Work Text:
“Why can’t you be real?” she let out a wistful sigh.
She was met with the rolling credits of The Great Ace Attorney Chronicles once again. This was her tenth time playing through the game. Some might say she was addicted, but they didn’t understand that she played it to soothe her aching heart.
Barok Van Zieks, the legendary British prosecutor, had captured her heart more than ever. His sharp, intense eyes seemed to see through anyone’s secrets who dared meet his gaze. His short yet messy hair framed his face perfectly, making him appear more ethereal. The mysterious faint scar on his forehead only added to his allure. And that deep voice, making the way each word rolled off his tongue with an elegance that never failed to send a shiver down her spine.
Stretching her arms, she glanced at the clock. She knew she should’ve gone to bed hours ago, but how could she mind the time when she could spend it looking and listening to him? As the credits ended, shutting down her PC would be the final task of the night.
She reached for the power button with a steady hand. At first, nothing happened, just the faint hum of the fan and a flicker on the screen. Then came a sharp crack, followed by a blinding flash that filled the room. Electricity surged through her hand, her body, and her mind, sending her into unconsciousness before she could even cry out.
Did she just die such a pathetic death? Zapped into oblivion by a faulty outlet while turning off her PC. A lifetime of careful choices, endless hours of gaming, and dreams of someday doing something remarkable, all brought to an anticlimactic halt because of bad wiring? It was so absurd, so tragically mundane, that she almost wanted to laugh.
Her fingers twitched, a faint, involuntary spasm that sent a jolt of hope through her. She could still feel her body, or at least parts of it. The air smelled wrong, it was thick and musty, tinged with smoke and something faintly metallic. Was this purgatory? Some sort of bizarre limbo for gamers who died unceremonious deaths? Her chest tightened at the thought, panic bubbling beneath the surface as she tried to make sense of what had happened.
As she forced her eyes to focus, the world around her didn’t look anything like the dimly lit bedroom she’d been in moments ago. Cobblestone streets stretched out in all directions, lined with gaslights that flickered like tiny fireflies. The buildings loomed tall and unfamiliar, their gothic facades casting jagged shadows under the pale glow of a crescent moon.
Her breath caught as she tried to sit up, her muscles stiff and uncooperative. Where am I? she thought, dread mingling with disbelief. It was as if the electrocution had somehow transported her. But that was impossible. Wasn’t it? She wasn’t in some game or novel; this was real. Too real. The uneven cobblestones beneath her palms were cold and damp, and the distant hum of voices carried an edge of unease.
“What the hell?” she muttered to herself.
“Good heavens,” that sounded familiar, maybe a bit too familiar.
She snapped her head toward the voice to see a tall figure standing. She knew him. She knew him like the back of her hand. She had scoured the internet to learn everything she could, to find bits and pieces that comforted her aching heart. And here he was, looking as majestic as she had imagined.
Everything changed when he walked closer. The moment he drew near, she was overwhelmed by an unmistakable stench of body odor that seemed to cling to him like a dark shadow. She had tried to deny it, brushing off her friend’s teasing comment about how he must be smelly given the conditions of the olden days. But now, standing face-to-face with the legendary prosecutor, the reality of it was undeniable. Her mind flitted back to her friend’s joke, and she could almost hear the laughter ringing in her ears.
Now she was certain, she was no longer in her world, and her bizarre wish had just come true. Everything around her felt surreal, a vivid dream twisted into reality. The suffocating air of 19th century Britain was thick with the scent of smoke, coal, and grime. It was a stark contrast to the clean, modern air (albeit sometimes still shitty) she had grown used to. Each breath she took seemed to pull at her lungs, heavy with the weight of the past. And right in front of her, standing tall and imposing, was Barok Van Zieks.
Barok’s gaze sharpened as he took in her stunned silence. There was no hesitation in his movements; the weight of his authority pressed down on her with every measured step he took toward her. His expression, though calm and composed, carried an undeniable edge of command.
“Miss,” Barok began, his voice low and steady, a voice that cut through the thick air like a blade. “You are interfering with an ongoing investigation. Explain yourself. How did you come to be here?” His tone left no room for argument or defiance. It was a command, one that left little room for negotiation.
