I’ve never told her I liked the tea, but… she’s not wrong, he admits to himself. It has changed recently. Does that mean she only started going to that place in the past weeks? His frown deepens as he turns his attention back to the screen, clicking through inane channel after channel. The action is soothing, repetitive; it gives his body something to do whilst his brain churns out one question after the other which he has no way to answer as of right now. If she had gone there in the past, then what does she do? Does she turn off her ring? Does she act as if she’s human? He snorts humourlessly, clicking away from the weather report. She is not human. None of them are. Machines. That’s all they’ve ever been. They don’t care, they never did-

His finger hesitates to shut off the next channel the screen lands upon. It is a documentary, it looks like; his brow furrows, body recoiling from the screen unconsciously as he reads the text scroll lining the bottom of the screen.

‘Are ‘robosexuals’, nicknamed ‘robofreaks’ online, becoming of greater concern in North America?’

“Yes, they are,” the interviewed man onscreen murmurs sagely, his eyes full of reviled disgust. “We’ve found reports of rampant robophilia in western hemisphere as of late, leading to a slew of increased problems in society. Birth rates are lower than ever as people try to buy or build their ideal partners rather than putting in the work to form healthy human relationships; increased incidences of mechanosexual activity, which is also illegal in the majority of developed nations, have been reported in line with this epidemic-like paraphilia.”

Miles sighs, allowing these words to sink in. None of this information is new, for he has prosecuted cases where people were charged with acts of robosexual behaviour and public indecency.

He has never lost one of those cases. In fact, the idea of losing a case like that has never even crossed his mind, for the division between androids and humans has always been one of the clearest things in the world; with the ring-like projection floating above an androids head at all times, indicating its engagement and status, there has never been any doubt as to what androids are, as to where to draw the line of morality.

But… what if these ‘robofreaks’ are meeting in places like that café? Like ‘The Nest’, or whatever it was called? What if humans met creatures who they thought were people, only to find out that one of them was more human than the other long after they were too deep in love to want to care?

It’s disgusting, he thinks. Utter rubbish. These fools are a disgrace to society.

He sighs, massaging his temple as he switches the channel. Instantly, he regrets this decision; the next image which pops up is a face that is far too familiar for comfort standing at a podium. The news story covering this man is, upon just one glance, as negative as ever. Miles sits up straighter just at the sight of him, gripping onto his elbow unconsciously, a trained reaction to bite down the anxious trembling which arises in his heart automatically.

“Robofreaks and all mech-related paraphilia is ruining this country, and you know what has caused that? The easy acceptance of androids into our lives!” Manfred von Karma’s unmistakeable, commanding voice booms in the press conference footage. “More precise laws must be enacted in order to ensure that no androids are given more power. Do you all understand just how much androids are trusted with every day? Should any one malfunction while connected to the grid, then-“

His finger hits the ‘off’ button upon his remote before he can think twice about the action. Manfred von Karma’s image lingers anyways in Miles’ eyes, his foster father’s glower and grimace burned eternally into the backs of his eyelids. Even if he wasn’t related to von Karma, Miles doubts he would have been unable to recognize the man; the leader of the Robotics Ethical Standards Committee is hard to miss, considering their radical involvement with anti-robotics campaigning.

If that man in the café is caught, then he shall be prosecuted. Miles is the top prosecutor in robotics-related criminal law- will Miles have to bring about a guilty verdict upon the handsome barista himself?

He doesn’t know. There are so many things which he does not understand happening here, and the uncertainty of it all has managed to dig itself like a chisel into his brain so quickly that he can barely even comprehend what he had been focusing on before his discovery that day. That one little chalkboard at the front of that café had changed everything.

“Is he a robofreak?” Miles wonders aloud, sighing as a commercial break interrupts the documentary in favour of advertising the latest innovations in grout cleaning equipment. “Is he obsessed with androids? Is that why he keeps that place open?” He blows air upon his scalding cup, his mind swirling with abstract thoughts, just as the cloud of steam rising from his freshly-brewed tea. “That man is aware of the illegality of that café. Androids are not permitted to remove their identification at any time, unless they are undergoing maintenance. Why in the world…?”

Suddenly, a chill races down his spine. That- that cannot be-

The barista- that man with the soft, kind eyes- he is not an android himself… is he?

Miles shudders, then sips this tea. It’s not as delicious as what Ema usually makes for him; however, even the memory of her tea is enough to bring sour acid into his mouth, for that tea can only have had one source.

By the gods, he prays that the source is natural, is human. He does not know what he shall do if it is not.

Chapter Text

He cannot contain his eye roll as Winston Payne, a senior prosecutor, murmurs, “Leaving already? I wish I had that much free time,” as Miles walks through the halls. He sighs, but does not bother to give a response; after all, he is finished his current cases, and thus has only one thing upon his mind.

He needs to revisit The Nest. He needs to figure out what is going on- if for no other reason than to give himself some peace at last. At worst, he may have to call Detective Gumshoe to come in, for the establishment is indeed operating out of legal bounds; after burning the midnight oil trawling through whatever files he can get his hands on, he is sure of it. That strange underground café had been operating without any of the legal licenses required to operate a café, even if he does not touch the law-breaking ‘rules’ written out upon the billboard out front.

He nearly jumps out of his skin when a body suddenly stands before him, exiting the elevator. The figure is none other than Winston Payne’s assistant android, a young, prim man who looks just as empty as all other androids he has seen, his indicator ring flashing red as he pauses, excusing himself quietly for getting in Miles’ way; with neatly combed hair and a simple dress-shirt and slacks, however, Miles can feel his skin crawling as he realizes just how easy it would have been to mistake this android for a person, if it were not for the deadened gaze and the android status indicator ring projected above his head.

Perhaps my mentor is right, he thinks distantly as he sidesteps the android. Perhaps androids are not meant to be integrated into homes. Perhaps there is something unnatural about this.

He shakes his head, sighing in irritation. There is no ‘perhaps’. Androids are not equal to humans. He has never doubted his mentor before-

His heart seizes. Pess, why did you stop-

-and he shall not start now.

Still, he cannot help but allow his eyes to linger on the figure of the android approaching Winston Payne. The older prosecutor immediately snatches the folder out of the android’s hand without a second thought, tossing his bag into the android’s arms roughly. The android does not bat an eyelash at these aggressive movements, obediently following Payne into the man’s office.

I do not have time to waste here.

Massaging his temples, he makes his way down to the parking lot. It is unnaturally empty at this hour; all court proceedings are likely still in session. The fact that his own trial had ended so early was naught but a blessing, giving him the opportunity- and the privacy- to stray from his usual route, to follow the path discovered by Gumshoe during their previous trip.

To return to that same imposing, ominous door.

