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It occurs, at times during a Prosecutor's career, that there is a lack of urgent cases that require prosecution. Said prosecutor is then often stuck with the arduous task of paperwork. Tons and tons of meaningless, useless drivel that is more likely to be tossed into the trash than find itself sent to the archives for safekeeping.
Now, it is Franziska's turn to tackle the horror of the paperwork tower. She has seen Miles in this dreaded situation more than once, even despite his high standing amongst those at the Prosecutor's office. Franziska has resolved to handle her turn perfectly, making her way through at minimum a mountainous pile every day until she is granted leave to return to her previous duties — whether that be working with Interpol, or the local prosecution.
Of course, as the daughter of Manfred von Karma, she has enough influence to leverage her way out of pen and paper assignments. But her loss to Phoenix Wright, and subsequent experience with Interpol, has changed her ever-so-slightly in ways it is difficult to describe. She will see through this assignment with dignity and grace, and above all — utter perfection.
Speaking of the children of prominent figures in the legal system. On her way to file a not-so-important brief on her experiences abroad (no one will read it - who will care?), she discovers a lump of blue and red, curled up on the ground outside the courthouse records room.
She could walk right by and continue on her way. There is at least half a day's worth of work piled, waiting, on her desk.
Franziska is no stranger to disillusionment. It must be what makes her delay her perfectly-planned schedule to interfere.
"Did you have business to attend to?" Franziska asks the lump pointedly. "Look here. The sign says clearly that this office is closing early for a late lunch."
The lump does not stir. Franziska has never been one for small talk. It leaves her at a loss, a feeling she has never once enjoyed. She is approaching adulthood at a frightening pace. ...Perhaps it wouldn't hurt to perfect her conversation skills with those under her level.
"You there," Franziska attempts again. She nudges the toe of her boot against a blue-clad leg. "Are you ignoring me? Or have you fallen asleep against this very uncomfortable wall for fun?"
"....... Mrrrpgh...!!"
Franziska recoils, her hand immediately going to her whip. It takes a few moments to process the odd sound of protest. There is no danger to be found here. Certainly no bullets whistling through the air, or ropes and gags emerging from safety to tie up an unsuspecting victim.
"That was a horrible sound," she scolds, feeling oddly as though she is chastising her sister's misbehaving dog. "Use your words. Speak properly. How will you ever achieve perfection if all you do is moan about!?"
Her rousing speech is what brings the lump to stir. One teary blue eye meets Franziska's, and, oh, she is not suited for this at all.
"They were already closed when I got here," comes a muted mumble. "And my, um... my teacher is absent today."
Franziska can imagine the sound of a gavel. She has a feeling she knows to whom this young man refers.
Debeste. ... Franziska has never thought fondly of the boy. But Miles, in his ever-increasing odd fashion of accumulating various youngsters in need of mentoring, had decided to take the struggling prosecutor under his wing, and Franziska will not be beat in the realm of offering useful advice.
She has already concluded what the boy needs — and that is a companion whose shoulder he can lean on. Who amongst the list of Miles’ young protégés and newly-minted prosecutors might suit? There is Kay Faraday, of whom Franziska has grown reluctantly fond. Gavin, too, is young and green — not the defense attorney, but his brother. He, however, has not lost a parent to avarice or cold-blooded emotion, that she is aware.
"...and he would teach you bad German," Franziska mutters unintentionally.
Debeste's single visible eye swirls with a mixture of confusion and some uncomfortably accusatory emotion.
"You are in need of company," Franziska declares, and sits down elegantly on the other side of the hallway.
Truly, what is the purpose of this futile exercise? Franziska pulls out a sheaf of paperwork she so thoughtfully packed in case of a delay, and gets to work. Debeste is watching her. She does not mutter nonsense under her breath like some useless fool, so he is left without any entertainment. At the end of the first page of signatures, Franziska has already drawn the conclusion that they cannot continue in silence (she refuses to acknowledge Debeste’s awkward sniffles).
"I too had a decorated father, once," Franziska begins without preamble. Debeste's reaction is to immediately hide his face in his bright-red-of-an-eyesore jacket. Unfortunately for him, he bears an expressive piece of hair at the top of his head that reacts to every little swing in his emotions.
“It is difficult, I will admit.” Franziska gentles her tone. “You cannot deny years of love for them. Nor can you forgive and forget wrongdoings on such a large scale.”
She thinks to Miles, who had — however she wishes she could deny it — suffered under her father’s heel. The lengths to which she went to prove herself to Manfred von Karma cannot be undone. This, Debeste too should comprehend with all his underdeveloped mind and heart.
“We cannot change the past, nor undo their actions.” Franziska shuts her eyes, and clenches her right shoulder. “But we can be better. Right their wrongs.”
“……I……”
“You may not feel yourself strong enough just yet.” Franziska smoothly rises to her feet in one motion, tucking her satchel — paperwork and stationary neatly packed away once more — by her left side. “It may take years for you to grow strong enough to make concrete change.” At that, Debeste whimpers loudly. Franziska shushes him with her parting words. “Only you may decide to have the resolve to seek your true purpose, and chase after the strength it demands of you. I wish you the best of luck on your journey. May you… see it to an end.”
It strikes her, as she leaves Debeste behind and continues on her way to deliver her burden, that in the little fragments of speech she overheard, he did not misspeak once. Not that he had much of a chance to, but…
Good. He will learn.