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On Christmas morning in 2001, Miles Edgeworth did what he always did — he woke up early, pulling on a sweater over his pajamas before excitedly checking the tree in the living room for presents.
Somewhat unexpectedly, both of the wrapped packages bore Santa’s distinctive wrapping paper. Curious, Miles checked the tags. While the larger of the two was labeled “to Miles,” the smaller was labeled “to Missile.” Does that mean Santa gives presents to dogs too? the nine-year-old boy wondered. None of the songs he’d learned in school said anything about dogs, but he supposed it made sense. After all, Missile was a very good boy.
Not long after Miles noticed the presents, his father came down from his room, wearing the red sweater vest he always liked to wear during his time off in winter. “Merry Christmas, Miles,” he said as he passed the living room, Missile following at his heel as he opened the bag of dog food in the kitchen and poured a scoop into the bowl.
“Merry Christmas, Father,” Miles said, beginning to carefully unwrap his present. He didn’t like to tear open wrapping paper, preferring to pick off the tape holding it together until the paper could be unfolded without any damage.
By the time he’d finished picking off the tape, Missile was finished with his breakfast and had been let outside. Miles’ father came into the living room. “Have you seen your present yet?”
“I’m almost finished unwrapping it,” Miles answered, finally loosening the paper enough to remove.
Miles’ father examined the other package. “Looks like Santa brought a present for Missile,” he commented offhandedly. “I wonder what that could be. Well, Miles? What did Santa get you?”
Miles lifted the wrapping paper, revealing a box set of action figures. He smiled as he held up the box. “Santa got me the newest Signal Samurai figure box set,” he said in response. “Can you believe it? I can’t wait to show Phoenix and Larry, now we can use them as a reference for our battle poses.”
He wondered how his friends were spending the holiday. Did they have relatives over? Maybe they were visiting family. Since he and his father had moved here, they didn’t get to visit his grandparents as much, but maybe Phoenix and Larry were having large celebrations with their whole extended families present. He was sure they would tell him everything after winter break. He couldn’t wait to see them again.
His father set up the camera timer for their annual celebratory photo, and with a big smile on his face, Miles held up the sealed box as they posed together. Once they were done with the photo, his father let Missile back in and went about making breakfast.
Back from his morning excursion, Missile followed Miles into the living room and sniffed curiously at the box in his hands.
“These aren’t for you, buddy,” Miles told Missile. “Wanna see what Santa brought for you?” Setting the box aside, he picked up the wrapped package addressed to Missile, the slight crinkle of the wrapper drawing the dog’s attention. “Here, I’ll unwrap it for you.” Picking at the tape with a little less care than he normally would, he got the package open and unrolled the wrapping paper to reveal a bone-shaped toy. He gave the toy a gentle squeeze, Missile’s ears perking up at the sound of the squeaker inside.
Miles threw the toy on the floor, Missile darting over to where it landed and picking it up in his mouth, sounding another squeak. He curled up on the floor and chewed vigorously for a moment before resting his paws on the toy’s surface. With Missile sufficiently distracted, Miles opened the packaging on his own toys, extracting Signals Blue, Yellow, and Red from the layers of plastic encasing them. He spent the next several minutes posing the figures on the coffee table, re-enacting the most recent episode in his head.
Before long, a delicious smell was wafting in from the kitchen. His father must have been making pancakes. It was one of Miles’ favorite holiday breakfasts. Distracted by the smell, he lost track of where he was in the re-enactment, posing the figures idly until his father called him to eat breakfast.
Miles sat down at the table and took a whiff of the stacked pancakes on his plate before eagerly slicing into them. “Careful, they’re still hot,” his father warned him, blowing a little on his own bite before eating it. Miles did likewise, savoring the pancakes’ unique flavor. These pancakes were the best in the world, not too thin or too fluffy, and as much as he enjoyed receiving presents, his father’s pancakes were what he felt made the holiday truly special.
For a few moments, they ate in comfortable silence that was only interrupted by the occasional squeak from the living room, squeaks which became less and less frequent. Missile was getting more comfortable with his new toy, Miles supposed, privately relieved that the dog wouldn’t be constantly playing with his squeaky toy now. Oddly enough, however, there remained a faint crunching sound. Was the squeaker already broken?
