Archive of Our Own

Chapter Text

One look at the crime scene and Ema can already tell what tomorrow’s tabloid headlines are going to say:

VIDEO KILLED THE RADIO STAR? 

MUSIC MOGUL FOUND CRUSHED BY TELEVISION 

It’s not the bloodiest crime scene Ema’s ever seen, but it might be the most amount of blood she’s seen come out of one person. Head wounds bleed a lot —that’s common knowledge— but she’d never consciously accounted for what such a fact might mean when essentially the entire surface area of the head becomes a wound at exactly the same time. The sun isn’t even up yet, so the only light in the room is pouring out in a honey-thick incandescent yellow from an assortment of antique lamps. It makes the scene look more visceral — stickier, somehow.

The crime scene looks like something between an archive and a secondhand electronics store. One wall filled with floor to ceiling filing cabinets, one L shaped desk, imposing in its size, piled high with orderly stacks of yellowing documents surrounding an ancient PC monitor. The aforementioned lamps perched on the few scant free inches of space on top of every flat surface. The other half of the space is dedicated to… Ema doesn’t quite know what any of these machines do. Audio mixing equipment, probably, and several different generations of it at that. 

The victim: Anthony “Tinny Tony” Victrola, radio DJ turned singer-songwriter who’d worked his way through seemingly every position in the music industry before comfortably settling down at the top as chairman of one of the largest record labels on the planet. As skilled as he was at producing his own songs, he was known primarily for his uncanny ability to pluck up-and-coming musicians out of complete obscurity and catapult them into international fame. One of those kinds of people who was good at everything they’d ever tried. At least, according to the first couple lines of his Wikipedia.

Cause of death: Severe cranial trauma. 

The murder weapon: The largest CRT TV she’s ever seen. Guessing based on the splash zone of glass shards and gray matter puts it in the ballpark of weighing at least a few hundred pounds. And absolutely nowhere in the room where it looks like it could have fallen from. Certainly, the victim, well into his nineties, hadn’t dropped it on himself. 

It’s going to be a long week.

*

Chief Prosecutor Miles Edgeworth has called Ema into his office. Chief Prosecutor Miles Edgeworth. This will be the first time she’s been in this office since it was Lana’s. She’d probably feel some sort of way about that one if Lana was still in prison, but her probation began a few months ago.

It doesn’t seem like it’d been really redone at all in the past decade and change, but the furniture’s been swapped out. Lana’s had been sleek and modern: black, unyielding, utilitarian. Mr. Edgeworth’s are ponderous antiques, giving the room adequate warmth that is then immediately spoiled by the resulting stuffiness. She’d peg the table at around four grand, the desk at least six and a half, and the chairs are beyond her because chairs are kind of all over the place that way. The fucking Steel Samurai 1:7 resin figure also seems to have made the cut for some reason, which is pretty awesome. 

She’s taken him up on a cup of tea. It’s black, and strong, and does a lot to smooth over the Original Donut Shop TWIX Coffee Keurig Single and Jimmy Dean Bacon Egg & Cheese that have been congealing in her intestines.

“So, am I in trouble or something?” is what she asks once they’ve settled past the pleasantries. She hopes it sounds enough like a joke to cover for the fact that she's actually pretty worried about that.

“Hm? No, no, not at all.” He materializes a thin manila folder seemingly out of nowhere and sets it on the table in front of him. “There are some further… complications regarding the case that I need you and Prosecutor Gavin made aware of.” 

She groans. 

“It turns out,” he continues unbidden, “Mr. Victrola was a person of interest in one of Interpol’s ongoing investigations. The two of you are to assist them to the best of your capabilities, insofar as it does not impede your ability to identify the culprit. I don’t believe we should be having any trouble in that area, though.”

“Seriously? Since when were you so buddy-buddy with Interpol that you don’t think they’d be an impediment to the first big murder case during your career as chief? Is Agent Lang-”

“Franziska will be coming.”

Right. She hadn’t heard much, but she had heard something about that. Somewhere along the line things had shifted; von Karma had gone from aiding in Interpol’s cases to specializing in them. From Ema’s understanding, whatever title her fancy new job had, they’d made it up just for her. 

She’d only ever met the woman a handful of times; the two of them had crossed paths here or there when they had gotten mixed up in one of Kay’s schemes or Mr. Edgeworth’s more involved cases. For all Edgeworth and his sister loved to snip and bitch at and/or about each other, the work had been good, and she supposes they’re both either too professional or, more likely, too perfectionist to avoid admitting that to themselves. 

“Alright, well. Good to know, I guess. Ten-four. But you couldn’t have told me that over the phone?”

“Briefings. From Interpol. You’re expected to be familiar with their contents by the time their agent arrives, but as you can see-” he gestures to the manila folder, “-they’re not being particularly forthcoming with the details of their investigation. So it shouldn’t be too much to manage.”

