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17-year old Franziska von Karma did not let anything like foolish emotions get in her way. They were simply unnecessary distractions. As she stalked through the von Karma vacation home, heels clicking all the way, Franziska did not think about Miles Edgeworth. She very carefully stepped around the last memory she had of him. The second to last, technically speaking, but she had already banished that one from her mind.
Stretching and cracking her whip between her hands as she made her way up the stairs, she didn’t think about the fact that the last words they had exchanged were ones of vitriol and spite. Opening the door to the piano room, she shook off the sudden cold feeling and stared at the blood staining the once immaculate carpet.
She didn’t think about how it made no sense for Miles Edgeworth to have killed himself. How it made even less sense that he would do it with a gun, and how it made no sense at all to shoot himself in the abdomen.
And as she moved over to the window, and stared at the still crushed rose bush below, all she thought was that Scruffy was going to have a hard time bringing those white roses, stained dark, dark red, back to life. She didn’t think about how she couldn’t do the same for her little brother.
As she turned away from that window, a cold breeze blew in through the shattered glass. Like a switch had been flipped, Franziska’s face darkened and she felt tears streaming down her face. With a guttural scream, she tore down her favorite picture of Miles from the wall. It was an extremely rare instance of a genuine smile on his face. He was grinning at Pess, meeting her for the first time.
She remembered that day clearly. She had been excited for him, knowing Pess would help him through the hard days. But he had been drifting away from her already, and she knew he would dote on Pess, and spend all his spare time on the adorable dog. She remembered Miles looking over at the sound of the click from the camera, and seeing the frown on her face. He had asked if she was alright. She had pasted on a thin smile and responded with, “of course, little brother.” She couldn’t even try to fake it now.
“GOD DAMMIT, MILES EDGEWORTH! I’M NOT ALRIGHT!”
Miles Edgeworth woke up to a picture being thrown through him. He still hated the feeling of objects passing through him, just as much as he hated how he never really slept. Looking up to see who had thrown it, he noticed with no small amount of alarm that the young lady had a whip, and she quickly brought it down on the picture. It had been cracked before, from slamming against the wall and then the floor, but as she struck it again and again, Miles watched his face disappear behind a spider web of broken glass. As the lashes slowed, the woman’s sobs grew louder and more violent, until she had collapsed on the floor.
Miles didn’t know who she was, or why she was so upset. He had figured out that he had died, at this point, that he was a ghost. Perhaps she knew him while he was alive? Her appearance tugged at him. He should remember her. That silver-blue hair, cropped to perfection, her blouse, the heels, the whip . She was unique, that much was certain. He felt bad that she was so distraught, but what could he do?
He couldn’t remember her, as hard as he tried. She wouldn’t hear him call out, and he didn’t even know her name. Drawing closer and placing a hand on her shaking shoulder only resulted in her shivering and jerking away. His brain was screaming at him to do something, that he needed to make her feel better. It was his job, his role. He had upset her, again, something from the back of his mind added.
But he could do nothing but watch as the woman who was somehow so important to him drew herself back together. She stood, glanced one final time at the shattered picture with a sniff, and left the house. And then Miles Edgeworth was alone once more, with nothing but a lingering question.
Who is she?