Curious now, Miles abandoned his food and rushed to the living room.
Missile was sitting beside the coffee table, the new bone toy lying nearby on the floor. To his horror, Miles realized what was making the crunching sound — not the bone toy, but his brand new action figures, one of which was sticking out of the dog’s mouth.
“Missile, no!” he shouted, doing his best stern voice. “Bad dog!”
Missile got up and approached Miles, wagging his tail. Miles held out his hand. “Put that down,” he ordered.
The pomeranian only continued wagging his tail. Did the nice list/naughty list system apply to dogs? If Santa brought presents for dogs, surely that meant he wrote them on his lists.
Miles’ father followed him into the living room. “Missile, put that down,” he ordered calmly.
Missile ignored him. If dogs could go on the naughty list, Miles was certain Missile would qualify right now.
“Here,” Miles’ father said. He went to the kitchen, coming back after a moment with a dog treat in his hand. “Missile, want a treat?”
The dog perked up, stepping closer to Miles’ father. After sniffing the treat offered to him, his mouth opened, dropping the figure on the floor. Miles quickly scooped it up.
“Poor Signal Blue,” he muttered as he assessed the damage. Much of the blue samurai’s body was covered in small dents from Missile’s teeth. The most noticeable of these dents was on the mask near where the mouth would be, though on further examination, a pretty bad one could be found on the figure’s left ankle. An image came to his mind — Phoenix tripping and hurting his ankle, crying…
While Missile was distracted with the treat, Miles hastily gathered the other figures and rushed them upstairs to his room, placing Red and Yellow far out of the dog’s reach on the windowsill. After cleaning Blue of dog slobber, he completed the set. It didn’t look too bad, Miles thought, as long as you didn’t look too close. He resolved to find a way to patch up the dents on Blue.
“Is everything okay?” his father asked when he came back downstairs.
Despite how upset he’d been, Miles nodded. “Signal Blue just has a few dents,” he said. “Nothing that can’t be fixed.”
As they returned to eating, something occurred to Miles. “Father,” he said, glancing down nervously, “you usually give me something for Christmas. Why do I only have a present from Santa this year?”
His father chewed silently for a moment before answering. “I’m truly sorry, Miles. I wanted to buy you a special present, but with my current case, I was too busy. I hope you understand.”
Miles nodded, looking down at his food. “Okay.” He still felt a bit disappointed, but this explanation made complete sense; the duty of a defense attorney was much more important than any Christmas present. There was always next year.
“Actually… speaking of the case, how about this for a present: since school’s out for winter break, would you like to come and watch the trial this week?”
Instantly, Miles’ eyes lit up. “R-really?” he asked, beaming with excitement. This was an even better present than the book he had wanted. He didn’t get to see his father in court very often, since he usually had school, but it was always amazing. Someday, he was going to be the one standing behind the defense bench, working to bring the truth to light, not just watching from the gallery.
His father nodded, a crease forming at the corner of his eye as he returned the smile. “The trial continues three days from now,” he said. “This should be the end of it. If all goes according to plan, Mr. Master will be free by the end of Friday.”
***
It was the second week of January when Miles was to pack his childhood away in boxes, preparing to move into a strange household in a strange place. He couldn’t pack his father’s things away himself — the task was delegated to Mr. von Karma’s hired staff. Even looking at his father’s things made him want to curl up on the couch and cry. He turned away, swallowing a hard lump in his throat as all the old memories were confined to their cardboard prisons.
Mr. von Karma followed Miles to his room and visibly scoffed, muttering something about childish decorations. Standing in the open doorway, he watched impassively as Miles packed the essentials into a backpack, telling him only to pack what he needed. Clothes, school supplies, dog food… each item was met with a short nod of approval as Miles packed them away. His latest attempt at a paper crane was dismissed, but a framed photo of him and his father was allowed with only a moment of hesitation.