“Shouldn’t you be having this conversation with Gavin, though?” She asks. “Technically, I don’t even work for you. This kind of stuff should be going through him. I mean, not like I care about the damn org chart or whatever but I was kind of in the middle of, y’know, gathering evidence. The part of this that’s actually my job.” 

His mouth pulls flat.

“Well, It’s quite early, and I knew you were already awake, and…” His fingers drum against his bicep. He stops meeting her gaze.

“You cannot seriously be telling me you pulled me away from the unsolved murder of a famous bajillionaire because you care about some nepo-baby PR nightmare underling’s beauty sleep.”

“Urgh, fine. Whatever. It was shortsighted, I admit that. But, Gavin, he’s…”

“Obnoxious?” More than a little bit responsible for wrecking Mr. Wright’s career?

“Chatty.” Spat out like it’s a swear. “I imagine doubly so with a case like this! And if I’m going to be chatting with anyone at this time of day I’d, at the very least, prefer it be you.”

Ohh yeah, baby. Oh yeah. That’s one she can take right to the bank.  

“How’s that going, by the way?” he asks. “You and Gavin?”

“Well,” She sighs. Takes a moment to look around contemplatively. Pensively sets her teacup down on the delicate china saucer ($400 for the full set, probably?). “Can’t say he’s as bad to me as you were to your pet detective-”

“Nnngh…”

“-which, hey, not really that high of a bar. But am I happy about it? Hell no. I mean, is there anyone else you can stick me with?”

“Not really,” he grimaces. “I’m sure this won’t come as a surprise to you but this isn't a career path that attracts pleasant coworkers. I doubt you’d fare any better with anyone else on the staff, professionally or interpersonally. And, to be honest, I’m hoping you giving some pushback to his whole… attitude will make some sort of an impact there.”

“Urgh. I hate that you’re probably right. Even more reason for me to hurry up and make the move to forensics.”

“I trust you’ll be there soon enough. But, you should probably be hurrying back towards your case first.”

“Yeah, guess I’d better.” She stands up to leave, tucking the briefings into her purse, and he sees her to the door. “Think I’ll actually head down to the detention center first while I’m on this side of town. Techs can hold down the crime scene while I question the suspect. Might give me a few new things I’ll need to look into on site anyway.”

“Sounds good. Keep me posted if there are any serious developments. I’ve passed your information along to Franziska and she’ll be contacting you once she’s arrived.”

She’s not three steps down the hallway before her phone rings. 

Gavin. 

“Look who finally decided to wake up,” she snaps.

“Fräulein! Glad to see you’re feeling as chipper as ever. Imagine my surprise when I show up to the crime scene to be briefed and my detective is nowhere to be found.”

“Yeah, and I’ll have you know it’s because I was speaking to your boss about something very important!”

“Oh? Well, I look forward to hearing all about it face to face. I’ll see you soon, ja?”

“I’m stopping by the detention center first. I need to do the first round of suspect interviewing.”

“It can wait. I need you on site first.”

“You can wait.” She’s going to snap her fucking phone in half. 

“I’m not asking, Fräulein.”

*

“Did you hear they’re bringing Interpol in for this one?” Klavier asks her moments after she crosses over the threshold of the crime scene.

“Uh, yeah, actually,” She replies, “I did. That’s what Mr. Edgeworth wanted to talk to me about. He asked me to tell you. How did you hear it?” 

He’s keyed up, which she probably should have been able to guess over the phone, standing taut for a moment before trying to force himself back into his usual practiced languor, the excess nervous energy getting sloughed off with some measured pacing. The chain at his waist jangles a bit on each step.

“News travels fast, you know?”

“Uh, no?”

“They say Franziska von Karma will be heading the interpol team.” He looks at her expectantly.

“Yeah, I know. Mr. Edgeworth told me. Like I said. And who’s ‘they’-”

“-Are you even aware of who that is?”

“Seriously?” Ema scoffs. “Yeah, of course I know who Franziska von Karma is. I don’t live under a rock.”

“Ah, well, you must forgive me - you make such a show of acting like you do sometimes, it can be easy to make that mistake.”

“Can it, fop.” 

“She’s was youngest person to have ever passed the California bar-”

“-I know.” Actually, she didn’t know von Karma was the youngest, but, like she gives a fuck about the prosecutorial childhood endangerment dick measuring contest.

“-which is to say, the only person younger than me.” He sighs then, wistful and longing. “I saw her in the news once, when I was younger, back when we lived in Germany. She really inspired me. I thought some day I might be the one to break her record, but quickly realized such a feat is only possible for one who has been studying the law since birth… and even then, a prodigious level of skill and intelligence is still necessary. It simply wasn’t to be… Still, even coming runner up is an honor. And it would have been no good to neglect the development of my musical talents either, ja? Being well rounded is something to take into consideration.”

“Gavin, why the hell did you call me back here? I’m not in the mood to get dicked around with today! I could be doing my job right now if you’d let me.”

