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When his therapist had first suggested attending a support group, Miles had been reluctant. What was the likelihood of encountering anyone who could relate to what he’d been through?
In Miles’s pertinacity, he had overlooked Barnaby Brooks Jr.
Miles knew of the man, of course. He doubted there was a soul alive in Sternbild who didn’t. Hero TV was one of the city’s most popular television programs, its stars unavoidable celebrities no matter how much one might try and avoid them. Miles had never been a fan of the show; although he could see the necessity of employing NEXT in fighting powered criminals, the broadcasts had always come across as too scripted, and not in the way he would have preferred.
At least he now knew his misgivings had not been misplaced.
No, Miles had his Steel Samurai, and the judicial headaches of dealing with a society that was still exploring how to best address the widening range of individuals’ abilities. Life had been simple, until it wasn’t.
He’d just been a man, doing his own level best to combat crime in the limited way he knew how, had been taught, to make up for his shortcomings, his own traumas. At least, until he’d discovered that his mentor, who had inspired him, shaped him, had actually been the culprit of all the acts for which Miles had once blamed himself.
It should’ve been a relief. What Miles hadn’t expected was for the grief to come flooding back. It was natural, his therapist had said, to be grieving the life he could’ve had, in light of this new information.
And thus, the support group.
And thus, Barnaby Brooks Jr.
Miles wasn’t expecting to find such unavoidable similarities between the two of them. While Miles might have been a celebrity in his own right in the close-knit world of law, he’d never liked the attention. And yet, he’d always assumed that someone who sought to be on television yearned to be the star of the show.
But one day, during group, Brooks had said, ‘I just needed to do whatever I could to bring attention to myself, to catch my parents’ murderer’, Miles had felt it. A clenching of the heart, a thump of empathy. Had he not acted in much a similar way? Become the best prosecuting attorney he could be in order to bring his father’s killer to justice? Had he not also been misled, manipulated, by the true culprit, into believing an alternate truth?
Of course, there were differences.
Brooks had never suspected himself of being his parents’ murderer. Perhaps there were some false memories Maverick had deemed too unbelievable to implement. And conversely, Miles could not comprehend what it would be like to actually have his mind tampered with, to be unable at all to recall what had really happened. Perhaps he should be grateful that von Karma had not been a NEXT. If he had, maybe he would’ve been unstoppable.
The thought sent a chill down Miles’s spine. There was no use in thinking like that, he reminded himself.
Von Karma was gone now, and it was time to look to the future.
And it was when they looked forward that the parallels between them shone strongest, for the simple truth of the matter was that neither of them had to undertake this process alone. While it had been helpful to meet Brooks, bond with someone who’d had an eerily similar upbringing, it would be remiss of Miles not to acknowledge that Phoenix Wright had become his rock throughout this turbulent time.
Of course, they’d been friends once, a long time ago, but they’d had to learn how to interact with one another as adults, and the trust they had nurtured in the courtroom had grown into friendship, and unexpectedly, into love.
Barnaby – no longer just ‘Brooks’ – had someone similar on his side as well. One of the other Heroes, Wild Tiger, who by all accounts was less famous. An older but kindly man, who shimmered with the same kind of passion ever-present in Phoenix. Someone who had been there for Barnaby when he’d had nobody else, when he had been all alone.
Somebody who had saved Barnaby’s life, who would give his life for Barnaby’s… the same way, Miles knew, that Phoenix would sacrifice himself for Miles, no matter how much Miles protested that such devotion was unnecessary.
For the first time in years, Miles found himself no longer dreading Christmas, instead awaiting the intimate double-date-dinner the four of them had prepared on Christmas Eve.
They would make new memories to supplant the old. Growth would blossom out of narrowing wounds.
They would begin to heal.