Chapter Text
It’s 10:03 pm on a crisp, cool spring night. Champagne flows freely into crystal glasses, the laughter of party guests echoes through a perfectly-kept garden, moonlight illuminates glittering ball gowns like something out of a fantasy novel, and Prosecutor Miles Edgeworth has never felt so ill.
It’s not the alcohol–the champagne flute in his left hand is for show, and although he’s pressed the rim of the glass to his lips several times, he hasn’t actually consumed any. It’s not the food, either. That, he has consumed some of–a couple tea cakes and a handful of chocolate-dipped strawberries–but his suit feels tight across his chest, not his stomach, so that can’t be it either. It’s not even the surroundings, he thinks. As uncomfortable as he is here–surrounded by rich criminals who have the power to ruin his life in ways he could never imagine were they to discover his true identity–that isn’t exactly unexpected or unusual. Although he hadn’t exactly been thrilled when Chief Prosecutor Skye informed him that he would be investigating the surreptitious masquerade ball the prosecutors’ office had just received intel on, Miles Edgeworth is nothing if not good at his job.
The only remaining unusual stimulus, the only unexpected thing that could be causing his uneasiness, is the man in blue who appears to be moving towards him from across the perfectly-manicured lawn.
Edgeworth is only marginally ashamed to admit that he might have been staring, which was likely the cause of the man’s pursuit. He is here to observe, after all–only here to pursue an investigation, only because Detective Gumshoe would be hopeless without him–so some staring was bound to occur. And this man is interesting , in a way no one else here is. Practically every guest Edgeworth has come into contact with in the short hours since he had arrived has been the exact same brand of exhausting: rich, overbearing, and entirely obsessed with proving their social value without their face or name attached. They’re all beautiful–like dolls, rather than like people–and Edgeworth is glad for the way their knowledge of this fact makes it easy for him to blend entirely into the background.
This man, though–the one inching closer to him with a purpose behind each step with every passing second–was interesting for the ways in which he was clearly trying not to be.
He’s dressed elegantly–a deep blue suit in a classic Italian cut, with a waistcoat to match, and just the slightest sheen to the fabric–but his attire doesn’t quite reach the saccharine lavishness of many of the other guests. His masquerade mask is equally understated. It’s the same blue as his suit, plain other than the fine golden threads that ring his eyes, descending to form a pointed golden beak in front of his nose. Notably, he’s also making no effort to hide his interest in speaking with Edgeworth. Edgeworth realizes the word he’s been searching for to describe him is handsome just in time to decide his illness must be from the alcohol, after all.
“Good evening, sir,” he says. Now that he’s closer, Edgeworth can see his features in more detail. His hair is slicked back behind his mask, coming to rest at the base of his neck, a single strand curling away from the rest and sitting lightly against his forehead. A simple gold earring hangs from each of his ears, disguised by the gold on the mask from afar, but infinitely flattering from up close. His eyes, a dark, warm brown that is only highlighted by the mask surrounding them, stare at Edgeworth with a focus and an interest that is entirely disarming, and Edgeworth has the fleeting, insane thought that maybe it wouldn’t be so bad to be disarmed.
Edgeworth moves his glass to his lips once more, taking a real sip, this time, before speaking. “I’m sorry, sir, I don’t believe we’ve met.”
“I’d say the same,” he smiles, openly scanning Edgeworth up and down as a finger traces idly around the rim of his glass. “Although, with the way you’ve been watching me, I’d be inclined to think perhaps we know each other.”
His tone is light, playful, even, despite the accusation. Edgeworth clears his throat, hoping the heat he feels rising in his cheeks is hidden by the mask. “Pardon me,” he says. “I thought you were someone I recognized, but I was clearly mistaken.”
“Would you like to? Recognize me, I mean?” the man asks, grinning crookedly. “Perhaps this is a problem we can solve.”
“I’m sure I have no idea what you mean.”
The man chuckles—at what, Edgeworth isn’t sure—and despite the cold aura Edgeworth is trying so desperately to cultivate, he only steps closer. “Can I ask your name, then, sir?”