Her breath caught in her throat as the reality of the situation sank in. The narrow street they were standing in wasn’t just some random eerie setting, it was a scene of a crime.
She stayed silent, her mind racing to find something to say. What could she possibly explain? The truth felt impossible, absurd even to her own ears. How could she explain that she had accidentally been transported from her world into this one by a freak accident? It sounded like the ramblings of someone trapped in a nightmare, something only fit for the pages of a fictional mystery novel, not real life.
“I don’t know…” she spoke softly, her voice barely a whisper.
Barok’s intense gaze lingered on her, sharp and unyielding, scrutinizing every flicker of emotion that crossed her face. His lips pressed into a thin, unimpressed line, the severity of his expression leaving no room for leniency.
“Unbelievable,” he muttered under his breath, his voice low but edged with disappointment. The weight of his judgment was heavy, pressing down on her like an oppressive fog. “You’re lucky we are not in a courtroom, Miss. Your explanation is simply insufficient.”
Her heart sank further at his words. The conviction in his tone wasn’t one she could easily brush off or argue against. She could feel the weight of his authority, a force that left little room for doubt or escape. Every word was deliberate, each syllable cutting deeper into her fragile resolve. She knew she couldn’t sway him with her uncertainty; there was no room for plea or pardon in his eyes.
Barok’s expression remained rigid, his posture commanding as if every breath she took was a disruption to the order of things. The thought that he could see right through her, dissecting her every thought, left her feeling utterly exposed. Every instinct told her to run, but something about his authority, his presence, froze her in place. She was completely at his mercy.
Barok’s expression hardened even further. Without giving her a moment to process his words, he took a decisive step forward. “You are under arrest,” he stated firmly, his voice unshakable. “Any attempt to resist will be seen as obstruction of justice.”
The world around her seemed to blur, the reality of the moment sinking in like a stone in her stomach. Under arrest. The phrase echoed in her mind, louder than any of her desperate thoughts. She had never been in a situation like this before. She was a good girl through and through, oh how her parents would kill her if they knew (or maybe they would be in shock on how she managed to be transported to a different world).
“I didn’t do anything,” she managed to whisper, her voice barely above a trembling breath. “Please… this is a mistake. I’m not involved in anything.”
Barok’s expression remained cold, devoid of any sympathy or leniency. “Your presence alone raises suspicions. You appeared out of thin air in the middle of an ongoing investigation without explanation. That is enough to warrant suspicion.”
Well, might as well try to play the role of crazy lady. “I have no connection to this world! I’m not even from this world!” Yep, she sounded like she was on something.
Barok’s expression shifted ever so slightly, just a subtle narrowing of his eyes as if he were judging her and yet was intrigued that he came across a crazy person. “And that makes your appearance all the more suspicious,” he said coldly. “You will come with me to the station, where your story will be properly assessed.”
That's it, she might as well die in prison. As an avid fan of Barok, she knew that she's helpless. He was known as Reaper of the Bailey for heaven's sake! Barok Van Zieks wasn’t one to simply let things go without digging into the truth. His methods were relentless, and her plea for innocence felt like futile words spoken into the void.
“I’m not a threat. I don’t understand how I got here-” She tried once again, making her even crazier in Barok's eyes.
“Enough,” Barok interrupted sharply, his voice devoid of sympathy. “Your explanations will be heard in the proper setting. Until then, you will remain under arrest.” His gaze didn’t waver as he gestured to a nearby carriage waiting in the dimly lit street. “We will also arrange for a doctor to examine you. It’s necessary to ensure your health is in order, considering your… unusual circumstances.”
She can only let out a desperate laugh.
The carriage rattled along the cobblestone streets, the dim flicker of gaslights casting long, shifting shadows across the narrow pathways. She sat stiffly in the corner, her legs pulled tightly together as if trying to shrink into herself. The t-shirt she had been wearing clung to her frame, damp and uncomfortable from the residual static, while the joggers felt strange and restrictive against her skin. Everything about her was out of place. Her clothes, her haircut, her thoughts, her very presence in a world that felt anything familiar.