This day, Miles does not hesitate before that ominous steel and concrete. It is just past noon on a weekday; if this café truly is ‘just’ that- a café, nothing more- then he doubts he shall witness anything too horrifying in this place. So, he sighs, sucks in a deep breath, and storms down the stairs to avoid standing in that claustrophobic stairwell a moment longer than necessary.

Just as before, the café is bursting with life and colour in the most homey way. He has to squint as the light above the entrance flashes red once the door clicks behind him, clashing with the gentle glow of the ceiling lamps casting that warm yellow light across the café’s dark walls and wooden floors. Once he has his bearings about him, he takes another look at his feet- at the sign.

The three rules of The Nest are just as clear as before. It had not been a dream.

“It’s you!” a surprised tenor calls from a ways away. Miles lifts his head, his feet freezing to the ground when he sees that same dark-haired man peeking out from the back room. Before he can respond, the man’s face creases into a warm, amicable smile, and he steps out with a dishcloth in hand. “Please take a seat,” he murmurs, gesturing to the counter. “I’ll be right with you.”

Nodding mutely, Miles finally finds the energy within himself to step forward. The stool squeaks slightly when he sits down, but it is comfortable enough; he unbuttons his blazer and glances around, finally absorbing the café’s atmosphere now that the adrenaline is dying down.

The establishment is decidedly not empty, unlike what he had assumed. Instead, there are a surprising amount of people here; he can see a couple seated comfortably upon a sofa near the back of the room, a small child sitting upstairs with what looks to be a tank of a man, and a lone individual reading a newspaper tucked in the corner. His eyes skim over these individuals anxiously, his heartrate rising with every tick of the second hand upon the clock hung above the bar, for all of these individuals seated here-

No one has an android indicator. In any other situation, he wouldn’t think twice about this.

His eyes dart frantically across each individual’s face. Which one of you are androids? Are any of you androids?

The most frightening part is simply not knowing.

A clearing of the throat surprises him so much he jumps lightly in his seat as the barista comes back to the front of the bar. “Sorry for the wait,” the man says cheerily. “Welcome to The Nest. What can I get for you?”

Miles gawps at him. How is this man so nonchalant, so unaffected by this all? How can he sit here and pretend that nothing is amiss when everything is amiss, when nothing is as it should be?

How can he be alright with not knowing who, what, his customers are?

He jumps again when a sudden screen appears embedded into the countertop. “Here’s the menu, in case you haven’t looked at it yourself,” the barista says with a wink. “Take your pick. First cup’s on the house.”

Awkwardly, Miles scans the menu. Nothing seems out of order in the slightest, every single drink and meal looking completely and utterly innocuous. He replies, “Just an Earl Grey, please.”

“One Earl Grey, coming right up.” The man immediately turns around, setting up the kettle and pulling out a canister of tea leaves from the shelves. As he scoops a precise amount of tea leaves into a pot, he murmurs to Miles, his back still turned, “So, Mr. Customer. Got a name?”

Gulping, Miles replies stiffly, “It’s… it’s Miles. Miles Edgeworth.”

Once everything is set up and the water is set to boil, the stranger turns back around, holding out a hand. “I’m Phoenix. It’s nice to meet you.”

It takes Miles a moment to respond, but eventually, he grasps Phoenix’s hand. It is firm, strong; calluses upon the barista’s hands do not stop every nerve in Miles’ fingertips, in his palm, from catching alight from the sheer heat of Phoenix’s touch. It is almost unnerving, just how gently Phoenix squeezes in greeting before finally letting Miles go.

Leaning his elbows onto the counter, Phoenix asks, “So, Miles. What brings you to my little café?”

Miles glances around uneasily, then leans forward. “I… I found a log in my android of this location. It was not meant to go here, so I wanted to see if it was a glitch.”

A flash of unease and panic dances across Phoenix’s face, a nervous smile tugging his lips. “I must ask- is your android here?”

He had left Ema back at the Prosecutor’s Office, so thankfully, the answer is easy. “No.”

Sighing in relief, Phoenix smiles good-naturedly. “That’s good to hear. I would’ve asked you to leave if so.”

Sitting upright, Miles protests, “Why?”

Phoenix shrugs, utterly nonplussed. “This café is an escape for people,” he says, turning back to the kettle once it begins to boil. “If anything shall jeopardize the safety and privacy of my customers, I would have to ask them to leave.” He looks over his shoulder to wink at Miles, much to the prosecutor’s chagrin. “Unless you promised to never talk about their android status, of course. Then you two would be welcome anytime.”

Miles bristles. The audacity of this man, hosting an illegal establishment, threatening to kick Miles out like that in favour of his android- “I work in law,” he says lowly, lifting his nose haughtily at Phoenix. “I have half a mind to report this place for that statement. Androids should never be turning off their identification and status rings-“

“One strike,” Phoenix replies smoothly, cutting Miles off. The barista turns to place a cup and a teapot in front of Miles. “Careful, it’s hot and still steeping. When it’s ready I’ll pour some for you.” Miles attempts to splutter out a response, but Phoenix merely raises a hand, lids lowering dangerously. “And if you get three strikes, Miles Edgeworth, I shall have to ask you to leave. I don’t ask much of my customers. I’d appreciate if what I do here is respected.”

There is nothing here to respect! Miles longs to cry. As he glances around, however, a wave of unease washes over him yet again.

On the surface, all of these people simply look human. He prays they are all as such.

Chapter Text

Despite all of his misgivings, Miles must admit that this tea is actually quite delicious indeed. His anxiety begins to fade slightly as he makes his way through his pot; he speaks little, merely glancing about himself to get his bearings. As he drinks more and more, however, he finds himself sinking deeper into his chair, the stress which has been building up for so long finally easing, just a little.

Thankfully, Phoenix says little. The other man seems more than happy to clean up the bar and wipe down cups and mugs, rearranging little tins and trinkets lining the back shelves behind him. Miles’ eyes fixate upon Phoenix’s figure as the man works, tracing over his back; powerful shoulders are visible even from underneath his dress shirt, his hands moving with surprising gentleness and deftness despite his clear build. Each motion is methodical, his expression calm throughout.

The only time Phoenix’s face changes is whenever a customer calls for him. Miles cannot bring himself to look at the people who catch Phoenix’s attention, in part due to fear and the other due to curiosity. After all, every single time Phoenix’s gaze lifts, his large, dark eyes soften, thoughtful face melting into a warm smile no matter who is speaking. It’s such a drastic shift each time, and Miles cannot look away.

The first part of him, however- the fear- is likely the most powerful, the most haunting. Every single voice which calls for Phoenix, which strikes up a conversation behind Miles’ back and at the counter by his side, is decidedly human-sounding.

Human-sounding is not the same as human, though. The unknown factor- the sign at the front of the café- is what hangs over him, tightening around his neck every moment he remains in his seat.