Edgeworth tries to hold back the scoff that leaks from his throat unbidden, but based on the man’s amused expression, he feels his restraint was probably entirely ineffective. “I was under the impression that was against the rules tonight, sir .”
“What kind of party would it be if I couldn’t properly greet a new friend?”
“Oh, please,” Edgeworth says. Friend . How loaded, at a place like this, of all things. “As if you’ll share your name with anyone here. You expect me to do what you certainly won’t?”
Something flashes behind the man’s eyes at that–something alarmingly earnest–but it’s gone as quickly as he spots it, covered up by the palpable arrogance oozing off of him. He straightens from where he’s slouched against the stone wall beside the two of them and extends a hand. “Phoenix.”
At that, Edgeworth doesn’t even bother trying to hide his hmph . The name is so whimsical it has to be fake, but Edgeworth would have to be a fool to expect anything else. Just like everything else here–the costumes, the masks, the traversal of the sprawling gardens and mansion around them–it’s all part of the game. Edgeworth ignores the way everything about the man–Phoenix–feels real, feels honest , despite everything around him telling him that should be impossible.
Well, Edgeworth can play the game too. He extends his hand in return. “Well, a pleasure to make your acquaintance, Mr. Phoenix.”
“Just Phoenix,” he says. His broad hand is warm and soft in Edgeworth’s. He leaves it there as he speaks. “And you, sir? I believe we had a deal.”
Edgeworth knows very well that no such deal had been made, but he feels compelled to respond in kind.
“Edgeworth,” he offers, and Phoenix smiles once more (god, did he ever stop?) as he takes a step back to bow dramatically, twirling his hand at the wrist as he goes.
“Nice to meet you, Mr. Edgeworth.”
Certainly now, their little charade is over–now that this man, this stranger , has what he wants from him–but before he can continue silently chastising himself, Phoenix leans comfortably back against the wall behind them and settles in next to him.
The man turns to him to smirk, although not unkindly, at his apparently confused expression, before turning back to his drink. “So,” he says. “Have you figured any of them out yet?”
“Sorry?”
“Who anyone is, I mean.” He shifts so his hip presses up against the wall, his forearm resting over the top of it. “It’s honestly pretty easy, with the really rich ones, they don’t realize how much they’re really giving away, y’know?”
“I can’t say I have, no,” Edgeworth replies. Phoenix turns to him and grins.
“Oh, you should try it,” Phoenix says, almost giddy, like he’s a child teaching Edgeworth a new game. He straightens himself, stepping closer to Edgeworth so their elbows just brush. “What about that one, the man in the pink suit, near the fountain?”
Edgeworth follows the path of Phoenix’s gaze, pointedly ignoring the way he was so close that he can feel Phoenix’s breath on his ear, and quickly finds the man in question. He’s laughing, boisterous and performative, desperately vying for the attention of a crowd that has clearly moved on from him. A shock of purple hair sticks up above his mask, clashing horribly with the highlighter shade of the suit. His movements are almost puppet-like; too orchestrated, too coordinated to be genuine expressions. The wine glass in his hand tips perilously to the side as he gestures dramatically, and Edgeworth watches as a single drop of red wine falls to the ground next to his feet.
Edgeworth recognizes him immediately.
“Oh, please,” he scoffs. “Mr. Redd White. CEO of Blue Corp. If you’re going to insist I play your game you could at least make it challenging.”
Phoenix snorts, a rough, undignified sound that twists one side of his mouth up and makes his nose wrinkle, and Edgeworth feels himself smiling before he can have the presence of mind not to. “Fine,” Phoenix says. “Over there, then. Near the drinks table.”
Phoenix tilts his head in the direction of the new subject, settling back against the wall so one arm was directly behind Edgeworth’s back. Edgeworth follows his gaze once more.
He’s alone, so no possible companions to give him away. No distinctive hair or suit colors. No accessories. Not even any distinct gestures that might help him gather information. The new subject of Phoenix’s game is still, solitary, and frankly, boring.