With the backpack almost full, a loud crash from another room drew Mr. von Karma’s attention elsewhere. Miles hoped against everything he knew that nothing had broken. His father had never exactly gotten angry with him when he broke things as a small child, but the sad look on his face had been enough to make Miles feel sorry for his carelessness.
Miles realized that his father wasn’t around to care if anything broke anymore. He almost started crying again.
His hand unconsciously clenched around the keychain in his pocket. He glanced out the door — Mr. von Karma was out of the room, talking with several of the staff members. Now was his chance to pack something without being noticed. He glanced at the action figures on the windowsill, trying to calculate how they would fit in his bag. He supposed one of them might fit, but they were meant to be a set of three. Miles couldn’t fathom taking one and leaving the others to an uncertain fate.
He looked down at his desk, his eyes landing once again on his attempted paper crane. Right beside it was a crane Phoenix had folded for him. It would definitely be crushed if he stuffed it carelessly into his bag, but if he laid it flat, he could hide it between the pages of a book. Whispering a silent apology to his best friend for potentially ruining his work, he hastily did just that, zipping his bag shut as Mr. von Karma returned to the room.
“Are you ready to go?” he asked, his voice edged with impatience.
“Just a moment,” Miles said quietly, slinging his bag over one shoulder. “I have to get Missile.”
Mr. von Karma sighed wordlessly as they went back downstairs, moving to stand near the front door as Miles scanned the living room, ostensibly looking for his dog.
It hit Miles that this was probably the last time he would see this house. There was an aching pang of loss at this realization, but Miles was almost numb to it. The petty grief of having to move house was nothing compared to the real grief of — he could still barely put it into words, even in his own mind. It still didn’t quite feel real, that he was alone and an orphan and now he was being adopted by a man he barely even knew, whose only contact with his father had been through work, yet who had somehow convinced the judge at that hearing that he was the best suited to be Miles’ legal guardian since his grandparents had not shown any intention of taking him in. He was going to live in some big fancy house that was probably logically speaking an upgrade but… but… why did everything have to change at once? If only he could live here a little longer, or at least give the house a proper goodbye… but the plans were already made, the boxes were already packed.
Missile wasn’t hard to find. Not long after Miles sat down on the couch, he emerged from under the coffee table, whining as he rested his paw on Miles’ knee.
“Are you ready to go now?” Mr. von Karma asked, no doubt noticing that Missile had decided to show himself. “Take only what you truly need.”
Miles cast another glance around the living room filled with packed boxes. He couldn’t delay the inevitable any further. “Yes,” he said quietly, shouldering his backpack and approaching the entrance, Missile following at his heel.
Mr. von Karma looked him up and down, then stiffly unwound the blue scarf he was wearing and wrapped it around Miles’ shoulders. The weather wasn’t especially cold for an LA winter, but even still, Miles doubted the scarf would keep him warm. “Let’s go.”
Miles put on his shoes as he left his home for the last time. Scooping up Missile, he glumly followed Mr. von Karma outside as they made for his car.
As they passed the garbage bins outside, Miles heard something clatter on the ground as it fell. His Signal Red keychain! Gasping louder than he meant to, he reached down, but Mr. von Karma got to it first. A stern expression crossed his face as he picked it up.
“Do you need this trinket?”
Miles froze. He tried to say something, anything to justify keeping that token of Phoenix and Larry’s friendship, but no words came. “I, uh…”
“I say it has no place in the von Karma household,” Mr. von Karma said, and that was that. He threw the keychain aside onto the garbage bin. With a heavy heart, Miles followed him the rest of the way to the car.
Just as the car door was opened, Miles heard footsteps on the pavement accompanied by his friends’ voices.
“Miles!”
“Edgey!”
For a moment, Miles turned around. His friends were running along the sidewalk toward him, out of breath and panting as they slowed to a stop. He’d known them for less than a year, but already he knew couldn’t bear to lose them. Mr. von Karma had said something about changing schools… the last time Miles had changed schools, nobody had wanted to be his friend until the class trial last spring. How could he look Phoenix in the eyes and tell him to his face they couldn’t see each other again?
Willing himself not to start crying again, Miles stepped into the car. He settled his backpack on the floor as he buckled his seatbelt, taking out the dog food once he had the opportunity. He couldn’t let things end with Phoenix and Larry, not like this.