Halfway through his second cup of tea, a sudden figure in his personal space rips him out of his own thoughts. The door jingles, the light flashing red above the door as it clicks behind this new customer. Miles does not bother to look over at them, his mind having long-since zoned from anything aside from Phoenix’s amicable figure; however, the new customer seems intent on getting Miles’ attention, as within moments of their entry, an elbow is plopped down onto the counter and large eyes framed by dark lashes blink curiously up at him.

He jerks back with a start, nearly spilling his tea. An undignified yelp spills from his lips, alerting Phoenix of the disruption. Without even turning around, Phoenix chides wearily, “Now, Maya, please don’t harass my customers.”

“Oh, c’mon Nick, lighten up!” the young woman perched upon the stool beside Miles cries. “We rarely get new faces in here! I just wanted to say hello.” Looking back at Miles, the young woman claps her hands together delightedly. “I’m Maya! And you are?”

Clearing his throat, Miles takes the moment to straighten up and look over this newcomer’s figure. The most eye-catching thing about the young woman- likely in her late teens, he thinks- is her attire; she is dressed in pale Japanese-style robes cut off above her knee, her purple overcoat tied messily around her waist. Her hair is tied in an unusual bun, long sections of it framing her face ending off with large beads. Wooden sandals adorn pale feet, adding to the entire unconventional affair. What in the world is this girl doing? Trying to fight back his budding questions, he finally replies, “Miles Edgeworth, prosecutor.”

The girl holds out her hand, which Miles shakes after a quick moment of hesitation. Her grip is strong, touch warm and smooth; it certainly feels real enough, he thinks. Grinning from ear to ear, Maya says at a break-neck pace, “Well, it’s a pleasure to meet you, Miles! Welcome to the Nest. Did ol’ Nick here tell you about the place?”

Miles blinks dizzily for a moment before looking over to Phoenix, still working methodically a few feet away. “Are you referring to-“

“Phoenix! Good ol’ Nick. He’s the boss!” In a loud stage-whisper, Maya jabs her thumb in the other man’s direction. “Although he barely makes enough to keep this place afloat on his own-“

“It isn’t about the money, Maya,” Phoenix replies, deadpan. Shooting a firm stare over his shoulder, he insists, “You of all people know that.”

“I know,” the young woman says brightly.

Although Miles is perturbed by Maya’s sudden appearance, he finds himself strangely drawn into the young woman’s charms. She is spritely and lively beyond measure, he finds; with the familiarity that only a true regular can have, she slips in and out of conversation with everyone in the café, even from the other side of the room. The others wave and smile without a moment’s hesitation as Maya babbles on about this and that to Miles, never once missing a beat. Halfway through, she gets up, rushes to another customer who is heading out, and sings along to the song playing on the speakers perched upon one of the higher shelves above Phoenix’s head; the duo sings along off-key, their grins brilliant and goofy as they dramatically perform the song for a bemused, sparse audience.

Miles silently takes it all in. Frankly, he simply does not know what in the world he can say; she points out the other clients so quickly, prattling off fun facts about the establishment so confidently, that he barely has enough time to process it all.

Although Maya rambles on, Miles is a little stunned to watch as she accepts the cup of freshly-whisked matcha without hesitation from Phoenix, taking the moment to straighten her back and sip her tea. There is defined elegance in those few silent moments. Then, just as quickly, she is back to how she was before, words spilling forth before Miles can even get a breath in edgewise.

Unfortunately, he does not learn anything new about the Nest from little Maya. She is bubbly and chaotic, but everything she says, Miles has already gathered; Phoenix firmly believes in android autonomy, so he had opened this café. There is little overall profit to be made, but money-wise, it is all above-board, although Miles does not know whether she would truly know of the Nest’s financial setup.

What fascinates- and horrifies- Miles the most, however, is how tacitly she confirms all of his fears. “The clientele is pretty open to both types, so we get anyone and everyone in here!” she says. “It’s pretty cool, dontcha think?”

Before he can stop himself, he spits out, “Well, what in the world could be considered ‘cool’ about it?”

She freezes, her smile slipping for a moment. Her thin brows furrow together underneath crisp blunt bangs, nose crinkling in thought. Then, she shrugs, sipping her tea once more before settling on her answer. “I like it here,” she decides at last. “It’s not like anywhere else, y’know?”

“How so?”

Another shrug. “Perspective, I guess.”

It is a decidedly thoughtful and reserved answer for the young woman, he thinks. Carefully, he prods further. “What kind of ‘perspective’ might you mean?”

Maya’s smile grows soft as the girl rests her chin in cupped hands, staring fondly up at Phoenix’s back. Her voice is quiet and contemplative as she explains, “I’m from a pretty tight-knit community. There’s a ton of androids there all the time alongside their humans, but… we never get to know one another’s feelings, even though we’re always right beside one another. There’s a divide between us, y’know?”

“Isn’t that natural?” he asks, biting back the suspicion in her voice.

Her sigh is strangely defeated. “I just… want to make the community a better place, and it’s nice to get to be able to talk to everyone. So, I like it here!”

Maya does not stay for long after making this statement. Miles finds that she comes from Kurain Village, a small community up on the mountainside; she only stays in town for a few days when work calls. What kind of work, Miles does not know, but something in his gut (and Phoenix’s pointed stare) tells him not to press further. All he is left with after the young woman leaves is the jarring silence left in her wake.

She’s likely one of those robofreaks, he tells himself as he drains his final cup of tea. I shouldn’t think too much about it.

Still, her genuine resignation sticks with Miles long after he has returned home. He had found no further information on the Nest, meaning he had no choice but to return another day and focus on his work at hand.

He hopes he can focus. He doesn't really know what to do with any of this, in all honesty- all he knows is that he does not want to report the Nest. Not yet.

Chapter Text

Unfortunately, not even the allure and excitement of his next trial the following day can bring his thoughts away from Maya’s serene, almost lonely expression. Although he makes no errors in the courtroom that day, his mind cannot help but to ignore his inevitable victory and instead continue to circle back to the giggling face that had beamed so openly at him the day before. Did Maya truly understand the consequences of being found in such an establishment? She seems far too young to even truly comprehend what she is perpetuating by giving that man business. He frowns, massaging his temple as he steps out of the prosecution’s lobby and heads towards the stairwell, his mind a million miles away from the trial which he has just won.

The other staff in the courthouse congratulate him for his victory, but his thoughts are so far removed from the case that it genuinely surprises him when they bring it up. All he can think of is Maya’s joy, her unabashed trust and comfort felt in that café, her friendly presence with anyone and everyone in the room, android or not…

It isn’t right. All his life, he has known that that kind of behaviour- that kind of fraternization- simply isn’t right.

Maya’s smile had been so vibrant, though. Miles cannot help but wonder whether he has ever felt such ease, such happiness, as the young girl had shown even in that short interaction.