Phoenix truly had listened to his request for a challenge.
“His suit is off the rack,” Edgeworth says with a huff. “And at an event like this, no less.”
Phoenix chuckles. “Is that a judgment, or an observation?”
“An observation, of course,” Edgeworth snaps, and Phoenix holds up a hand in mock defensiveness. “It’s unlikely he’s wealthy, or famous, for that matter. If he had the means, his suit would be custom, or at the very least tailored.”
Phoenix hums. “The shoes, though?”
“What about them?”
“They’re clearly expensive; how do you explain that?”
Edgeworth glances over once more. From this distance, the shoes could be mistaken for a generic loafer, but as the man shifts his stance slightly, the leg of his pants rides up just enough to let Edgeworth see the height of the shoe. They’re boots, heavy-duty. The same ones Gumshoe wears.
“He must be law enforcement,” Edgeworth says, and Phoenix nods in agreement. “Standard-issue steel-toed boots. Expensive, but not on his dime. A position of power without matching pay explains his invite, as well, despite the substandard attire.”
Phoenix clicks his tongue, and Edgeworth turns to make eye contact with him. The other man laughs playfully at the glare on his face. “You’re forgetting something, Mr. Edgeworth.”
“And what might that be?”
“Motive,” Phoenix says. “What reason would our generous host have for inviting a cop to his gathering of rich criminals?”
It was a good point – after all, the only reason he and Gumshoe had gotten in was through admittedly nefarious means. Even if the man is in on whatever schemes would be happening tonight, he’s undoubtedly a liability; the truth is, there’s no reason for him to be invited at all.
But the man is here, and Edgeworth is confident in the deductions he’s made thus far. Another assumption, or another observation, must be incorrect.
“He wasn’t invited then,” Edgeworth says. “He’s staff, private security most likely. He was hired.”
“Hmm,” Phoenix muses. “Makes sense. I agree.”
Edgeworth nods as Phoenix goes back to sipping at his drink and turns out to face the garden. There’s something incredibly discordant about the whole affair–the lush greenery of the garden and the soft flickering of candles and the twinkle of lavish dresses in the moonlight, all covering up the iron-sharp scent of blood soon to be spilled–and the man next to him should be no exception to that. He isn’t an exception to that, Edgeworth reminds himself, but all the same he feels something like a shield over the side where Phoenix stands, like from one direction he can relax. It’s relaxing for a moment and then terrifying in the next, and so Edgeworth twists his neck and searches for the bob of Gumshoe’s head over the crowd.
He finds nothing, and he startles at the pressure of Phoenix’s hand coming down lightly on his shoulder.
“Seems like you could use a change of scenery, Mr. Edgeworth,” he says. “I was about to head inside; would you like to join me?”
“Certainly,” Edgeworth says, before he can think the better of it. “Yes, perhaps we should.”
Phoenix leads him through the gardens, past countless groups of vibrantly dressed, masked guests, until they reach the entrance to the mansion. The doors are open and guests filter in and out as they approach, and Edgeworth can hear the roar of what sounds like a full orchestra even from 20 yards away from the door.
The room before the two men feels even larger than the gardens, and although Edgeworth is aware of the impossibility of that, he feels it all the same. The white marble of the floor is only the beginning of the lavish wealth on display here tonight; the domed ceiling towers at least 2 stories above them, drawing his eyes up to the elaborate scene painted there. Wide columns stretch from the marble up to the carved detail lining each wall, and every inch of the wall above the wainscoting is covered in painted portraits and landscapes, just out of the reach of prying fingers but close enough to convey the scale of the masterpieces contained within the ornate frames. Straight back from the entrance is a grand staircase, made of the same marble as the floor, sweeping up from the center of the room and wrapping around to the upper level. Any furniture that might have been present here in the foyer has been cleared to create a makeshift ballroom space, and guests in impossibly-intricate outfits line every wall, every step of the stairs. Crystal chandeliers–too large and too far away to really comprehend the scale of–sit delicately above the whole affair, glittering in the beam of their own light.