“Doing your job? That’s rich. The techs told me you didn’t even finish going through the room he was murdered in.” He gestures into the room behind them - still delicately misted with a charnel shade of red but at the very least sufficiently de-corpsed. The victim’s with the medical examiner by now, but the murder weapon, although moved away from its original impact site, was deemed cumbersome enough that they had brought forensics there to look at it instead of the other way around. The shards of glass on the floor, ranging from the length of Ema’s hand to essentially dust particles, glimmer in the lamplight being reflected off the blood. 

“I finished the preliminary, obviously! I’m not incompetent,” she huffs. “I mean, we got everything obvious, anyway. This wasn’t the most subtle killing I’ve ever seen, that’s for damn sure, but if there’s anything to this other than the giant god damned TV that got dropped on his head somehow, I have no idea how I’m supposed to pull that needle out of this Fortune 500 hoarder haystack without getting some intel from the only living person who was here that night! And considering she’s the housekeeper, I thought, gee, she just might know where the important stuff’s kept!” 

She stomps past him into the room, careful to avoid the upsetting pile of glass and viscera near where the center of the screen would have been before it was moved. She gestures towards the piled recording equipment, to the fortified wall of paper stacked upon the desk, the phalanx of filing cabinets holding up the rear.

“But, hey, you’re the boss! I mean, what the hell do I know? The killer probably left a handwritten confession in one of these filing cabinets and I just missed it with my rush job. Mind saving me some trouble and telling me which one has our smoking gun in it, since you’re so smart?”

To her absolute shock, this is the thing that finally deflates him a bit. He takes a deep breath and holds a bit before sighing it back out.

“I… apologize.” To his credit he manages not to sound like it’s torturing him to say it. “Our little video killed the radio star situation here…” Fuck off. “It’s enough of a headache for me on its own even before accounting for Von Karma. I simply want to ensure that it is brought to its conclusion swiftly and accurately. We can’t afford to make fools of ourselves here.”

“What’s so different about this one?” She regrets asking it as soon as it comes out of her mouth. Working on homeopathic amounts of sleep has slowed her down. It had to be a music thing. Obviously. 

“Well, you see, my new solo EP was supposed to be coming out this week, on the anniversary of my very first single’s release. Stealth drop, you know? Very casual, very chic, just a little something stripped down and raw to really say auf Wiedersehen to the Gavinners once and for all. But-”

“Gasp! Did you say a solo album!?” Cuts in Trucy Wright, who has apparently just finished bounding the last few feet down the hallway. Ema had assumed the footsteps were some of the officers on duty switching shifts, or going to take a leak or something, but she supposes she knows who will be representing the suspect now. Justice trails several long paces behind, significantly less perky.

“Ah, Fräulein! Good morning. Ja, you heard correctly, but keep it under wraps, okay?” He winks and taps the side of his nose.

“Of course! It’s like daddy always says; snitches get stitches!”

Jeez, I guess video really did kill the radio star.

Wait, what? The incongruent thought comes to Ema unbidden, but she’s certain it wasn't hers. Apollo is staring intently at the television, eyes bugged out a bit as they’re wont to do in court. She fishes a stale snackoo out of her labcoat pocket and lands a clean shot on his forehead.

“Ow! Hey! What was that for?”

“You’re thinking too loudly. Knock it off.”

“Pay no mind to Fräulein Detective,” Klavier gives Apollo’s shoulder a congenial pat and then turns to catch her eye. “She was just leaving.”

“What!? You can’t be serious. I just drove across town to get here because you told me you wanted me to investigate the rest of the crime scene!”

“True, but circumstances have changed! You were quite persuasive with regards to the importance of interrogating the suspect. Quite persuasive indeed… I’ve come to see the error of my ways.” 

*

The drive to the detention center sees her stuck in the gridlock traffic of morning commuters, and the temptation to just turn her sirens on and make a break for the shoulder is palpable, but the thought of rushing anywhere at Gavin’s behest is enough to restrain her. By the time she’s stopped at a nearby diner to wolf down something resembling a proper breakfast (because at this point, why wouldn’t she?) the day is in full swing. 

The interrogation then carries her straight through to the afternoon. When she stumbles out of the cramped, cavelike interrogation room into the sickly fluorescent light of the lobby she feels barely human. They design those things to be uncomfortable for the suspect, but, of course, the detectives have to sit through it all too. 

There, sat at perfect attention on an unyielding metal bench, prim, poised, as put together as if she had spent the morning in a luxury spa rather than a last minute international flight, is Franziska von Karma. 

She’s jotting notes into a small leather-bound booklet with a gold-trimmed fountain pen that Ema would place in the ballpark of costing at least half of her monthly rent. After hearing the interrogation room door scrape closed behind her, von Karma promptly tucks both away into an external pocket on her bag (Ema’s not even going to try and guess how much that one runs, for her own sake if nothing else) and rises without an ounce of fatigue to greet her. 

“Ema Skye,” the corners of her mouth rise up just the tiniest bit into a wry smile that runs parallel to the blunt edges of the sleek bluegray bob framing her face. “It’s good to see you.”