By the time his feet have descended to the basement of the courthouse, a sickening knowledge has settled into the pit of his stomach. That girl… was likely Franziska’s age, was she not? he realizes, a sour taste coating his tongue. Although his younger sister is precocious beyond measure, if she were ever to be found frequenting a café walking so nebulously outside of the law-

He shivers, then straightens his back. There is no point fretting over it all. Maya is just another patron of an establishment that is likely all bark no and bite- he has no reason to fear. How many androids would even go there in the first place? I’ll just tell Ema to never go there again, he tells himself. That way, there’s no reason to take her off-line, and I can simply let the appropriate authorities know of the store once her logs have run far enough along to not draw attention to me.

Running his hand back through his hair, Miles lets out a long, world-weary sigh. Suddenly, he feels utterly drained. Going through his mental checklist of tasks at hand, there is some relief to be felt when he realizes that he is nearly at the end of it. All he needs to do is place some of the evidence into the Records Room, and he shall be free to go. I’ll go home and make some tea. Almost done for the day.

And just like that, his day comes to an end. The evidence is put away, the paperwork is signed off, and he is ready to go back to a warm bath and dinner. He finds his way back to the lobby with little delay, readjusting his jacket draped over his forearm as he head towards the door. The taste of his favourite blend of Earl Grey already tickles his taste buds, the sheer memory of it more than enough to soothe this bubbling unease which has been haunting him since his visit to the Nest. My car should be in the usual spot-

His briefcase slips from his fingers, but Miles barely notices. The hustle and bustle of the courthouse comes to a deadened halt before his very eyes; the sounds of footsteps clacking against smooth tiled floors fades away into the background, voice disappearing into the void. Even the tiny motes of dust which float through the air, illuminated by lazy sunbeams streaming in through high windows and casting a warm, ochre tint to the entire varnished hall, seem to halt in their tracks. All that Miles can see is the object of his focus, his gaze tunneling as he looks upon the figure standing patiently by one of the central columns of the foyer. Her hands are clasped neatly in front of her, her odd attire suddenly far more fitting now that she is no longer bouncing about this way and that. Her young face is strangely calm, strangely deadpan; unlike the day before, her eyes do not sparkle with life, her brilliant smile nowhere to be seen.

Miles opens his mouth. Before he can call out to her, however, she suddenly jumps, arms frantically reaching out to grab a falling bag. The woman who had tossed the satchel to her walks past her easily, the large hairpins in her fancy, sleek hairdo glinting the light. This older woman barely even takes note of Maya’s presence, walking forward without even a second glance at Maya. The woman face is stern, her back pin-straight, the restrictive kimono smooth and unfettered by her movements; if it were not for the irritated call of Maya’s name, Miles would have doubted the older woman even knew Maya.

Maya does not react poorly to the woman’s off-handedness. In fact, she barely reacts at all; once the bag is righted upon her shoulders, she mechanically nods, the green indicator light above her head flashing red to acknowledge the processed command. Miles cannot hear what she says in response, though; the courthouse is simply too loud, too busy, too echoing, to make out the undoubtedly lackluster, monotone words spilling from Maya’s lips.

Then, they are gone. Even after she has followed the woman- her owner, most likely- out of the courthouse, however, Miles finds that he cannot move his feet. He cannot make a sound. All he can do is focus on Maya’s image, imprinted firmly into the backs of his eyelids, causing his stomach to twist and his throat to seize.

Maya is an android.

The taste of tea upon his tongue is sour once more- the questions all-consuming his mind, even more potent. He does not understand. He does not know if he wants to understand.

It is only when he returns to his office the next day in a haze that he comes to truly recognize the heaviness overwhelming him, sinking like a stone further and further into his gut. Only then is he able to put a label to the cloud of unease which has choked him from the moment sandaled feet had trotted after their master. Waiting for him in his office is his own android; when he looks at Ema, he can finally declare that this feeling, this uncertainty, is fear. After all, when he is not around- when she is all alone, sitting in his office, running his errands and buying him new types of tea… does her indicator light deactivate? Does she smile like that, too?

Would her joy be as vibrant, as palpable, as Maya’s? Would he think that Ema was real, too?

He does not drink the tea she prepares from him that morning. Instead, he finds himself locked behind his desk, unable to think clearly, head buried in his hands. For the first time in his life, Miles Edgeworth finds that he well and truly wants to run.

Chapter Text

“Is there a reason why you called me here today, sir?” Miles asks stiffly, hands gripped tightly into fists as his arms hang down at his sides. His nails dig into his palms, the movement habitual, barely noticeable were it not for the pinpricks of pain which shake his core. He ignores it, straightening his shoulders and puffing out his chest, every inch the firm, unyielding prosecutor he has been trained to be.

He cannot afford to show any weakness- not now.

The man standing before him is just as dignified as ever, his mouth curved permanently into a stern frown underneath thick, furrowed grey brows. His mentor’s arms are crossed over his broad chest as he reads files from his standing desk, barely glancing over to Miles. Still, he acknowledges Miles’ presence with a slight nod, his towering figure familiar yet distant all at once. “I require some records,” Manfred von Karma says brusquely, gesturing to an awaiting case file. “You’ve worked against the defense attorney in charge of the case, so I assume you are more than capable of retrieving them yourself.”

Despite his attempts to control his expression, Miles cannot help but feel his eyebrow twitch in irritation. He had known it would be something such as this- the man who had adopted him in his childhood has always been this kind of man, after all- but to be taken out of his own work for something as silly as this is still grating. “Did you need help looking over anything, sir?” he clarifies, his tone light, his fatigue anything but.

Manfred waggles a finger slowly, clicking his tongue in time with the movement as he finally centers his piercing gaze upon Miles. “Of course not,” he says with a snide smile. “I am a von Karma, after all. We are perfect. I simply do not have enough time in the day to waste adapting to every half-baked defense attorney I come across; they shall be defeated soon enough.”

Miles’ smile in response is automatic, but his subsequent bow of acknowledgement, of reverence, lacks any luster it may have had in his early days as a prosecutor. “Of course, sir. Your record is still perfect.”

“And so it shall remain,” the older man retorts proudly.

Sensing that the conversation is done for now, Miles steps forward, retrieving the aforementioned file. A quick scan of the case causes frustrated pity to well up in his heart; the defense attorney going against Miles’ mentor is, in all honesty, a good lawyer. Miles has faced her thrice in court, and each time had been an engaging battle. Her work is clean and efficient, and even though she has lost all three cases against Miles, she has never backed down once. He respects her greatly.

He does not say this to his mentor, however. One look at his foster father’s screen is enough to tell him that the man is in no room for a tepid discussion; the topic of the article he reads is none other than news covering the recent Robotics Ethical Standards Committee press conference, and judging by the white knuckles of the man’s clenched fists, the article says nothing good. If he brings up the defense attorney’s competency now, it shall be nothing but a headache later.