Phoenix grabs his hand as they step fully into the room, and for a moment Edgeworth is terrified that the man brought him in here to dance among the surging crowd, but instead he pulls him past the too-drunk guests and the foyer-turned-ballroom and into the hallways behind it.
The hallways are smaller and quieter than the foyer, although just as ornate; dark wood matching the paneling on the walls lines the floors here, impossibly shiny and polished, and as Phoenix leads him deeper into the mansion with a surprising sense of direction, Edgeworth can hear the din of party fading behind them.
“Do you know where you’re going?” Edgeworth asks, following Phoenix through what seems like the tenth identical hallway in as many minutes.
Phoenix looks back at him, smiling when he notices Edgeworth’s frown, and the mask on his face becomes as crooked as his grin. “Not at all,” he says. “Do you?”
“Of course not.” Edgeworth huffs. “You’re just going to get us lost in here, then, is that it?”
“Seems better than being out there, yeah?” Phoenix stops abruptly and turns to open a door to his left, and the distinct smell of salt water hits Edgeworth’s nose. “If you’d rather be getting drunk with LA’s finest international money launderers, I won’t stop you, Mr. Edgeworth.”
Phoenix bows dramatically, sweeping one arm to the side to gesture Edgeworth through the doorway and into the darkened room.
It’s ridiculous. Phoenix is ridiculous, and a stranger, and Edgeworth is even more ridiculous for following him all the way back here. It’s foolish, and insane, and totally counterproductive to the investigation, even if there isn’t really anything to investigate yet. He could justify it, could say that it would be beneficial to have an insider here he could trust, to have a general idea of the layout of the whole place before things begin to break down, and he could be perfectly justified and reasonable in all of those justifications, but as he steps into the room with Phoenix close behind him he feels like he’s in free fall.
At first, it seems like the overhead lights have simply been turned off, but as Edgeworth enters the room fully he can see that the source of illumination is something else entirely. Rows of colorful fish tanks line three of the walls, stretching from floor to ceiling, each filled with a different assortment of plants and colorful, tropical fish. The light from inside the tanks reflects out, leaving the light in the room wavy and blue as the water shifts. The whole elaborate display gives the illusion that the two men are underwater along with the fish, and as Phoenix sits on the lone bench centered in the room and turns back over his shoulder to look at him, Edgeworth feels all at once trapped in the confines of the tanks and vulnerable in the open ocean.
“You good, Edgeworth?” the other man asks. The lights of the tank reflect across the golden threads woven into his mask, and it looks remarkably like he’s glowing. “Are you afraid of fish or something?”
“No, nothing like that.” Edgeworth moves to sit next to Phoenix on the bench, but Phoenix’s eyes don’t move from him. “Just not what I expected from this party, I suppose.”
“These things are always more boring than I want them to be,” Phoenix says, resting back on his palms and crossing his ankles out in front of him. “You’d think with how much money all these people have they’d have something better to do than just try to impress each other all night.”
Edgeworth turns to look at him. “You’ve been to one of these things before?”
“Mmhmm. Nothing shady on my part though, don’t worry,” Phoenix grins. “This one’s been more fun, though. You’re pretty interesting, after all.”
Phoenix laughs as Edgeworth glares sharply at him. “What is that supposed to mean?”
“Nothing!” Phoenix chuckles. “Nothing other than what it sounds like, anyway. I have no idea why you are here, but you seem cool. That’s pretty interesting, especially with this crowd.”
“I don’t think anyone has ever described me as cool ,” Edgeworth huffs, crossing his arms across his chest in a gesture he hopes is distancing but gathers Phoenix is endeared by, for some odd reason. “And I suppose you expect me to think you’re the same, hmm? More trustworthy than the rest of the guests?”
Phoenix shakes his head. “I don’t expect you to think anything.” He brings his drink glass to his lips, but moves it back down after a moment without sipping from it. “But I don’t think you would have come all the way back here with me if you thought anything else.”
