Chapter Text
The Asilomar hotel and conference grounds in Pacific Grove, California, is home to some of the most beautiful landscape on the Pacific coast. It is a serene, forested grounds, with a ¼ mile boardwalk winding through 25 acres of protected sand dune ecosystem, ultimately leading to the shoreline, with a mixture of sandy beach and rocky tide pools. The buildings, inspired by the late-19th century Arts and Crafts movement, are comfortable, but not fussy, and breakfast and dinner service at the center's dining hall are complimentary with one's stay. This year, the Asilomar is entirely booked for the weekend of Thursday, June 30, through Sunday, July 2. There are a few stray guests on the grounds, visitors to the beach or the nearby Monterey Bay Aquarium, but the majority of rooms are taken by the California Statewide Police and Prosecutors Retreat. Organized by Manfred Von Karma and Damon Gant, the High Prosecutor and Chief of Police of Los Angeles, this year's retreat promises three days of panels, roundtables, and other forms of professional development in order to cross-pollinate the state's law enforcement practices. Everybody who's anybody in the field will be there.
It is, quite possibly, Miles Edgeworth's worst nightmare.
"Don't be a fool," says Franziska Von Karma, daughter of the High Prosecutor and Miles' adopted sister, who is sitting in Miles' passenger seat. Despite continuing to practice in Germany, she recently obtained dual citizenship and took the California bar specifically to attend this conference. She, of course, is giving a speech on international law and Germany's new policing practices. Miles is doing his best not to be jealous.
"You know as well as I do," Franziska continues, as Miles takes the off-ramp from Highway 1 to Highway 68, "that this event is vital to your career. And the same goes for every such conference going forward. You may as well stop complaining now, and save me some strife."
Miles rolls his eyes, but he does, in fact, stop complaining. "You have the reservation?' he asks instead.
"Yes, dear brother," says Franziska, with an air of utmost exasperation, "I have the reservation. We are staying in the building called-" she sighs emphatically- "the Pirates' Den, where we will occupy room 522. We can check in at three o'clock, which is two hours before opening ceremonies, and is precisely the time we are due to arrive. If you've quite finished this pointless line of inquiry, I'll go over my presentation again."
Miles doesn't want to hear Franziska's presentation again (he is trying not to be jealous), but he nods his assent, if for no other reason than to relieve himself of the pressure of keeping up the conversation. He turns onto Sunset Drive as she reviews, and by the time she's reached the crux of her speech, they're outside the main lodge. It is 3:01 p.m.
Franziska accompanies Miles into the lodge to greet colleagues while he checks in. She was right earlier: the statewide conference is vital to a prosecutor's career, and the networking is just as important as any of the events, if not more so. As the dual heirs to Manfred Von Karma's own legacy, Franziska and Miles are enjoying a level of celebrity that most first-time attendees could only dream of. It is imperative that they take advantage of their good fortune and begin to cement their names in the field.
Miles gets two key cards and joins Franziska in meeting and greeting. This is the part of his job that he hates the most: the endless politicking; the jockeying for position; the subtle comparison of accomplishments. A part of Miles that Franziska would no doubt consider unconscionably foolish wonders why he needs to be in competition with these people, when they share the same goals.
For example: the Joe Darke case has proven immensely helpful to Miles' career. His work in bringing the serial killer to justice has earned him valuable recognition. But the case was only his because Neil Marshall was killed. He is happy to have prosecuted Joe Darke and happy to have done a good job - but is he meant to be happy that a good man was murdered?
His stomach always feels unsettled when he thinks too long about this, so he does his best not to.
But the whole weekend is going to revolve around this subtle competition, and unfortunately, Franziska was also right that complaining won't do him any good. So he puts on his best work face and introduces himself to as many prosecutors and police officers as he can manage, bringing up his recent victory in the SL-9 case as often as possible. He even does his best not to wince as he affixes a stick-on nametag to the front of his jacket.
When he can take no more, he insists to Franziska that they need to unpack and freshen up before the opening ceremonies. He practically drags her back to his car, but they drive to parking lot B and find their building nearby.
Rather than a single large building to hold all the guests, the Asilomar is comprised of a number of small lodges scattered about the grounds. Each lodge holds between four and twenty guest rooms, and they all have names like Surf or Windward or - to Franziska's apparent dismay - Pirates' Den. She lets out another loud sigh when she sees the plaque on the front door.