I should go. “I shall bring this to your office by this evening,” Miles announces with another slight bow of respect. His motion to escape this stifling office is interrupted, however, by the whirring of gears, the sound of clunky, heavy steps hitting hardwood flooring behind Miles.

With a gulp, Miles steps back to look at the incoming android. The canine-type P-325 is antiquated, its clearly-mechanical visage and robotic motions utterly jarring amidst the otherwise classy, elegant office space. In its mouth is a manila envelope clearly intended for its master. Watching its approach, Miles’ heart pounds in his chest as his eyes lock onto the glowing lights behind the robot’s Retriever-style face. A name dances upon his tongue at the sight of this machine, his heart seizing in longing to reach out, to speak to it, to pet it.

He does not. It shall not answer.

So, he backs away from the doorway, allowing the android entry. It sets metallic paws upon the table, depositing the file it had been carrying beside Manfred.

The elderly prosecutor hisses, “Get out, you filth.”

Miles leaves without making another sound. Those words are not intended towards him- they are directed towards that old, ailing android so desperately in need of a tune-up- but he cannot help but bite his lip and bow his head in an attempt to flee from it all. Even after so many years of seeing his mentor insult his own android, reduced to menial tasks around his office rather than being used to process the vast swathes of information that model is intended to do, Miles finds that he still cannot stomach the sight of that mistreatment.

It’s just a machine, though.

But… it isn’t.

And so, before he knows it, Miles’ feet have taken him back to that dusty alleyway, back to that foreboding stairwell going underground. The temperature difference between the outer humidity and the chilly interior causes gooseflesh to rise upon his nape, but he pushes onwards regardless, mustering up his strength to open up the heavy-set door into The Nest.

It takes a moment for Miles’ eyes to adjust to the lighting of the café, but soon enough the prosecutor has slipped inside the homey establishment, slipping into his usual seat at the bar. Other than the couple which he had spotted during his previous visit, there are no other customers present; the two who are there, a strikingly-handsome dark-haired man and a beautiful, curvaceous woman, are seated at a table on the second floor, leaving no one to speak to other than the barista himself.

He knows he should not feel this way, but the palpable relief which fills his heart at the distinct lack of Maya causes him to sag in his seat, the tension draining. He does not know how he would even begin that conversation with the bubbly young wo- with the android.

She’s not a ‘young woman’, he tells himself as he glances at the holographic menu projected in front of his seat. Stop thinking of her- of it-

Groaning, he runs his fingers through his hair, fingertips massaging his scalp gently in an attempt to soothe himself.

“Penny for your thoughts?”

Miles jumps in his seat, clutching his heart in panic before he settles on simply glaring at Phoenix. The other man stands behind the counter, a cocky, bemused smile upon his lips as he walks over to his assortment of teas. “I- you startled me,” Miles gripes in flushed embarrassment.

Chuckling, Phoenix nods. “I saw that. Would you like some tea, or do you want to try something else today?”

He allows his heart to rest for a moment longer before he nods. “Tea is fine,” is his crisp reply as he glances about the café. Up on the second floor, the other two customers are barely visible from where he is seated; they pay no mind to him as his eyes attempt to scrutinize their identities, the duo far too lost in conversation with one another. Then, his gaze drifts back to Phoenix, the uncomfortable twisting of his gut returning. “It seems fairly slow today.”

Phoenix shrugs as he sets the kettle to boil and portions out tea leaves in a small pot for Miles’ drink. “We have our days,” he comments confidently. “Some of our regulars had obligations today, so it’s just Mia and Diego today.”

Miles hums, peeking back up at the two seated upstairs. Mia and Diego, hm? Mentally, he notes those names down. It should be obvious by now, but neither customer sports any indicator light, so there is truly no way to tell their identities. Are they in a relationship? His stomach twists further as his brain instantly continues, Is one of them an android? Do they even know?

He keeps these thoughts to himself, however, looking back to Phoenix as a distraction. The handsome man works efficiently, he finds; his movements are precise, with not a drop spilled as he pours water into Miles’ teapot and sets out a small set of milk and sugar for the man. Then, as the tea steeps, he pulls out a cup for Miles’ drink, then gets back to wiping down the counters; each motion is clean, practiced, effortless.

Strangely enough, it is soothing to watch. Before he knows it, Miles asks, “What made you want to open up a café?”

Phoenix pauses, then glances over his shoulder. “Who doesn’t like a good cup of joe?” Gesturing wryly to Miles’ awaiting cup, he adds, “Or a cup of tea.”

Miles deadpans at the other man. “I meant… you know,” he attempts, waving vaguely towards the rule signboard near the entrance. “This kind of café.”

Instantly, Phoenix’s demeanor shifts. His expression hardens, his eyes cold as he returns to Miles’ steeped tea; with the spirit of ice moving him, he mechanically pours out a cup for Miles and offers it to him, his aura threatening, warning.

“Before you try to throw me out,” Miles interjects, raising his hand in peace as he spots Phoenix’s immediately-soured expression, “I’m asking genuinely. Not to condemn, nor to condone. I just… wish to know. Doing this could get you jailed, after all, and there are more than enough activists fighting against giving any rights- or any humanity- to… them at all. Why risk this?”

Apparently there is enough sincerity in his tone to convey just how thoroughly baffled he is by the entire situation. It takes a second, but the defensive nature shrouding Phoenix slowly melts away, his demeanor losing its hostility. The barista’s eyes grow thoughtful, his hand rising up to stroke his chin, eyes drifting towards the industrial, pipe-covered ceiling high above. After a few moments of reflection, he finally asks, “Does it really matter?”

Miles freezes, allowing those words to sink into him far deeper than intended. His gaze locks onto the cup held between trembling hands, the surface of his tea rippling with the shivers of trepidation racing up his spine. “Of course it matters,” Miles mutters, but his voice emerges as far too weak, far too unsure, to convey any kind of confidence. His mind races as he takes stock of the situation; of course it matters! Does it not? Every single robotics law has been built on the assumption that the division between android and human, between mechanics and flesh, matters indefinitely, so how can this man so callously say it does not?

Easily, it seems. Phoenix’s elbows lean down upon the countertop, bared forearms just in Miles’ view as the man leans down. Miles gulps as the scent of laundry detergent and hints of lemon zest and the aroma of coffee beans floods his nose in tandem with the other man’s movements. Then, Phoenix murmurs softly, “Androids today are sentient, are they not?”

“…yes,” Miles breathes, unable to pull himself away.

“Then,” the barkeep says firmly, finally moving back to give Miles some air, “that’s that.” When the prosecutor splutters, Phoenix merely smiles, lips crooked and weary. “I’ve been working with humans and androids my entire life. As a child, it became a game to me- if I ignored the indicator rings, then who would be human? Who would be an android? How could anyone ever tell?”

