Work Text:
The monologue text that Phoenix Wright is supposed to be memorizing blurs in front of his eyes. He blinks, trying to bring the words into focus, but they float and fade, like droplets of ink in a puddle. This is clearly not working, he thinks, sighing.
Phoenix, exhausted in more ways than one, rubs at his eyes with the back of his fists. It has only been a couple weeks since he learned that Dollie wasn't who he thought she was, since he was found Not Guilty of murder, since he had told Mia Fey about a “friend” who moved him to study Law. He had said the words out loud as practice, to see if he liked the version of him who would say things like that. He found that he did.
But, away from the courthouse and Mia's direct, understanding gaze, he has fallen back into the false comfort of his Before Court life. It is nearly May, and he needs to memorize and perform a monologue from Julius Caesar for his Shakespeare final. This, he knows how to do. At least, when the words will appear as bidden on the screen in front of him.
Phoenix takes a deep breath, shakes his head side-to-side to empty his mind of distractions, and resets his shoulders. He clears his throat and attempts to recite Cassius' speech from memory:
This is my birthday, as this very day
was Cassius born. Give me thy hand, Miles
Fuck. It's "Messala" not "Miles." Get your head together, Phoenix.
That boy – that man, Phoenix remembers, since over a decade has passed – is haunting his subconscious, living rent-free in his head. Echoes of Miles Edgeworth had suffused the courtroom, as he was the prosecutor in Dollie's last case. Phoenix is confused – hadn't Miles always wanted to be a Defense Attorney, not a prosecutor? And who, who is this man who knowingly concealed that Melissa Foster and Dahlia Hawthorne were the same person, when that fact meant Terry Fawles was never a murderer? This is not the Miles Edgeworth that Phoenix knows – no, knew, Phoenix corrects upon reflection. Even at age nine, Miles fought for the truth, not the easy win. Something is very, very wrong. What had happened to Miles Edgeworth over the last twelve years?
After a second, Phoenix opens a new tab in the browser. He types an "f" and lets the computer autofill the name of the site before he presses Tab, Enter. A familiar blue and white background appears. He types "Miles Edgeworth" into the search bar before he loses his nerve.
Miles, it seems, doesn't have a personal Facebook account. But... Phoenix sees, scrolling, that there are posts about him. He clicks on an older post from a page entitled "Deutscher Richterbund."
This week, DRB welcomed esteemed judges and prosecutors from across Germany at its annual conference in Berlin! Prosecutor Manfred von Karma was awarded the "Lifetime Achievement" Award for his nearly-perfect record and work in prosecutorial mentorship. Pictured: Prosecutor Manfred von Karma, with young proteges Prosecutor Miles Edgeworth and Prosecutor Franziska von Karma.
And there he is, photographic evidence to fit the man Phoenix heard about in the courtroom. Phoenix is almost afraid to look at him, afraid that Miles Edgeworth might be proven a complete stranger. He focuses on the older man instead.
Phoenix hasn't met any prosecutors besides Winston Payne, who had leeched oily smarm in a garish green suit, smug eyes hidden from view behind the reflective glare of his glasses. Manfred von Karma looks different. This is a man who looks people in the eye – not to build trust, but to intimidate. His taut forehead stretches back into grey hair, slicked back behind his ears and falling to the nape of his neck. No obvious wrinkles, although there slight whispers of worry lines near his temples and hints of an angry furrow at his brow. He holds a cane, and Phoenix cannot decide if von Karma wields it out of necessity or to project an underlying menace.
Von Karma and his two proteges are dressed perfectly, Phoenix thinks. Not a hair, collar, or cuff out of place. The girl standing nearby looks sharp, unyielding, hard. Too hard for a teenager. She is clearly von Karma's daughter, she has inherited his formidable presence, but her face is softer and more delicate. Her brow doesn't have that furrow, yet.
Phoenix knows that he's been wasting time, putting off looking at Edgeworth. He considers giving into his anxiety and closing the tab entirely. It was a stupid idea, anyway. He's supposed to be preparing for his final. Get it together, Phoenix.
He clicks back to the tab with the monologue text on it. Maybe he should start at the end, sometimes that works. He reads:
But since the affairs of men rest still incertain,
Let's reason with the worst that may befall.
If we do lose this battle, then is this
The very last time we shall speak together:
What are you then determined to do?
When was the last time he and Edgeworth had spoken? Before the catastrophe of his father’s murder. It was probably something inane, maybe trying to convince Larry that his latest crush was completely uninterested for the umpteenth time. Edgeworth would have presented evidence. Phoenix would have argued on gut instinct alone. Phoenix knows he doesn't want that to be the last time he speaks to Miles Edgeworth. He doesn't know why, exactly, but the need for one more conversation feels as simple and clear as truth itself. Feels like the person he wants to be. What are you then determined to do?