“Y-yeah! You too!” Ema manages to stammer back. She takes the hand that von Karma has left outstretched, grateful that the gloves mean Ema doesn’t have to visibly wipe the snack grease and clammy interrogation room sweat off the palm of her hands before shaking it. “Hope your flight wasn’t too bad.”

“It was adequate and timely. I suppose that is all that can be asked. And your interrogation of the suspect? How did it fare?”

“Oh, uh! Pretty good, I guess… There was another person there earlier that evening, one of the victim’s assorted ex-wives apparently, which the defense is gonna have a field day with, I’m sure. But we’ve got a lot more information to work with now when it comes to finding anything useful in his personal belongings. She told us he updated his will recently, so that’s something.”

“Adequate. Now, enough pleasantries. You will take me to the crime scene.”

*

Back, again, to the other side of town, up the nauseating, winding hilltop roads where the beautiful and important people live in their simulacrum of discretion. Not that it ever stops any of them from being murdered. Back to Gavin, who, unfortunately, called and interrupted an otherwise pleasant drive to ask if von Karma had arrived yet. Not like she could lie, so, of course, he had Ema let von Karma know that he’d be delighted to assist with anything she needed him for, and would be meeting the two of them at the victim’s house.

When they arrive he’s reclined against his “hog” in the other half of the drive way, feigning dutiful nonchalance while he flips through the medical examiner’s report. He pretends to not notice them walking up to him until they’re just a few paces away and then oh-so-casually brushes his bangs out of the way to meet von Karma’s gaze.

“Fräulein von Karma!” He calls out as he strides forwards. “It’s a pleasure to meet you. I’m Klavier Gavin, with the district prosecutor’s office, but I trust you already know as much and then some. Your legendary reputation of perfection precedes you. Please, allow me to brief you on the progress of our investigation.”

“Is this supposed to be some kind of joke?” is what von Karma says, after taking just a moment too long to reply to him. He falters.

“I assure you, Fräulein v-” 

Ema doesn’t process the whip moving before it meets Gavin’s cheek with a sound like a thunderclap.

“Fool! Speak properly or don’t bother opening your mouth.”

Gavin holds his hands up in a surrendering, halting gesture.

“I… Sincerely apologize for whatever it is I may have done to offend you. Whatever misstep I’ve made here, I’m sure-”

“First of all,” she barks. “You will address me only as “Miss von Karma” or “sir” from here on out. Do I make myself clear?”

“Of course, Miss von Karma.”

“Following that, you will drop that preposterous phony accent at once.”

No way.

Ema is locked on to Gavin now. She stares him down, waiting to see which way the penny drops. His eyes meet hers for a fraction of a second and, ah, there it is. He’s dead to rights. She grins back at him. Has to slap a hand up over her mouth to not burst out laughing. 

One beat later, he composes himself enough to reply. 

“...I assure you, I meant no offense. I’ve become accustomed to speaking a particular way for the sake of my work.” There’s nothing even vaguely European sounding left when he speaks. It’s honestly jarring how much stiffer it makes him sound. How much more like his brother, actually.

“Hmmph! Care to enlighten me as to which part of prosecuting requires faking an accent?”

“He’s talking about his band,” Ema cuts in. 

“Is that so?” von Karma pauses for a moment like someone’s supposed to answer, but as soon as Gavin begins to speak she continues. “This foolishness is a waste of my time. Your little rock-and-roll band is of no concern to my investigation and I shall hear nothing further of it.”

“Of course, Miss von Karma.” 

“Now, your briefing.”

“Yes, sir.” 

To his credit, Gavin has kept himself busy during the time Ema spent running back and forth across the city. Several notable grudges and financial disputes involving the victim have been dredged up. Footage from neighbors’ security cameras and ring doorbells was pulled to assess the previous evening’s comings and goings. One illicit lovechild has been located and informed of parentage, for whatever good that’s going to do anyone in court tomorrow. Business partners have been interviewed. A boatload of juicy info that still somehow can’t shed any light on how a man ended up crushed to death by a television the approximate weight of a fully grown silverback gorilla.

After they head inside, von Karma makes a beeline for the ancient PC at the victim’s desk, and Ema begins fishing around in the filing cabinets for the documents the suspect mentioned during interrogation. Among them: recent business contracts, a volley of hostile letters Victrola had received earlier in the year and archived for whatever reason, and the updated will. Half of his fortune to some kind of trust; the other half to be split among his grandchildren. 

“And wouldn’t it be nice if we could have gotten our hands on these earlier?” She says when she hands them over to Gavin.

“Thank you for your input, Detective Skye.”

She had half suspected that his little envy-crush on von Karma would have him hanging around the crime scene well past the time he’d be of any use there even despite the dressing down he’d been given, but he seems intent on trying to make a stronger second impression. He excuses himself to go look over the additional documentation in more detail, and to subpoena the additional persons of interests whose names have cropped up over the course of the day.