Barok sat opposite her, his sharp gaze fixed intently on the dim interior of the carriage. His dark coat shifted slightly as he adjusted his posture, the scent of worn fabric and his body odor wafting faintly through the confined space. She had tried to ignore it, denying the reality when her friend had joked that he’d probably smell terrible given the time period, but now, she couldn’t shake the thought. The oppressive stench only added to her discomfort.
She let out a desperate laugh again, the sound hollow in the suffocating silence. “I think I have gone crazy. There's no way this is real.”
Barok didn’t respond immediately. His gaze remained unyielding; the corners of his mouth drawn into a tight, unmoving line. “Reality is a fluid concept,” he said softly, his voice a steady, detached monotone. “Whether or not this is real doesn’t change the fact that you are here, and you are my responsibility until we understand the truth.”
The carriage slowed as they approached a large, imposing building. Its iron gates loomed ahead, the flickering gaslights illuminating the gothic architecture in an eerie glow. The station. A place where justice was served, where the line between truth and deception was razor thin.
As the carriage came to a halt, Barok opened the door and stepped out first, his dark coat flowing behind him. She hesitated for a moment, her breath catching in her throat. She couldn’t run, not that she had the strength or the means, but the desire to escape was overwhelming.
“Come,” Barok said simply, his voice a quiet command.
Swallowing hard, she stepped out of the carriage. The air was colder here, the scent of damp stone and distant coal smoke clinging to her skin. She followed Barok into the station, the weight of his presence pressing against her like a suffocating shroud.
The interior of the station was grand yet somber. Dark wooden panels lined the walls, and the flickering gaslights cast long shadows over the polished floors. Officers moved through the space with purpose, their voices low and clipped as they attended to their duties. Barok didn’t waste time; he led her through the halls, his pace steady and unyielding.
They stopped in a room with a simple wooden desk and a single chair across from it. Barok gestured for her to sit, his movements precise and controlled. She lowered herself into the chair, her limbs still stiff from the chill of the night.
“You’ll stay here,” Barok said, his voice leaving no room for argument. “A doctor will be arriving shortly to examine you. Until then, you’ll answer any questions that are presented to you.”
Her breath hitched, her fingers tightening around the edge of the desk. “I don’t know what more I can say,” she murmured.
“Your explanations will be heard, but you'll follow the necessary procedure. You are in a world where order must be maintained, and I won’t allow disruptions.” The room fell back into a heavy silence, with the flickering gaslights dimly illuminating the cold, stone walls.
She remained seated, feeling the weight of Barok’s intense gaze pressing down on her. Then a distant echo of footsteps broke the stillness, sharp and measured against the cold floors. Barok stood near the door, his tall, imposing figure a silent sentinel, guarding her from unseen forces beyond. She sat motionless, her thoughts racing as she awaited the doctor’s arrival.
The door creaked open, and a middle-aged man entered. His expression was calm, his posture professional, but there was a warmth in his eyes that felt out of place compared to Barok’s cold demeanour. He glanced between them before focusing on her, his voice gentle yet inquisitive.
“Miss,” he began, his voice smooth and soothing. “I’ve been summoned to examine you.”
She nodded slowly, her throat dry. “I don’t know if there’s much to examine,” she said softly.
The man offered a reassuring smile. “Let’s start with the basics. You’ve had a significant shock, so your body must be responding to that. I’ll need to ask a few questions and take a closer look to understand how you’re feeling. From there, we can assess your condition.”
Barok remained silent; his gaze sharp as he watched every movement. The tension in the room was palpable. She felt exposed, vulnerable under the scrutiny of both the man and Barok. Her fingers twisted nervously in her lap as she nodded again.
“Alright,” she whispered, her voice barely audible.
The man began asking a series of questions, each one carefully tailored to gauge her mental and physical state. “Do you feel dizzy? How is your memory? Are there any headaches or pain when you focus?” His tone was steady, professional, yet compassionate.
She answered as best she could, her voice trembling as she tried to piece together her experiences. After a moment, he turned towards Barok, “The young miss may have suffered some head trauma. We’ll need to monitor her closely.”