“Their behaviour-“

“Not everyone who visits this café is human,” is Phoenix’s smooth reply. “I challenge you to decode which is which.”

“They’re merely imitating us,” the prosecutor croaks out, throat parched in stunned discomfort.

“Who are you to decide that?”

There is no response to give.

“The moment you give something sentience, you create loneliness,” the barista carries on. “You create a need for connection. You wouldn’t deny a human that, so why deny anyone?”

Miles has nothing left to say after this. So, he closes his eyes, letting out a long sigh, his breath full of words left unspoken, of images dancing across his mind- of Maya standing in the courthouse, of Winston Payne’s android in his office-

Of Ema’s empty, soulless gaze, fixated upon him as he tries out the new tea blend. The blend she had picked herself. No one asked her to.

What would be said of him if he treated a human the way he treated Ema?

He shudders. Normally, logic is enough to resolve any issue Miles has. Now, all he can do is sip his tea and wonder how he’s found his way here- how his heart has managed to be so thoroughly shaken in beliefs long-since embedded into stone.

Chapter Text

“It’s on the house.”

Miles frowns, his eyes flitting up to stare incredulously at the smiling man above him. Phoenix’s expression is generally amicable enough, but the quirk of his lips and the slight creases at the corners of his eyes somehow stand out to Miles. The prosecutor freezes at the sight of it, his cheeks heating up, but he does not know what to do; so, Miles simply drops his gaze, staring at the light crumb of the coffee cake which has been set out in front of him. “I… I don’t quite know why I would warrant that-”

“You’re a regular now,” Phoenix replies with a sly wink, “and besides, you seem like a pretty good one, too.”

Miles’ brows shoot up behind his bangs, utterly incredulous. “And how do you suppose that?” the prosecutor deadpans, his fingers curling tighter around his (usual, whether he admits it or not) cup of tea. 

“You could have reported this place by now, Mr. Robotics-Law-Prosecutor,” the barista says with a shrug. “You haven’t. There’s good in you yet.”

You say that as if I do not debate on filing the paperwork every time I walk in! Miles longs to scream, although his tongue, thick and heavy and clumsy in his mouth, cannot say the words. After all, he cannot deny this assertion. There is no excuse in Miles’ heart for why he has come to this cafe this afternoon; he had finished a trial, and then, before he was even aware, he was driving to a nearby parking lot in order to visit the Nest. He has become a regular. 

It’s horrifying, in all honesty. 

Before Miles can formulate a response to this outwardly-outlandish statement, a sudden weight jumps on his shoulders, thin hands pressing down upon him with surprising force. “Nick’s just happy he’s got eye candy coming to the store!” a familiar voice cackles with glee in his ear.

“What?!” Miles squawks, eyes shooting up to look the barista in the eyes. To his dismay, the other man scurries to the backroom, muffled curses filtering through the open doorway before anyone can stop him. 

Miles does not miss the pink tinge in the other man’s ears as he flees, though. Mortified, he buries his face in his hands. He does not even know how to begin to unpack this interaction. How can he?!

However, once that weight upon his shoulders shifts, his attention is drawn back to the figure behind him. In the blink of an eye, the stunned flush and fluttering lightness of his stomach drains away, a heavy stone sitting in his gut as he understands just who remains. He dares not to look, focusing instead on fixing his expression. What shall I say? What can I say?!

Maya does not give him time to prepare his heart. The lithe figure releases his shoulders at last, causing Miles to flinch. The surprising weight makes sense, he realizes with trepidation; she is a machine. Of course she is heavier than a living, breathing creature. 

And yet, the smile beaming up at him from the barstool by his side is unbearably human. “How’s it going, Miles?” she asks cheerily. Clapping her hands together with glee, the fresh-faced figure continues, “I just knew you’d be a good egg, y’know? Nick was pretty worried at first, but I told him that you’d come around, and here you are!”

In response to all of this, all Miles can do is attempt a half-hearted smile. His mind races, gooseflesh rising across his arms under his blazer, every fiber of his being screaming at him to run. Nothing about this interaction is natural, he tells himself; he has studied it, internalized it, breathed it for far too many years to simply look Maya in the eyes with a genuine smile. She is not human. How could he ever treat her as such?

The darkness in his heart is a mocking, cynical creature. You used to know how, a tiny voice whispers bitterly in his thoughts. You used to treat them like people. 

Miles drinks from his cup, trying to still the shaking of his hands. That was then. I am a different man now. I have no use for animated toys.

And yet, he cannot help but shudder as Maya leans over into his field of vision once more, her brows knotted tightly together. “Hey, are you alright?” she asks softly, raising a hand to reach out to him. “You don’t look well-”

Although she is simply trying to check his skin condition, his body jerks away instinctively, only one question lingering upon his tongue. Will… she be warm? Are androids warm? Do they feel human? A strange trace of embarrassment towards his ignorance flits into his heart. He has had Ema as his office assistant for two years, and yet he has no answer to whether or not they feel warm to the touch. Never has he come into contact with her.

The conflicting emotions makes his stomach twist, so he shifts, uncomfortable. Maya notes this instantly, freezing in place for a moment. “Should… should I call Nick?” she offers weakly, awkwardly withdrawing her hand. A million questions run through her eyes, but her worry seems so genuine that it hurts to see.

Despite his better judgment, Miles ends up voicing his thoughts. “I… saw you at the courthouse the other day, Maya,” he explains thinly. 

For a moment, the girl does not comprehend. Then, like lightning, understanding dawns upon her, mingling instantly with a horror which steals away any words she could have used to defend herself; in her shock, she merely raises her hands to her mouth, holding back the cry of fear which seems to want to tear itself free from her throat before Miles’ very eyes. 

Miles watches her reaction with exponentially growing discomfort. What is this reaction? Why is it so realistic? Clearing his throat, he offers softly, “I… will say nothing more of the issue. I just… I am trying to come to terms with it.”

Mutely, Maya nods, shifting on her stool to face the wooden countertop in front of her. Miles watches her movements out of the corner of his eye; he grits his teeth and hunches over as he notes how her fists ball up in her robe, fistfuls of material trembling as she fights to contain her fear. She seems genuinely frightened, he realizes in horror. Does she- does she truly feel fear?

It is a spiraling thought. If she can feel, then what else do they-

He shuts down that thought. Straightening his shoulders, he lifts his teacup to his lips, sipping slowly. “I shall not say a word. I ask that if you see me in the courthouse, you do not react.”

“I won’t,” Maya whispers weakly, her voice small and muffled still by her hands. “You really won’t tell?”

Against all of his better judgments, Miles nods.