If his pursuit of redemption has moved von Karma at all, she doesn’t show it. There’s nothing to suggest she even caught a word of their conversation despite Gavin’s unsubtle propping of himself against the other end of the desk while they spoke. She’s completely absorbed in the work in front of her. 

There’s a raptorial quality to the way she descends on the victim’s computer. Part of that is the look in her eye. It’s a predator’s gaze; cold and primordial. Eyes that evolutionarily perfected their ability to strike fear into the heart of weaker creatures. Ema imagines that, like crocodilians, those eyes made their way into the modern era unchanged since the time of the dinosaurs, passed down from each subsequent creature at the top of the food chain before making their way to her. The other part of it is the way she hunts and pecks at the oversized mechanical keyboard. Her index fingers come down on the keys in a harsh arc, slow to aim but each one landing on its target with the cruel precision of a hunting falcon.

She can’t imagine von Karma has gotten much actual investigating done this way. 

“Ema Skye,” von Karma doesn’t look up as she addresses her. “You are technologically inclined, yes? A woman of science.”

“Er, uh. Yeah. I mean, I like to think so!”

“...This foolish contraption is impeding my investigation. I require your assistance.”

“Oh! Sure.” Immediately upon walking around to the other side of the desk Ema realizes what the problem is. “Goddamn, this thing’s running MS-DOS?! I get that this guy was about a hundred years old but you’d think with the kind of money he raked in he could afford a computer made in this millennium, at least!”

“He may have been a very rich man, but he was also a very private man. People like that don’t need to bother themselves fooling around with newfangled computers,” von Karma looks up and takes stock of the room’s eclectic collection of electronic junk for a moment. “Or, at least, the smart ones don’t. They understand what it would take to protect themselves from hackers and phishing and their own atrocious infosec, and realize they’re better off paying people to interface with the world on their behalf rather than doing it themselves with a machine.”

“Yeah, well. Guess this guy was pretty smart, because this thing’s hack-proof for sure. I don’t even think it’s connected to the internet.”

“You understand how it works, then? You can use this… thing?” 

Hell no.

“I’m sure I can figure something out,” is what she actually says, which is probably true. “Uhh… What exactly are you trying to do with it? I guess that’s probably a good place to start.”

“I need copies of whatever personal files are on this machine. Preferably hard copies.”

“Alright. Okay. Print some files... That’s gotta be doable…” 

Von Karma scoots the office chair to the side to let Ema crane herself over the keyboard and monitor. To her credit, it seems like she was doing more than just blindly inputting commands, and some sort of word processor is open on the screen. Ema probably couldn’t even have done that much without instructions. 

There’s no way she can actually pretend to be some kind of tech whiz here, is there? If she doesn’t get to look cool, she’ll at the very least try and make herself actually useful. She fishes her phone out of her pocket.

“This is not the time to be checking your texts, Detective!”

“Hold your horses! I’m trying something here, okay? Just trust me.”

Von Karma crosses her arms pensively but doesn’t interrupt further. Ema opens the YouTube app and starts typing “Print from MS Dos” then immediately closes it and opens Newpipe to do the exact same thing. She doesn't want to know what kind of reaction von Karma would have to being forced to sit through a YouTube ad for hegetsus.com in the middle of an active investigation. 

She really should just uninstall the damn thing for good, but she always ends up loading it back onto her phone. Sometimes the weekend after a particularly stressful case, attempts to unwind from that will find her couch locked. In such a state she can’t help but convince herself that watching Gigi Murin stream in bed on her phone would be a lot more enjoyable than second monitoring it while she plays Dwarf Fortress. Is that really such a crime? 

“Now, here’s the secret trick for us technologically inclined people; in the information age, nobody can ever know anything they need to. But if you know what you don’t know, then being able to find it is as good as knowing,” Ema says. She’s hoping von Karma can’t tell she’s just stalling for time. It’s tough to gauge from the thumbnails which of these videos is actually gonna be helpful.

“That makes sense. My Papa, he believed something very similar,” Von Karma gestures as she speaks, hand splayed out invitationally like she’s in court, asking the gallery to follow along with her. “Every morning, he would solve the crossword in the daily paper—in pen, no less. He would always make sure to be finished by the time he was done drinking his tea. Of course, drinking a cup of tea doesn’t take very long, so he would send the staff off to search up anything he couldn’t answer himself to ensure his schedule was kept.”

“...Doesn’t that kind of ruin the point of doing the crossword?”

She wags her finger. “Hmmph! You can’t argue with results.”

Ema props the phone up against landscape against the monitor and slides the keyboard forward a bit to keep it propped up at the right angle. 

“Guess I can’t.” 

*

“-And if WordPerfect’s drivers aren’t fucked somehow, this should do it.” Ema hits enter to initiate the print command.

There’s several breaths worth of wretched silence before the dot matrix printer they’d fished out from under the desk whirrs to life. It begins plugging away at its task with a geriatric whirr and whine. Ema gazes lustfully at the perforated strip of pinholes on either end of the slowly emerging printout. What she wouldn’t give to spend the rest of the afternoon tearing those off. 