Barok’s expression didn’t change, his stoicism a constant presence in the room. His gaze flicked between them, analysing every response with precision.
“I want regular reports on her condition.” Barok said at last.
The man nodded respectfully. “As you command.”
With the doctor dismissed, the room fell back into silence. Barok’s presence loomed over her once more, his figure a constant reminder of her precarious situation. She exhaled deeply, the weight of everything pressing down on her, leaving her in a world where she was a mere outsider, at the mercy of those who held all the power.
Barok stepped forward once more, his sharp gaze locking onto hers. “Since the doctor has concluded that you may have suffered head trauma, it is necessary to bring you to my manor. There, you will be under my supervision, and we will ensure you receive the care you need.”
Her breath hitched. Not only had her wish come true (living and breathing the same musty air of Britain with her beloved Barok), it had come true in the worst possible way. Now, she wasn’t just some devoted fan or admirer, but a woman with head trauma, lost in a world where her presence was anything but ordinary.
Barok’s expression remained cold and calculating, devoid of sympathy or understanding. His words were precise, as though every action and decision had been meticulously planned, leaving no room for doubt or negotiation. She knew, deep down, that arguing would be futile.
The guards outside the room shifted quietly, their presence a constant reminder of her confinement. Barok gestured subtly towards them, indicating it was time to move. “Come,” he said, his voice firm. “We don’t have all night.”
She hesitated for a moment, staring at the looming figure before her. The weight of his authority pressed against her, making every decision feel heavy and constrained. There was no escaping him. With a reluctant nod, she followed the guards out of the room and towards the waiting carriage.
The journey to Barok’s manor was quiet, the streets lined with shadowy buildings and flickering gaslights. The oppressive silence felt suffocating, yet it allowed her to gather her thoughts, or at least try to. Every passing moment was a reminder that she was no longer in her world, and every detail cemented the reality of her situation.
In the distance, the towering silhouette of Barok’s manor began to emerge in the distance. The grand estate loomed against the night sky, its gothic architecture exuding an air of authority and solemnity. When the carriage came to a halt, and the guards quickly dismounted, opening the door to escort her out. Barok followed calmly, his presence dominating the scene. The weight of the manor gates seemed to press down on her, making her feel smaller and more helpless with every step she took toward the imposing structure.
Inside, the grand halls were eerily silent. The walls were lined with rich, dark tapestries and portraits of stern-looking ancestors who seemed to gaze down at her from their frames. The flicker of candlelight cast long shadows, adding to the somber atmosphere. Barok led the way down a dimly lit corridor, his tall figure a stark contrast against the ancient stonework.
They stopped in front of a room at the end of the hall. “I trust you’ll find the room suitable,” Barok said in a low, commanding voice, breaking the silence at last. His tone was neither welcoming nor unkind, merely a statement of fact.
Barok opened the door and gestured for her to enter. Inside was a modest yet comfortable space. There was a bed draped in white linens, a small desk with a candle flickering beside it, and a simple wardrobe in the corner. She glanced around the opulent surroundings, trying to focus on anything but the suffocating tension between them.
“You will stay here,” Barok instructed, his voice firm but not harsh. “It’s where you’ll be observed, and it will be your place until we determine what should be done next.”
Truthfully, her heart was sinking fast. Seeing the room reminded her of some medieval documentary of how human used to live. She missed her room painfully.
Seeing how she stayed silent, Barok’s cleared his throat. “I'll inform you once they have scheduled your hearing. Until then, please rest properly." Without another word, he turned and left the room, the heavy door closing behind him with a resounding echo.
She sat down slowly on the edge of the bed. Then, the door creaked open softly, and a young maid entered the room, her posture refined and her movements precise. She curtsied respectfully before setting a small tray on the table near the bed. On it was a basin of water, a cloth, and a piece of soap.
"Your bath has been prepared, Miss,” the maid said softly, her tone reserved. She gestured toward the bucket, which had been filled from the kitchen’s large pump and carried in by hand. The water was cool and slightly murky, with no signs of being warmed, just the remnants of natural water from a nearby well.