For the first time since Phoenix started talking, he turns his gaze off of Edgeworth and back towards the fish tanks. Edgeworth feels like he can breathe evenly again, and in the same moment he hopes Phoenix looks back at him.
“Can I tell you something, Mr. Edgeworth?” he says after a moment. The wavering blue light of the water is reflecting off his face, warping his features with the flow of the water, and Edgeworth is silent. “I’m supposed to be here tonight to help a client. But I don’t think I can do it. I don’t think I can help someone like him.”
“A client?” Edgeworth turns to face Phoenix once more, but Phoenix keeps his head pointed forward.
“I’m supposed to be the best, at what I do. I am the best,” Phoenix says. “But it’s not real. I’ve just gotten lucky; they’ve all been innocent. I don’t know if I can help someone who isn’t, and I don’t know if I can just leave him on his own either. He’s guilty, but not for this. Not for what they think he is.”
“Why are you telling me this?”
“I don’t know,” Phoenix says. “I feel like I can trust you, I guess. Maybe that’s stupid.”
“Phoenix, I could be anybody,” Edgeworth says, and his voice comes out a little more frantic than he feels is strictly appropriate in concern for the safety of a man he’s known for all of one hour. “You have absolutely no reason to trust me, no reason to–to reveal so much.”
“It’s not really about reason, though, is it?” Phoenix says. “It’s never really been about reason. It’s just a gut feeling, but I trust it.”
“And if you’re wrong?”
Phoenix turns back to him. “Well, I guess that’s in your hands now, isn’t it?” Even through the mask, Edgeworth would swear he can see him waggle his eyebrows. “I just bared my soul to you, Mr. Edgeworth; you wouldn’t turn on me now, would you?”
At that Edgeworth can only huff, and as he turns his gaze back to the tropical fish providing such an easy distraction, he can’t help but keep his attention entirely elsewhere.
A small, bright orange fish is making its way along the bottom of the tank towards a small grouping of fronds.
Phoenix inhales deeply, and as he lets it out the curve of his spine relaxes, and his elbows come down to rest on his knees.
He tracks the movement of the fish with his eyes. It swims quickly through and past the fronds before a group of similar-looking fish catch up to it. The clump of orange against the blue of the tank stands out. It’s attention-grabbing. It should be attention-grabbing.
Phoenix shifts in his spot next to Edgeworth on the bench, and he’s about an inch or so closer than he was before.
The orange fish. It’s certainly somewhere in the tank, doing something. Swimming or frolicking or moving through obstacles or something that fish do. If someone asks him later he bets he could say it had been doing any of those things and they would believe him without question.
Phoenix sits up straighter, tilts his head as if he’s about to speak again, and as he does his knee presses up against Edgeworth’s, and his hand comes to rest on the small of Edgeworth’s back, and before Edgeworth can really even start deconstructing what that might mean or if it was intentional or why exactly he’s thinking about it so much, his body betrays him and he flinches away from the contact.
“Oh, sorry, I–” Phoenix says, and he’s immediately further away again, safely on the other side of the bench, and Edgeworth does not have the time to figure out why that upsets him so much. “Sorry, I didn’t mean–”
“No, no, please,” Edgeworth says. “It was not–well. It was not my intention to react that way.”
“I’m sorry, I–” Phoenix starts, and his eyes move quickly from the opposite wall to his shoes and then back to the wall again. “I didn’t mean to make you uncomfortable, I’m sorry.”
“You haven’t. Or, well, you didn’t,” Edgeworth says, and some truly insane urge deep down in his psyche tells him to close the distance between them once more. Instead, he clears his throat. “It was not entirely, well, unwelcome, that is.”
Phoenix’s eyes dart back up to meet his. “Oh?” he says. “And would it be entirely unwelcome if I were to do it again?”
“No,” Edgeworth says. “No, I don’t believe it would be.”