“Well done, Ema Skye.” Von Karma leans back in the office chair with a contented catlike smile. “I was not aware of how much valuable information was on YouTube… Perhaps this could be a resource I take advantage of more often. ”

“You really shouldn’t.” 

“Hmm? And why might that be?”

“I honestly don’t even know where I’d begin.” 

“...Then I suppose you leave me no choice but to try it for myself. I’m not in the business of letting other people make my decisions for me.”

“Just as long as you don’t go blaming me for planting that seed,” Ema says, “and at the very least don’t read the comments.”

“Bah! Don’t patronize me. I learned that much about the internet when the news interview I gave after my first trial was put online…”

“Yikes.”

“Quite.” And then, with a flourish of her hand continues, “Very well. You’re pardoned of all responsibility for whatever may await me.”

And then, mostly quiet again, as they both watch the switchback ribbon of paper pile up behind the machine. Mostly quiet. The pitching of the printer as it fills in the lines is just irregular enough to be completely maddening. 

“Y’know, this thing’s probably going to take awhile. If you want, we could check out the rest of the crime scene. There may be something you-”

“No,” von Karma leaves no room for persuading. “I will not leave critical evidence unattended. If there is anything else of relevance to my case on the premises, it is of secondary importance to his documents. However! Your assistance is no longer necessary. You are free to investigate as is necessary for tomorrow’s trial.”

Ugh. She’s already done so much being on her feet today. Doesn’t matter what she does anyway. Justice is going to walk into that courtroom, rip a few gaping holes into whatever sequence of events Gavin had just had her testify towards, drop some sort of crackpot hypothetical, and then spend several grueling hours making everyone else in the room vindicate it for him. And you know what? She respects him for that, really, she does. It just discourages being too proactive to a pretty significant degree. 

“Gavin would never let me hear the end of it if I left you alone.” True enough as well. 

“Ugh. That boy, he’s quite the character,” she sighs. “Functional at least, otherwise I would be having words with Miles Edgeworth, but altogether too much unearned swagger. To think, someone like that is responsible for derailing Phoenix Wright’s career. He may be a superstar out there in the rest of the world, but in the courtroom, he’s nothing more than an overdecorated rookie.”

“And everybody’s falling for it! That’s the thing that really drives me crazy, y’know?” Ema doesn’t even realize the outburst is coming before it starts. “Getting up on stage and singing about being a prosecutor way more than he ever actually did any prosecuting, making a big stink about fighting crime when his own brother and a guy in his band are cold blooded murderers, which he didn’t even notice! And they all just eat it out of the palm of his hand!”

Von Karma’s nose wrinkles, and she shakes her head.

“Foolish fools getting fooled by another fool’s prancing about. But let us be done with this. We’ve taken enough of a break. I won’t waste any more breath on someone so insignificant when there is still further work to be done for my investigation.”

“I thought you said you weren’t going to do anything until your files were done printing.”

“I said I would not leave the evidence unattended. However, as you’ve surely noticed, there are other documents in this room I have yet to assess for any relevance to Interpol’s case.” She gestures to the wall of filing cabinets. 

“...You’re going to go through all of these?”

“Of course. And you are going to assist me.” Fuuuuuuck. 

“There’s got to be thousands of files in there! What are we even looking for!? I mean, you guys have been really stingy with the details - how am I supposed to know what’s gonna be relevant to your case?”

She pauses for a moment to consider this, a pensive hand on her chin. She then raises a declarative finger.

“Look for anything involving music.”

“...”

*

They don’t finish. Ema finally convinces von Karma to turn in for the night by reminding her that she doesn’t need to present her case in court tomorrow, and there’s no reason to risk getting sloppy from lack of sleep, but she’s sure if Von Karma had been alone she would have sat in that cluttered, bloodstained office all night. Maybe Ema should feel a bit guilty about making the woman sink down to her level. Maybe she should be getting a pat on the back for supporting a healthy work life balance. Or maybe she’s kidding herself for thinking anything she did today moved the needle at all when Franziska von Karma is so clearly a completely different calibre of person than she is.

She’s alluring, Ema admits, in much the same way Edgeworth had been to her when she was younger. Competent, collected, authoritative, and so far out of her league they were playing altogether different sports. With Edgeworth, that was comforting. She’d nursed a crush on him for a few years there, carried it the same way girls in her grade had carried their feelings for the fresh out of grad school civics teacher. Safety in distance. 

With von Karma, there’s instead some sort of agonizing pseudoproximity. They’re peers, almost. Or at least they could have been in a world where she wasn’t better than Ema in every conceivable way. Franziska von Karma, a woman who was further along in her career at age 13 than Ema is now. The kind of woman you can look at and know: this is someone who’s never had to try and figure out when her last shower was by gauging her armpit hair growth.