She approached the bucket hesitantly, her brow furrowing at the sight. It was a stark contrast to the sleek showers and warm baths she was used to. The bar of soap was coarse, its smell faintly reminiscent of lye, lacking any refinement or fragrance. The maid handed her the rough linen cloth, and she took it with a quiet thanks. The fabric was scratchy against her fingertips, far from the soft, plush towels she once had. She sighed deeply before she tried her best to clean herself while the maid stayed closely.
Once she finished, her hands and face were clean, but her skin felt raw and irritated. The rough towel did little to soothe her, only adding to the discomfort. The entire process had been humbling, and how she missed the convenience of running water and privacy during such a simple task.
The flickering candlelight dimmed further, casting shadows across the room. She sat back on the bed and the maid retired from her duty. Her body felt cold and stiff, reflecting on how far removed her modern world was from this rustic existence. The absence of hot baths, personal privacy, and modern hygiene was a stark reminder of her unfamiliar surroundings.
Even though this had been her greatest wish, reality had a way of shifting expectations. The charming allure of the British prosecutor faded quickly as the harsh realities of the Victorian era settled in. The manor only reinforced the stark contrast between the refined, yet outdated world she now found herself in, and the conveniences, freedoms, and advancements of her modern life.
The weight of her thoughts was suddenly interrupted by a soft and almost inaudible chime. She paused, her brow furrowing in confusion as her eyes flicked around the dimly lit room. Out of nowhere, a faint pop-up appeared in her vision, just as if she were still within a game. The text was simple, stark against the backdrop of the manor’s flickering gaslights:
[Option: Return to Your World? Yes / No]
Her breath hitched, her heart racing. It was too surreal! Too absurd! A pop-up in real life? She stared at it, disbelief coursing through her veins. The reality of the situation hit her hard, yet the familiarity of the game-like interface made it feel both surreal and strangely familiar.
For a moment, she simply sat there, frozen in place, her mind struggling to comprehend what she was seeing. Her fingers twitched slightly as if to reach out, but she hesitated. What if it was a trick? What if it wasn’t real?
Yet the longer she stared, the more the options seemed to pulse before her, insistent and unavoidable. Yes or No. It wasn’t a choice born of logic, it was instinct, it was desperation, and the deep longing to escape the suffocating grip of a world she no longer recognized.
Her breath caught, and her voice trembled as she whispered softly, "Yes."
The world around her shimmered and wavered like a dream slowly slipping away into reality. One moment she was seated in that dimly lit Victorian manor, surrounded by its cold, oppressive atmosphere, and the next, she was back in her own room, seated in her comfortable chair. The familiar surroundings brought a wave of comfort, the soft hum of her modern appliances, the warmth of her space, and the unmistakable glow of her smartphone on the table.
Her eyes widened as she grabbed her phone, her fingers trembling slightly. To her surprise, not even a day had passed. Time stood still as she stared at the screen, disbelief washing over her. She sat there in stunned silence, the surreal experience gradually fading into mere disbelief. She had truly returned home. She couldn’t comprehend how it had happened, how it was even possible. Maybe she had passed out after the shocking event, and everything that followed was a dream, a really vivid and chaotic dream.
A quiet sigh escaped her lips, and for a moment, she let herself believe that it was over. That her time with Barok Van Zieks, the unsettling mystery of the Victorian era, and the overwhelming sense of being out of place, had all been an elaborate figment of her imagination. Yet, the memories lingered. It was vivid, sharp, and too real to dismiss entirely.
She couldn’t help but celebrate. The weight of her modern world, the comforts of her everyday life, rushed back in waves of relief. A laugh bubbled up as she reminisced about her simple, carefree world. There was no archaic customs, no oppressive gaslights, just endless possibilities and the joy of connection at her fingertips.
But the celebration was fleeting.
As she leaned back in her chair, savoring the moment, a voice broke the silence. It was a voice she thought she’d left behind. A chill ran down her spine as her breath hitched. Turning slowly, she faced the doorway. There, standing tall and composed as ever, was Barok Van Zieks. His eyes locked onto hers with the same intensity that had haunted her.
“Would you care to explain what in the absolute pursuit of justice is happening?”