By the time Missile’s food ran out and they followed the dog food trail back home, everything Miles had left behind was gone, sold in an estate sale and never to be seen again. Thankfully, Phoenix had saved the keychain from being taken out with the garbage and given it back to him. Miles may have had to leave him behind, but as long as they had those keychains, Miles knew that they would never forget the friendship they had shared.
***
For the next twenty-four years, Phoenix Wright always kept his Signal Blue keychain close, never forgetting the promise it represented. It saw him through all of life’s changes: graduation, college, his disastrous first relationship, the bar exam, and all the trials that had followed. He carried it on his bag when he saved Miles, tucked it away in a desk drawer when he failed to save him in the way that mattered most, and moved it to the inner pocket of his suit jacket when Miles came back to save him. Even after being disbarred, he kept it on his person, as it was one of the few items from his past a magician hadn’t made disappear.
(His daughter did make it disappear once, but she brought it right back after seeing the look on his face. She never did it again afterward.)
Now, however, the keychain had a safe home in the house Phoenix and Trucy shared with Miles. It was remarkably worn compared to Signal Red, which lived on the desk of Miles’ study, but Phoenix supposed his partner had been a lot more careful with his memento of their past friendship.
One evening, after tucking Trucy into bed, Phoenix tiptoed quietly back to his home office downstairs, checking along the way that Miles was still perusing case files in his study. Normally, Phoenix would remind him to sleep at some point, but he had a mission tonight, and it was imperative that this mission remain top secret.
Settling into his ergonomic desk chair (courtesy of a partner with money to burn and concern for his back), he opened his sleek new laptop. As much as he hated keeping up with the latest cash grabs, his and Miles’ work required some level of organization, and what was the harm in making sure there was decent security software? He still used the old clunker at the “talent agency” office, of course, but only for email, and only with his old work address that had little to no use anymore. Any outside observer would be easily fooled into thinking that Phoenix Wright had no use for modern technology.
Still, just because he had this laptop didn’t mean he was always comfortable using it. There had been an adjustment period, Miles sitting down with him and patiently explaining every feature with a look of fond exasperation on his face. (Trucy had figured out some of the newer stuff faster than he did, and damn if that didn’t make him feel old.) He still wasn’t comfortable with multiple finger swiping or the “natural” scroll direction that felt anything but natural, but if that made him an old man, so be it. It was his laptop and he controlled the settings.
Tonight, however, he couldn’t have his partner or his daughter looking over his shoulder. The holidays were fast approaching, and as uncomfortable as he often was with using the computer, he’d come to appreciate the convenience of online shopping and the ease with which he could now find meaningful gifts at a decent price.
A few searches on eBay later, he found some possible gifts for Trucy. He wasn’t sure what he would get for Miles this year. Miles insisted that Phoenix didn’t have to give him anything, but he wanted to anyway, especially since finding out last year just how much Christmas had been ruined for him by his father’s murder. His heart broke to imagine Miles as a preteen, lost and alone with his nightmares…
He should find something for Maya. She was busier lately with training, but she and Pearl always visited around the New Year. At least he knew the sort of thing Maya would want, he thought with a smile, typing Steel Samurai into the search bar. Maybe he would even find something for Miles here, though he doubted he would find anything that wasn’t already part of his partner’s extensive merch collection.
Immediately, his feed was populated with the most hotly bidded on Steel Samurai, Pink Princess, and Evil Magistrate themed items — dolls, action figures, walkie-talkies… all in collector quality and at least fifty dollars out of his price range. Grimacing, Phoenix checked the option to filter by lowest price. Hopefully there would be something good this time and not another series of “lightly used” body pillows like there was last year.