She can’t stop picturing the way she looked with her neck craned over as she rifled through those filing cabinets. It’s waiting for her behind her eyelids, like the tetris effect. Or highway hypnosis, maybe. She doesn’t much recall her own parallel search, memories of the files she flipped through completely smoothed over in favor of preserving the image of the other woman’s dedication to her toil.

She rubs her eyes, hard, and collapses onto her bed with an exhale. She fishes her phone out of her sweatpants pocket and plugs it into the lengthy cord on her nightstand before slipping out of the pants altogether and kicking them onto the floor. She opens Polymarket and places a four thousand dollar bet on “Klavier Gavin solo album release.”

*

“-the television, which is ultimately what ended up crushing the victim’s head. His death was instantaneous.” 

“Oho! So I guess video killed the radio star after all…”

“Uh, yeah, Your Honor… Sure did… Anyway, forensic analysis of the crime scene tells us that-”

*

It’s really starting to look like the housekeeper didn’t do it. Gee, who could have seen that one coming! 

They’re done with her testimony now. Gavin and Justice seemed more concerned with trying to figure out the logistics of how anyone could even move the TV (“That’s a Sony PVM-4300, you know! Only 20 of them were ever made,” Gavin had stressed, for some reason) to be too far up her ass about anything, thankfully. Small blessings. Except, not really, because they might still need her on the stand again depending on where this thing goes, which, as always, could be fucking anywhere. 

She’s expecting to be alone when she enters the prosecution’s lobby, and doesn’t notice von Karma sitting there quickly enough to stop her from closing the door behind herself with a bit of extra unnecessary force. So now she looks like a complete tool.

“P-prosecutor von Karma! I didn’t know you’d be here.”

“Ema Skye. Where else would I be?” Von Karma is posted up like she owns the place. There are several piles of documents in front of her, most consisting of the printed off files from the victim’s computer, some photocopies from his filing cabinets (they mostly look like scrawled lyrics, but not for any songs she’s heard before), and others Ema can’t place that must predate the murder. 

They all have varying color and quantities of highlighter on them. She’s in the middle of adding bright green highlights to one she has braced against a clipboard in her lap, since the table isn’t really at the appropriate height for working at unless you want to sit on the floor. Her laptop is also there, in use but set off to the side, and there’s an open can of iced coffee from the vending machine precariously close to it. Of course, a von Karma would never knock a drink over onto a keyboard.

“Uh… I dunno. Figured you had a fancy hotel room or something, and that your underlings would have joined you by now to help take care of all of…” She gestures to the papers. Stacked up like this they feel like sandbags lining the edges of a trench. “...This.”

“I do have a hotel room, and rest assured, it is quite fancy! However, this is not an atmosphere conducive to working. And it would appear my underling has just arrived.” She extends a hand in Ema’s direction.

“Seriously, isn’t part of being some big Interpol hotshot that you don’t have to do all the busywork yourself? Why do they have you relying on the local fuzz to be your boots on the ground? Don’t you guys hate us?”

“I’ll admit, this case has my team stretched a bit thin. In general, I prefer quality over quantity when it comes to those who assist me, and they currently have their hands full handling our previous commitments. I figured it would be best to have Miles Edgeworth prepare some local manpower under the circumstances.”

“Yeah, well,” Ema flops down on the other side of the couch, careful not to bump over the coffee as she slips behind the table. “I, for one, don’t feel particularly prepared. By you, or him. The briefing Gavin and I got was like, a page and a half, with a bunch of redactions. How is it all so hush-hush but low stakes enough they’ve got someone like you highlighting her own documents? Like, what are we dealing with here? War crimes? Terrorism? Drugs? Human trafficking. Is it human trafficking?”

“I’ll have you know I review all case materials myself regardless.” She gives a haughty little sniff at the end. “And a case doesn’t need to be unseemly as human trafficking to warrant a bit of professional discretion.”

Ah. Aha! Ace Detective Ema Skye has cracked it. It’s almost glaringly obvious now.

“Von Karma, this case of yours... Could it be that it’s… Really lame and boring?”

“Nngh!” She flushes and recoils, her highlighter dragging long past the word it's supposed to mark and slipping off the edge of the paper. “Perhaps… Perhaps to an uneducated layperson! It may appear as such! B-but I’ll have you know… The outcome of this investigation could completely change the shape of the music industry as we know it.”

“...Is it an intellectual property case?”

“...Yes. But,” she continues, abruptly forcing herself back into composure. “I prefer to think of it more as graverobbing. You see, it would seem the ownership of thousands, if not tens of thousands of pieces of music put out under the Tune Bright record label, has room for legal dispute.”

“Because they’re stealing dead people’s songs!?”

“To an extent, yes. It seems that Tune Bright was in the habit of signing with certain types of up-and-coming artists under very limited scope, offering them a fairly reasonable contract to release new music under the label at industry rates, while allowing them to retain ownership of work they produced independently. Then, upon the artists’ death, they’d go about releasing the rest of their work through the label despite seemingly having no legal right to do so. Of course, the only people really aware of this state of affairs were their own legal team, so with no one left to complain, they’ve been free to continue reaping the rewards.”