Phoenix is silent and still for a moment–the first time he’s been so all night–and then he’s moving closer and his thigh is pressed up against Edgeworth’s. The other man’s hand presses to his back, now–full of purpose and intent, unlike the ghostly, fleeting gesture moments prior–and it feels like the most natural thing in the whole world to relax into it, to let his own arm come to rest on top of Phoenix’s behind them.
“I thought you were going to ask me to dance with you, when you pulled me inside,” Edgeworth says, in lieu of waiting for the flush in his face to become truly unbearable. “I am grateful you did not.”
Phoenix’s soft smile morphs into something more mischievous. “Not much of a dancer, huh?”
“Certainly not.” Edgeworth grimaces. “Not here, of all places.”
“I like to dance,” Phoenix says, and his smile has switched back to that idiotic soft little smile again, like he trusts Edgeworth, or likes him, or something equally as preposterous. “What’s the point of these things if you’re not gonna dance?”
Edgeworth scoffs, which is clearly the response Phoenix is expecting. “If you’re to be trusted, it seems to be that the point is to conduct strange analyses of all the guests, or to seduce strangers into hiding in secret back rooms with you.”
“That’s fun, too,” Phoenix chuckles. “What do you think, then? If you don’t dance and you don’t drink and you don’t approve of my very fun, very creative games, what do you do?”
Edgeworth doesn’t mention that he’s never been to an event like this and never plans to again, and he doesn’t mention that he hadn’t told Phoenix he wasn’t drinking because he knows he’d be a fool to think the man he’s watched analyze every move of everyone he sees wasn’t doing the same to him, and instead he thinks of the biannual prosecutor’s office parties he’s been repeatedly forced to attend.
“The food,” Edgeworth says. “The food is always good. It’s always preposterous, but it’s always good.”
“I haven’t seen you eat anything all night!”
“Yes, well,” Edgeworth huffs. “My stomach has been quite upset.”
Phoenix looks him up and down. “Is it still upset?”
Edgeworth realizes suddenly that it’s not.
“No,” he says. Phoenix smiles. He does that a lot.
“Good.” Phoenix stands suddenly, and his fingers drag across the back of Edgeworth’s forearm as he does. “I had some really weird, very good little quiches earlier that I think you should try, so I’ll be right back.”
The next moment he’s out the door, and he grins over his shoulder as he goes–like this is some grand, hilarious joke they’re both in on–and then before Edgeworth has even really stopped thinking about the light brush of the other man’s hand across his sleeve, he’s alone in the room, and the rush of water he hears isn’t just from the filters in the tanks.
After a couple minutes he hears the dinner bell distantly in the background, and it occurs to him that he’s not going to be able to investigate very well from here at all if anything begins to happen, but if he leaves Phoenix may not find him again, and so he stays.
What does pull him out of his seat–off of the bench and out of the lull of the shifting water in the tank, creating a dreamlike atmosphere that Edgeworth is all too happy to let himself enjoy for just a moment–is the sound of glass shattering, so loud and so present that for just a second Edgeworth is sure the tanks have burst until he realizes he’s still completely dry.
He finds himself moving towards the sound before he can even really process what it must mean. It could be unrelated to the investigation–some accident or dropped tray of appetizers or shattered window from a rowdy guest–but he knows it’s not. Something tells him it’s not.
He weaves his way through the narrow, identical hallways, moving towards the source of the crash as best he can, and after a few minutes of frantic searching, he finds himself in what appears to be a dining room.
Guests have already begun to gather, huddling in groups around the circular tables spaced throughout the hall, many of them alternating between hushed, fearful whispers and shrieking cries of panic. The tables are all set, the plates filled with food, but no one has remained seated in the commotion, like a flock of spooked birds ushered away from a scattering of bread crumbs.
More guests still filter in from the halls–drawn by the commotion much like Edgeworth–and as the room gets more and more crowded Edgeworth can see Gumshoe making an attempt at crowd control.
And, right in the center of the dining room, the source of the initial crash: a fallen crystal chandelier, shattered on top of the now-crushed center dining table, and a man, pinned underneath and pierced through the chest by the spike at the bottom. Dead.