The relief in her shoulders is painfully palpable. The girl sags against the countertop in relief, her arms stretching out to drape overtop. “Oh, thank God,” she whines. Then, she turns her head, looks at Miles with her cheek still pressed on the counter, and smiles; it is a tiny grin, but so full of genuine gratitude and warmth and appreciation that Miles’ mouth goes dry. 

Suddenly, it strikes him- why her gratitude, why her comments, and why even Phoenix’s reactions have been so jarring. 

How many people tend to smile at him at the courthouse? His reputation precedes him, and with good measure; he takes down his opponents with succinct viciousness. There is no dawdling in his trials. He has never lost a case. He merely does his job and struts out of the courtroom, head held high knowing that he has delivered justice unto the guilty of the world. 

No one smiles at Miles Edgeworth. They certainly do not blush, and thank him, and give him cake, either. 

Swallowing thickly, he pushes the plate of cake over to Maya. “Would… you like some? I’m not quite hungry right now,” he asks, awkwardly feeling out a response. Can androids even eat? he wonders.

Her eyes sparkle and light up. “Yes please!” And before anyone can say another word, she cranes her head back, sucking in a deep breath before hollering, “Nick, I need a fork!”

After a moment, the flustered barista walks back out from the storeroom, his ears still slightly rosy as he approaches the duo. “Why do you need a fork, Maya-” When he sees Miles’ cake pushed between them, however, the man stops in his tracks, eyes growing wide.

Maya beckons Phoenix to lean in closer, so he obeys, moving so she may whisper in his ear. Her words are barely audible to Miles. “Mr. Prosecutor here knows,” she says pointedly, “but he’s sharing his cake with me anyways.”

Phoenix’s gaze shifts to Miles, doubt dancing across his eyes. When he looks back at Maya, however, the girl’s stare does not waver, signaling her earnestness. 

The question in the barista’s eyes is clear. “You are accepting the Nest, and the androids who come here?”

It is a teetering precipice. Miles gulps, sighs, massages his temple; then, against all of his better judgment, he nods. 

If Miles had thought Phoenix’s visage had been handsome before, he is not ready for the impact this sudden, mottled blush has upon the other man’s cheeks; it stains tanned skin from the tips of his nose to his ears, creeping up from below his white folded collar, his eyes shimmering with a kind of joy and gratitude that burns like molten umber in the cozy yellow-white lights of the cafe. It is utterly darling.

‘Nick’s just happy he’s got eye candy coming to the store!’ Maya had said earlier. 

It is a long afternoon, but Miles finds that putting up with Maya’s teasing is actually somewhat tolerable. After all, Phoenix is also a target, and the solidarity the two men share- the constant refills and a second slice of surprisingly-delicious cake and small talk that grows deeper before he is even aware of what is happening- are nothing to sneeze at. By the time Miles steps out into the brisk evening air, it is all more than enough to leave his heart far calmer than it has been in months.

Phoenix has asked him to ‘come back soon’.

Miles smiles all the way home.

Chapter Text

“Maya Fey, for the last time,” Miles grumbles, stirring his tea tersely, “that episode was abysmal.”

“Well, if you don’t like crossovers, then what-ever,” is Maya’s immediate, petulant response. The young woman crosses her arms and turns her nose up at him, clearly set in her ways. 

The prosecutor groans in return, massaging his temple wearily. Just what is he to say? While he had certainly not expected the show she had insisted on him watching that weekend- some children’s programming called the Steel Samurai, with a subtitle so long his ensuing eye-roll almost hurt- to be any good, he had certainly expected it to be written more cohesively.

Leaning her chin onto her hands, she cries out, “Look, no matter what, you’ve gotta admit that the rivalry between the Steel Samurai and the Evil Magistrate this episode was so good.”

“I-” He pauses, considering his words carefully. “I suppose it was acceptable.” He finds himself relieved as the girl immediately accepts this response, turning instead to Phoenix in order to indoctrinate the barista as well into her cult of viewership; it is a good thing, too, for the moment she mentions the climax of the episode, all he can do is blink back tears which spring into his eyes unbidden. 

For a children’s show, that heartache in the actors’ voices had been surprisingly palpable as they mourned their lost friendship.

Clearing his throat in order to hide the sniffles, Miles glances about the diner. There are very few other patrons around today, the only visible figures belonging to the couple which tends to sit together. They currently rest upon the sofa upon the ground floor, a mere twenty feet away from where Miles perches at the counter. Both of them are dressed in fairly professional clothing; his neatly trimmed goatee and beard complements his waistcoat and trim silhouette, and her smart skirt suit provides no mystery around her voluptuous figure. 

Miles’ eyes trace every outline of these two half-hidden under the shadows from the loft above, as his location provides the perfect viewpoint. From here, he can ostensibly maintain a guise of ignorance, answering Maya’s exuberant comments and Phoenix’s wry responses whilst keeping his eyes trained upon these strange figures.

He is fascinated by them. He is horrified by them. It is a strange, conflicting turmoil which roils around in his gut; fear is not exactly the correct word for it all. He no longer fears Maya even while knowing her android status, after all. A few more visits to the Nest have ridden him of those woes, leaving him in wry amusement whenever that girlish voice cheers upon his entry. 

These two seated in the corner, however, confuse him. The duo sits in quietude, the only evidence of their interactions coming from sly shifts in their knees as they angle towards one another. The man’s hand rests upon the woman’s nylon-covered knee, an idle thumb brushing the dip and curve of the joint, and his other, wrapped around her shoulders. She leans into him comfortably, her head upon his collar, a hand holding onto the man’s grip upon her arm and the other placed upon his stomach. Occasionally, they shake with laughter, or murmur in one another’s ear. It is intimate, and Miles grimaces as he watches every motion in rapt fascination. It feels perverse to focus upon them.

Unfortunately, his stealthiness cannot last forever. Maya glances over her shoulder briefly and notices his fixation, lighting up. “Oh, do you wanna meet Diego and Mia?” she cries, clapping her hands excitedly together.

Immediately, Miles shakes his head. In a hiss, he mutters, “No, I don’t. Sit down, Maya-”

But already, the girl has bounded off her stool and over to the surprised couple. The woman- Mia- laughs loudly when Maya approaches, her large, almond-shaped eyes curving up in joy along with luscious, perfectly-painted lips. The man, Diego, grins crookedly, an eyebrow lifting in suave, comfortable recognition as he teases the young woman, his arm never leaving from Mia’s shoulders. 

Miles buries his face in his hands as the trio turns to look at him. Seeing his humiliation, Phoenix can only laugh, refilling his tea cup. “You’re friends with Maya,” he laughs lightly, leaning over the counter to speak close to Miles’ ear. “That means you’re friends with everyone.”

“Regrettably,” Miles grouses, eliciting a laugh from the barista. As the prosecutor straightens up, however, he finds a large hand reaching out, brushing his hair out of his eyes. The closeness sends electricity and ice sparking up his spine, leaving him stiff and startled. 