To his mild disappointment, the lowest price items weren’t even Steel Samurai. There was a Nickel, Tin, and Aluminum Samurai box set that had never been opened (he definitely wasn’t getting that for Maya), a bunch of individual Rainbow Samurai collectibles, and a Jammin’ Ninja figure that was definitely tagged incorrectly. But after scrolling past another few collectibles, a listing at the bottom of the page caught Phoenix’s eye.
vintage signal samurai action figure set
Pre-Owned
$15
Phoenix had to blink a few times as he read the listing. When was the last time he saw anything from Signal Samurai in a store? The toys from that series were completely gone from shelves, replaced with their equivalents in whatever series Global Studios was currently trying to promote, the theme only playing on the radio in the occasional throwback broadcast. Curious, he opened another eBay search.
What he found was mainly pristine collectors’ editions at high prices, no doubt bumped up for the rarity and nostalgia. Against the shiny figures still in their packaging, the pre-owned set stood out — it was a steal, really. The original packaging might be long gone, but the figures themselves were a perfect replica of a set he remembered seeing in a store long ago…
“Aww man!” Larry complained, seeing the price tag in the Lordly Tailor window display. “And I had so much money before I won those stupid keychains. Just a few more weeks of allowance and I could’ve gotten these!”
“The keychains aren’t stupid,” Phoenix tried to assure him, to no avail.
“Yeah they are! They’re just stupid heads on chains,” Larry continued ranting as he ogled the action figures. “You can’t pose them at all!”
Miles was the last of the group to arrive at the window, Missile having given up on chasing a crushed leaf someone had tracked into the mall. “These figures do look more dynamic,” he said eventually, “but that doesn’t mean the keychains are worth any less.” A faint blush rose on his cheeks as he turned away. “They’re easier to carry, anyhow.”
At the time, Phoenix had been relieved to hear Miles defend the keychains (a sentiment that had only deepened over the following years when Larry denounced the keychains as childish). Now, between playing poker, raising a fourteen-year-old who hid her true feelings behind a smile even when she wasn’t on stage, and living with Miles, he’d become proficient in reading those miniscule cues. Miles had definitely wanted those action figures.
Without hesitating any further, Phoenix added the figure set to his cart.
***
On Christmas morning in 2025, Miles and Phoenix did what they usually did — they slept in a bit later than usual, only getting out of bed when they heard footsteps in the hall indicating that Trucy was awake. They waited a moment before going downstairs themselves, each eagerly anticipating the smile on her face when she opened the presents they had gotten her.
Sensing that they were awake, the white borzoi who slept in the room with them jumped to her feet, eagerly following Miles as he went downstairs to the kitchen. He poured out a bowl of food for her before joining his partner and daughter in the living room.
“Merry Christmas, Trucy,” he said, seeing her organizing the presents in the pile by recipient.
Trucy jumped to her feet, a wrapped package in her hands. “Merry Christmas, Papa!” She dashed across the living room, pressing the gift into his hands and bouncing on the balls of her feet. “Santa left a present for you again this year. I bet it’s extra special.”
Phoenix laughed nervously. “You, uh, wouldn’t happen to know what he got you before opening anything, would you?”
Trucy gave a mischievous smile, ignoring the question. “Don’t you want to see what Santa got for you?”
Before opening the package, Miles checked the label. To Miles, from Phoenix. That confirmed it — Trucy had to know the truth about Santa, otherwise she wouldn’t have said anything.
Still, if he was going to go along with the bit, he might as well add his own spin. “Objection,” he said in a faint imitation of his courtroom voice. “The label on this present doesn’t mention Santa. See? It says ‘from Phoenix.’” He motioned to the label as if he were presenting evidence in court.
Trucy pretended to think about it for a moment. “Oh, I must have read it wrong then. Silly me.” She stuck her tongue out playfully, giving her head a light bonk. “Well? Don’t you still want to open it?”
Behind Trucy, Miles could see Phoenix looking at him expectantly. He must have really wanted to see how Miles would react. “Okay,” he finally said. “Phoenix, would you fetch me the letter opener?”
Phoenix rolled his eyes as he got the letter opener, muttering about how everything had to be fancy with him. There was no malice to his muttering, but excuse Miles for wanting some nice things in his life. A letter opener was much quicker than picking off the tape and it left the wrapping paper mostly intact.