This is a four-room building. Inside is a two-story sitting room which features a small table, a couple of chairs, and a wood fireplace. Across from the fireplace are the doors to room 511 and 512, and a staircase leading up to an interior balcony, where Miles can see rooms 521 and 522. The siblings carry their luggage upstairs, then Franziska takes the keys and goes back to the car for her purse and whip, while Miles begins to air out the room.
The tang of the sea air doesn't reach central LA, despite being geographically nearby. Here the smell permeates everything, from the wood of the walls to the bedsheets Miles sits down on. He closes his eyes and breathes it in, relishing the solitude that he knows will be scarce this weekend.
No sooner does the thought cross his mind than he's interrupted by the sound of a door opening downstairs, followed by, "Oh my god, Mia! "
Miles pinches the bridge of his nose. That's the Chief Prosecutor's voice. He'd better go see what's going on.
Downstairs, he finds the recently appointed Chief Prosecutor Lana Skye, her belongings strewn about her, locked in a hug with another woman wearing a jacket and pencil skirt. When they release each other, Miles sees that this is, in fact, Mia Fey.
He can feel the blood drain from his face. He is inundated with memories: of his anxiety before his first trial; of Fey's passionate objections; of blood spilling across the defendant stand.
And before that, when he was only a child - a teenage girl standing behind her mother, who knelt in front of Miles and promised to find his father's killer.
Miles clenches his fists and focuses on what the Chief is talking about. "It's been such a long time," Lana says. "How have you been?"
Mia Fey hesitates before answering. "Diego's in the hospital," she says finally.
"Oh, god. Was it-"
"It was. He's… stable, for now. But they don't know what's going to happen to him."
"I'm so sorry." Lana hugs Fey again, holding her by the shoulders for a moment after she lets go.
"But what about you?" Fey asks. "I heard you got a promotion?"
Chief Prosecutor Lana Skye has been demure about her sudden ascendance in the wake of the SL-9 case. In a millieu where every prosecutor is quick to boast about their victories, Miles doesn't understand why she seems disinclined to brag, but the trend continues. "Mm-hmm," she says, tight-lipped. "I'm a prosecutor now. Like I always said I would be."
"Then I guess I'll see you in court," says Mia Fey, and there's a warmth in her voice that Miles has never heard behind those words before.
Lana breaks into a smile at this. "I guess you will." She looks up, sees Miles standing awkwardly on the stairs, blushes. "Let me introduce my colleague!" she says, beckoning Miles forward. "This is Miles Edge- oh, you've met, haven't you?" she goes suddenly quiet, no doubt remembering the Terry Fawles trial, and Miles is not sure which of the three of them is reddest in the face.
"We have," Mia Fey says at long last, holding a hand out to Miles, who hopes she'll forgive his sweaty palms. "It's good to see you again."
"And you," says Miles. Behind Mia, the door to room 511 opens, and a man with spiky black hair steps out. He looks familiar, but Miles can't place where from.
"Mia is a friend from law school," Chief Skye is saying, but Miles isn't paying attention. The man behind Mia is looking at him with wide eyes- one blue, one brown. Miles is sure he's seen this man before. Clearly the man recognizes Miles as well, because his expression turns from mild bewilderment to out-and-out panic. They stare at each other for a moment that feels much longer than it should be, and then the man beats a hasty retreat back into his room, all but slamming the door behind him.
Mia Fey lets go of Miles' handand turns to look at the door with a puzzled expression. "What the…" she starts, but Miles interrupts.
"It was wonderful to see you, Ms. Fey," he says. "I need to go help my sister unpack, but I hope to see you again this weekend." He's out the door before she can reply, taking deep, gulping breaths of salty air.
"You look like you've seen a ghost," says Franziska, looking much more like herself now that she has her whip strapped to her belt again. Her tone of voice is not warm, but it is familiar, and Miles takes solace in that.
"It would seem," says Miles, slowly getting his breath back, "that Chief Skye is also staying in the Pirates' Den, as is her law school friend Mia Fey."
Franziska's eyebrows shoot up. "From your first case?"
"Yes."
"And she's staying in…"
"Room 512, below us."
Franziska's face takes on a hard edge of determination. "Well, it's a good idea to know one's enemies. I'll have to be introduced." She quickens her pace and marches inside, leaving Miles alone and wondering just what kind of nightmare this weekend is going to be.