Perhaps Phoenix notices this reaction, for the other man’s hand snaps away, quickly busying itself with a nearby dishrag. Awkwardly, he murmurs, “I, uh… I think Maya wants you to make some new friends.”

Before Miles can retort, lithe hands sneak into his frame of view and takes his teacup and saucer without restraint. “C’mon, Miles,” she says happily. “They wanna chat!” And just like that, the girl manoeuvres her arm around his and pulls him off his stool, dragging him with his tea towards the awaiting, bemused couple. Soon enough, he sits awkwardly upon a chair across from them, the low coffee table between the four figures providing absolutely nowhere for him to hide. 

“So, you’re our newest face,” Diego rumbles, his voice teasing and low like smooth velvet.

Miles forces out a grim grin. “Indeed I am.”

At his side, Mia rolls her eyes and smacks Diego lightly upon the chest. “Play nice,” she scolds lightly. To Miles, her smile softens. “We weren’t sure you’d be back. He’s just mad that I won our little bet.”

“You thought I’d return?” asks Miles, startled. This new information is startling, strange. “Why?”

She shrugs, her form-fitting blazer not enough to hide the shudder of her curves with the movement. “Nick over there seemed really into you since Day 1,” she teases with a wink, “and-”

“Mia, I swear to God-” Phoenix hollers from the counter. Miles glances over his shoulder, feeling his own face burning at the sight of the barista’s flaming-red ears. 

“-besides,” the woman breezily continues, “Maya’s a pretty good judge of character. She stuck to you from the start, right? I figured you’d be back.”

At this, Maya beams in a way that is so human it twists Miles’ heart. He smiles awkwardly. “I- I see.”

Then, there is silence. Maya shifts uneasily, picking up on the prosecutor’s complete discomfort. In return, Miles merely crosses his arms, a frown furrowed deep into his forehead as his fingertips tap against his arms, the echoes practically deafening. 

“So,” Diego murmurs, leaning forward after an interminably long emptiness, “what do you do, Mr…”

“Edgeworth. Miles Edgeworth. Prosecutor,” the other man stiffly replies. 

Diego’s eyes narrow in clear distaste, although his smile does not budge. “Got it, Mr. Edgeless,” the man replies.

Mia glares at Diego for his snide, her expression softening into guilty ruefulness. “Sorry. He’s got a terrible attitude,” she explains before turning to Maya. “So, Maya… see the new episode this weekend?”

Relieved at the clear break in the conversation, Maya leaps to the rescue. “Oh my God, yes! What did you think?” she cries happily, bouncing in her seat. 

Instantly, the two women launch into a conversation about the Steel Samurai. Miles sighs gratefully, leaning back in his chair and sipping his tea. He does not begrudge Maya for dragging him over here, but the discomfort- the unease in his own heart, the distrust in Diego’s gaze and firm body language- do nothing but instil a deep sense of wrongness in Miles’ heart.

The question does not fade, after all. Who are you two? He attempts to interject partway through the conversation, asking tentatively what the duo does for a living. With a confident flip of long brunette locks, Mia says that she works as a personal assistant to a high-profile public figure. “This place is the only place I can ever just let go!” she says with a chuckle. “Other cafes can be so stiff. Phoenix has done a great job with this place.”

This response, of course, sets off nothing but alarm bells for Miles. Why would this cafe be the only place where she can relax? Is it because of paparazzi harassing her charge, or is it…?

Diego does not give any more insight, however. All he states is that he works in consulting and finance. His words are cut and dry, eyes glinting a silent challenge to Miles, daring the prosecutor to ask for an elaboration. 

Miles looks over to Phoenix. The barista’s expression looks tormented, so Miles does not stoop to the clear jabs. He will not break the rules of the Nest, as much as he wants to. All he is permitted to learn is from inference, it seems. He understands that Phoenix and Mia knew each other before the establishment of the Nest; that Diego adores Mia and Mia, Diego; that the other man clearly strongly dislikes Miles, for what reason, he does not know; and that the duo seems to know exactly how to move around one another, one body moving fluidly through two forms connected by slight, yet firm touches.

After about half an hour of idle chatting, however, a ringing begins to echo through the air. Mia’s cheeks flush as she digs through her purse, retrieving her cell phone. Her hands fumble when she tries to open it, and soon enough the device is on the floor in front of Miles. Immediately, the man sets down his tea and kneels to retrieve it, flushing as she does the same; their gazes lift, faces just a few inches apart-

He freezes in place, eyes homing in on one minute detail so faint that he momentarily thinks it must be a trick of the light. Yet, as they both stand, murmuring apologies and reassuring the other two that they are quite alright, that tiny detail continues to linger in his mind, growing more defined with his growing certainty- and growing dread.

Mia straightens to a stand and flips long, luscious brown locks over her shoulder. “I’ve got to go,” she explains, holding up the phone by way of explanation. “Duty calls.”

“It must be hard working as an assistant,” Diego replies, standing up by her side. One hand smoothes her hair down her slender back whilst the other tucks naturally into the pocket of his tight, yet professional slacks. Then, he leans down, grasping her chin idly in one hand and pulling her in for a brief, but sensuously-chaste kiss. 

Miles looks away. The moment is so intimate, after all. By his side, Maya shows no shame, cheering despite Phoenix’s immediate scolding from the counter. Miles does not turn away out of propriety, though, for his mind races, his heart begging for answers.

“You’re heading out too, Diego?” Maya chirps curiously. 

The man reaches out, ruffling Maya’s bangs as Mia slings her purse over her shoulder. “Nah, missy. Kitten here leaves first. You know the rules.”

But… you’re together, aren’t you?

A full-body shiver leaves Miles reeling silently.

Diego does not leave with Mia. Instead, once Mia’s heels click their way down the cafe floor and through the exit, Diego returns their emptied coffee cups to Phoenix at the bar and waits, half-perched upon a stool, for the moment the light above the door turns green once more. When it has, he gives the three still left in the cafe a sly, confident wave, sticks his hands into his pockets, and saunters out of the room. 

“They’re so good together,” Maya coos dreamily.

Miles pays it no heed. There are more pressing matters to reflect upon. 

He had peered down Mia’s shirt. Completely unintentional, of course, and the action had been for but a heartbeat, so he does not feel much guilt towards it; however, down the line of her busty cleavage had been a familiar sight: where one’s navel should be was a hook. An indented panel. A control box, from which one can read the logs of their androids.

Ema has the exact same one. 

Shuddering, he lopes back over to the counter. Sliding onto a stool, he buries his face in his hands, running trembling fingers through his hair. Fingernails scrabble for purchase upon his scalp as he rushes through all of the evidence he had seen that day, all of which points to one horrifying conclusion. 

Mia is an android, just like Maya. 

And Diego likely does not know.