Letter opener in hand, Miles carefully sliced through the tape before unfolding the wrapping paper, revealing a plain rectangular box. A memento of some sort, he supposed, noting the lack of brand name or plastic packaging. Curious, he lifted the lid, pretending not to notice Trucy swiping the letter opener from under his nose.
Inside the box was a blast from the past — three action figures representing Signals Red, Yellow, and Blue, just like what he had received twenty-four years ago. Were these Phoenix’s old action figures? Did he ever have this set? He picked up Signal Blue, checking for any of the wear that he knew Phoenix’s keychain had.
Signal Blue was covered in dents, he quickly observed. He ran his finger over the dents, wondering how they had gotten there. They reminded him a lot of the teething marks Pess had left on her toys as a puppy. But Phoenix never had a dog as a child, at least not during their time in elementary school together. Both he and Larry had stated that their parents wouldn’t let them keep Missile. Had that changed since then? Miles looked up, a million questions likely reflected in his eyes.
Phoenix nervously scratched the back of his neck. “Yeah, I got them secondhand last week. Sorry they’re not exactly collector quality. I just saw them and thought you might appreciate the nostalgia.”
Last week… so they weren’t a memento of his partner’s childhood. He couldn’t help but feel slightly disappointed. He had lost so much after DL-6 — his father, his childhood, his home — but one of the things he missed the most was the chance to grow up with Phoenix. If the figures had belonged to him, they might have some additional sentimental value.
Just after he thought that, however, he noticed a particular dent on Signal Blue’s mask. It was near where the mouth would be, not unlike the scar on Phoenix’s lip that he lovingly traced over whenever he noticed it, vowing to be a more deserving partner than the one who had left that mark. On closer examination, it was uncannily similar to his own Signal Blue figure — no, exactly the same. Could it possibly be…
He checked the left leg, and indeed, there was a slightly deeper dent on the ankle. “You said you got them secondhand,” he said, careful to keep his tone neutral. “Where did you find them?”
“On eBay,” Phoenix said nervously. “I know secondhand isn’t your usual style, but you can’t exactly find these things in stores anymore.”
So he had purchased the figures on eBay last week. This meant that shipping had taken less than a week, and he doubted Phoenix would pay extra for express delivery, meaning that the seller didn’t live too far away. He didn’t know what had happened to everything from his father’s house, but if the neighbors had bought most of it, and if whoever claimed the action figures had remained nearby…
“Eureka!” he shouted as the realization struck.
“What is it?” Phoenix asked quickly.
“These are my action figures,” he said quietly. “The same ones…” Realizing Phoenix didn’t know what he was talking about, he clarified. “On the last Christmas I spent with my father, he gave me a set of action figures just like these. I left them in the living room, and Missile must have thought they were chew toys meant for him. My father distracted him long enough for me to move them. Signal Blue… he had the same marks as this one. That was how I realized.”
Phoenix blinked for a moment as he took it in. “Oh wow,” he whispered. “I didn’t know… Small world, huh?”
“Indeed.” Miles wiped a tear from his eye. “Of all the possible coincidences…”
“Does that mean you like them?” Phoenix asked.
“Like them?” Miles repeated. “I don’t believe ‘like’ is the correct word. There is no collector’s item that carries any of the meaning for me that these do.” He set Signal Blue back down in the box and grasped Phoenix’s hand. “They are a priceless treasure. Thank you.” Checking that Trucy was distracted opening her own presents, he gave Phoenix a quick peck on the lips.
Phoenix smiled. “I think someone might have gotten the same idea as Missile,” he said, pointing behind Miles.
Miles turned around to find Pess sniffing at the box with the figures. How did he miss her coming in? Before a repeat incident could occur, he picked up the box from the coffee table and closed the lid. “Not for you,” he told her as he handed Phoenix the box. “Could you put them in the bedroom while I take her out?”
“Sure,” Phoenix said. “Where do you want them?”
Miles gathered Pess’s leash from the closet, watching as she bounded toward the door. “On the windowsill,” he told Phoenix as he put on his coat and shoes.
Later, he would think about contacting the seller to see if they had anything else from the estate sale. For now, he was happy to have that piece of his childhood back, especially since it was Phoenix who had serendipitously gotten it back for him.