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Nobody ever calls the dead.
Well, they did, for the first few months. Far too often. The thing about calling the dead, though, is that they never pick up. The phone rings and rings and goes to voice-mail, and no one answers. Eventually, they stopped calling, and he was really, truly gone.
Conversely, the dead also call no one. The phone never begins to ring, and there is never anything to answer because nothing more can be said.
Which creates a conundrum, as Prosecutor Miles Edgeworth sits holding a cell phone, staring at the dial screen.
Who does he call? Who can he call? For all intents and purposes, he isn't alive. Truth be told, he doesn't feel quite alive; he's there, sure, but his body doesn't feel connected to the rest of him the way it should be. His hands are cold, deathly cold, and he hasn't been able to warm them. They crack and bleed, dry from the sharp winter weather, as do his lips. His hair hangs limp, disheveled and far longer than he likes it. He can't be bothered to do anything about it. Soon, perhaps, but not today. Not today.
Maybe he has died metaphorically too, he muses in his head, staring blankly at the phone in his frosty hands that don't feel quite right. The old Edgeworth is dead, the one who strived for a guilty verdict above all else. The Demon Prosecutor is dead. They were him, and they are dead.
He wonders if their ghosts will haunt him.
Despite being semi-alive, he still has a hard time calling anyone. It doesn't help that he destroyed his old phone some months ago. He can't recollect what emotion caused it, but he does remember it smashing into various tiny pieces against the floor of a place with no name. His options for whom to call are very much limited, restricted to the couple of phone numbers he has memorized.
Franziska's comes to mind first, followed almost immediately by a dismissive head shake. She's probably glad that he's dead, he thinks, considering the circumstances. Or perhaps she hates him, again. He left her, just like times before. Cowardly. Foolish. Something along those lines. He hopes that she is well, anyway.
Wright is next, and he contemplates it for a few moments. But would he be forgiven? Maybe Wright has moved on already, forgotten all about him– although he doubts it. He doesn't really want to explain things much at the moment, and he owes the defense attorney a long explanation. He wishes that the man isn't caught up in unnecessary grief, anyway.
Miss Fey might be easier to talk to, but unfortunately he isn't sure of what her number is. It is a considerable shame. He prays that she hasn't been accused of any more murders, anyway.
His hands are like ice as he sits in the middle of somewhere (nowhere? It's hard to tell), wracking his foggy brain for some other number. He's having a difficult time thinking, and he's not sure why. His hands are so chilly and his mind is so blurred and he really wants nothing more than to be warm, for once in his life at least.
The last telephone number he thinks of is one that he forgets the owner of. Yet it reminds him of summer and real, genuine warmth, and so he types the numbers into his newish phone, and hesitates only a minute before hitting the dial button.
As the phone rings, he recalls that there are several hours of time difference between here (wherever it may be; he's unsure) and Japanifornia. If the number he's called is from there, then there's a solid chance they might be asleep. Please, he asks no one in particular, holding the phone up to his ear. Please let them pick up.
It rings and rings. Until.
"Mmhello?" A voice asks, husky and slightly slurred from sleep. "Detective Dick Gumshoe, speakin'."
Edgeworth's brain fully stops, and he tries to form words, without any success.
"Hello?" The detective asks again. "Who is this?"
"...D-Detective?"
There is a sharp gasp, and then a pause so long that Edgeworth starts fearing that he's made the wrong decision. But then there's a noise on the other end of the line.
"...You…you can't be-" Gumshoe's voice cracks. "Mister- …Mr. Edgeworth? …"
He's still mostly speechless, which is an unfamiliar feeling. "Detective," he repeats, too stunned to say anything more. It's enough of an affirmation for Gumshoe, who begins to sob.
Edgeworth listens, unsure of what to do. He nearly never understands how to help in emotional situations. It's just not his thing. He takes the moment to recompose himself from his initial shock. Gumshoe… for once he is rather glad to hear the bumbling detective's voice.
The detective sniffles. "I- I thought you had died, sir."
"So did I." He glances down at his hands. "However, I am here still. How… have you been, Detective?"
"Better now that you're back! It's been rough, though, sir. The new prosecutor's lowered my salary a lot. And her whip… ugh. I don't know if she was better or worse at 13…"
Edgeworth raises an eyebrow. "Franziska?"
"Yes sir, Miss von Karma." Gumshoe sighs. "She mentioned you the other day, by the way. Something about seeing you 'one last time', I think. She wasn't very happy."
"That sounds like Franziska, indeed. How are Wright and Miss Fey?"
"...Mr. Wright hasn't been the same. None of us have, but I think he's taking it really badly. Umm… Maya seems fine. She got accused of murder a couple of months ago, but Mr. Wright saved the day again. And I got to meet her younger cousin! She– Pearl Fey – is so tiny!"
"Interesting." Wright… Maya… Franziska……. "Have you been investigating any new cases recently?"
"Yeah, there's this one we're in the middle of right now. A circus murder. It's a mystery for sure. To be honest, Mr. Edgeworth, I don't like the defendant at all."
"Don't let feelings get in the way of your work," the prosecutor warns.
"I know, sir, it's just… he's twenty-something and trying to date this one girl. She's fifteen or sixteen, I think." There's genuine disgust in Gumshoe's voice, which is odd for him. "Poor girl. I feel bad for her."
"...that is… hmm." He frowns.
"And there's this other guy, who's like ten years older than the other one, and he wants her, too. The whole thing makes my skin crawl, sir."
"I understand," he responds. "They'll get what they deserve, I'm sure. How is the investigation going?"
Gumshoe fills him in on the details of the case, which he listens to intently. It feels similar to old times, and that is reassuring to him.
When Gumshoe is done, Edgeworth gives him a suggestion. "Search the acrobats room."
"Sure thing, sir! But why?"
"...Call it intuition."
"Will do. Anything else, Mr. Edgeworth?"
"Yes. Please, kindly keep this conversation between us. I will make my presence known when the time is right."
"Of course! Anything for you." His smile is audible through the phone, and it lifts Edgeworth's spirits slightly.
"Detective?"
"Yes, sir?"
"...Thank you. In fact… look forward to your next salary review."
"Really?" Gumshoe sounds almost on the verge of tears once more. "Thank you so much!"
"Goodbye."
"Bye, Mr. Edgeworth! Sleep well!"
He hangs up. A pleasant feeling that he can't quite name tingles in his chest as he sets the phone down. Resting his hands in his lap, he notices something.
They are not cold. They're not particularly warm, either, but more importantly– they're not cold.
He smiles, a small smile, genuine for the first time in a long time.
The dead do not call anyone, and no one ever calls the dead.
It is a good thing, then, that he is alive.