He clicks over to the photo tab. Phoenix inhales swiftly as his eyes finally fall on Miles Edgeworth, looking, hoping for signs of the boy he used to know and... finding him.
He is, Phoenix realizes with a shiver of astonishment, stunning. Years have served him well – carved strong cheekbones out of their childlike roundness, broadened his shoulders to perfectly, perfectly fill that burgundy suit, grown him to a height to which Phoenix knows, were they face-to-face, he would have to tilt his chin several inches to look up at him. If they were face-to-face, if- Phoenix dares the thought. Phoenix shivers again, with something like want.
Miles' hair is that same color – the same gleaming silver grey that distracted Phoenix when he sat at the desk behind him in elementary school. His eyes still have that analytical look, that hunger for more until the facts align. There's a hardness there now, Phoenix notes, like the one reflected in the two von Karmas. A touch of blood-shot exhaustion, and maybe... fear? Not acute panic, rather, foundational dread, the kind that coats your flesh with dull terror until it feels like your skin is permanently inhabited with cells of scaffolded apprehension. Phoenix doesn't know what's going on, but he knows that Miles, the boy, is not okay, and Prosecutor Miles Edgeworth, the man, is almost lost.
Almost.
Phoenix navigates back to the search results and scrolls through. Miles Edgeworth's eyes looks the same in every photo, even as new posts detail his move to Los Angeles with the elder von Karma and his precociously early prosecutorial start (exceeded only, perhaps, by his adoptive sister Franziska's legal prowess and early admittance to the bar).
Eventually, Phoenix spots a few posts from an account with the name Dick Gumshoe (A pseudonym?, Phoenix wonders). This man, who appears to be the kind of person who posts daily photos of his breakfast despite eating the same thing every day, has managed to snap candid shots of an unwitting Miles Edgeworth. Edgeworth would probably be appalled if he knew, Phoenix thinks wryly, given that Edgeworth avoided creating his own social media profiles.
In one photo, Edgeworth has his back to the camera, shoulders raised and hands visible at his sides, palms up, shrugging. Phoenix wonders if he's smiling and what a smile would look like if it were painted onto this more mature, dashing version of Miles' face. In another post, Edgeworth has his arms folded, one idly worrying the elbow of his suit jacket. He's looking down, in thought or concern or, maybe, doubt. The Miles that Phoenix knew never doubted, because all new information was just a guidepost on the way to the truth.
Who was this man, a glitched version of the boy Phoenix knew? And, Phoenix thought, considering the rumors of forged evidence and threatened witnesses that followed in Edgeworth's wake, What has he done? Someone needs to remind Edgeworth of who he used to be... and that person is unlikely to be Manfred or Franziska von Karma. Someone needs to fight, for Miles. Maybe... me?
What Phoenix does not dare to think is, what if he's doing this not to save Miles, but to save himself? What if he wants to be the kid he used to be, the one who loved and trusted beyond measure, the one before Dollie? The Phoenix that Miles knew?
What if he's doing this because he saw Mia Fey fight for him, because she believed him, and he wants to be the one fighting for others?
What if he's doing this because Miles was the first person to trust him, and he wants to show Miles how that feels?
What if it's all of the above? Maybe Phoenix is done with monologues. He craves the energy and warmth that comes from working in concert with another person. He wants that person to be this brilliant, chiseled Miles Edgeworth, who is alternately concerning and astonishing and familiar. He wants to fight for and with him. Phoenix knows that it will only happen in the context of a courtroom, at first.
If we do lose this battle, then is this
The very last time we shall speak together:
What are you then determined to do?
Phoenix glances at the Julius Caesar monologue tab, thoughtful. He figures he can bomb the final and still scrape a C in the class. Fuck it, let's do this.
Phoenix opens two new tabs. In one, he navigates to the Law School Admission Council homepage. In the other, he starts writing an email to Mia Fey, hoping she'll agree to mentor him. Before closing the Facebook tab entirely, Phoenix takes a second look at the photo of Edgeworth's shrugging back. He wants to see those hands up close. He wants to flip the perspective and see Miles' smile. He wants to answer all of his questions and find more to ask.
What are you then determined to do?
This, Phoenix thinks resolutely as he re-opens the LSAC page and selects "Future JD Student" from a drop-down menu. The decision feels like tangible, cool-to-the-touch truth. It feels inevitable, and yet also chosen. It feels like hope. After years of trusting everyone else, Phoenix trusts himself this time. Phoenix feels like he's making progress toward the person he wants to be, like he's boldly walking into a dazzling, silver-grey sky.