“And by ‘certain types’ of artist I imagine you mean the ones whose families can’t afford lawyers.”

“I mean the ones without families. Undocumented refugees, war orphans, foster care runaways and those of a similar ilk. The type of people who were busking on streetcorners for their daily bread before being lifted out of the gutter and onto a soundstage.”

“When you put it like that, it almost does sound like human trafficking,” Ema says, “or, at the very least, conspiracy to commit murder. There’s no way the record label was just sitting patiently, waiting for their talent to start dropping dead with their fingers crossed.”

Von Karma shakes her head.

“You’re thinking too small, believe it or not. With the kind of profit margins this industry operates with, at the scale it functions, they don’t need to micromanage it.” She’s clenching the document in her hand hard enough that it starts to buckle despite how thick it is. “It turns out that when you bring desperate, damaged people into an environment of overwork and recreational substance abuse, enough of them die young of their own accord that there’s no need to intervene with the ones that don’t.”

“...And Tinny Tony, he’s the one who brought them in, isn’t he? That was his whole thing, right? Finding these obscure nobodies with generational talent and throwing them in front of a global audience,” she snorts. “Jeez, what a scumbag! Someone should have dropped a TV on him ages ago.”

“Once again, the scale of this is beyond any one man. But yes, I do believe he was significantly involved in this state of affairs. It’s possible that Victrola was some sort of calculating mastermind who understood that those in similar circumstances to his own would be uniquely easy to exploit. However, it’s equally possible that this status quo isn’t necessarily by anyone’s design at all, the result of number crunching entirely blind to the human element. Do enough statistical analyses of initial offers compared to sales figures, I’m sure a corporate entity with sufficient volume of data could end up with the exact kind of policy in place, even if nobody realized why it was working.”

“...I’m going to be honest with you, von Karma. Maybe there’s something I’m missing here, but this is all starting to sound a lot less like a case for an Interpol prosecutor, and a lot more like one for an investigative journalist. Sure, it’s got a bit of zhuzh to it, but these companies are selling music that nobody alive really owns, to an audience who probably would have gotten to hear it any other way, and you don’t even know if anyone’s getting fucked over on purpose. There’s gotta be more important crimes you could be spending your time on." 

“And what value does your ‘honest opinion’ have to me, Ema Skye?” she barks. “I’m sure being an LAPD detective has let you feel entitled to decide what sort of crimes actually matter, but I don’t recall ever asking to hear it. I’d be better off asking a tadpole what it thinks of the ocean!”

“S-sorry,” Ema stammers.

“Don’t waste your breath on apologies. Either you can assist me as you’re supposed to or I’ll be letting Miles Edgeworth know that you are of the opinion my case is not important enough to be worth your time.”

“Yes sir,” she almost whimpers. “Tell me what you want me to do.”

*

Ema’s stomach gives a fully audible, sickening gurgle a few hours in. She doesn’t say anything. Just tries to force her face to stop flushing, keeping her head down in her work to hide behind the curtain of her hair. Her eyes are burning. She almost wishes Gavin would call her back in to testify again. 

“...If you would like to take a break, you may do so.” Von Karma says after a moment.

“...That’s okay.” Another gurgle. “Or, maybe just a quick snack from the vending machine.”

She starts rising from the floor, knees aching, as von Karma makes some sort of affirmative noise. Then she scampers out into the lobby and slips through the door down the side hall in front of the defense’s waiting rooms. Grabs an energy drink from the beverage machine and ragdolls onto the bench under the window, rubbing her eyes to try and force them to focus again. 

Von Karma had not yet begun to show the slightest inkling of fatigue from either the hours of detail-oriented tedium or the incredibly long day preceding it. Ema imagined if she commented on this, Karma would say something like, ‘Pah! We have only been working for mere hours, Ema Skye! Do they not pay you to work eight of them a day?’ and she would have nothing to say in return. 

She grabs a pack of beef jerky from the snack machine and stuffs them in her labcoat pocket, because she needs some protein in her if she doesn’t want to pass out on the stand, and a pair of swiss rolls, because she’s feeling extremely sorry for herself. Only, the damn things don’t come out. She shakes the machine a bit and waits to hear the drop. Nothing. Shakes it again, a bit harder. Nothing. Cries out in frustration and shakes it one more time. And then kicks it, and kicks it, and kicks it, and-

-And then loses her balance, falling backwards into the shockingly sturdy frame of Franziska von Karma, who at some point during the tantrum had snuck her way down the hall.

“Ah, Jesus - fuck!” God damn it. “Shit, I mean. Sorry. Thanks for that.”

“Is the machine broken?” she asks. 

“Yeah, it, uh. It won’t give me my swiss rolls.”

“Unacceptable,” she huffs. “With how high taxes are in this city, you’d think they’d be able to provide some basic facilities for their public servants.”

“You should see the machines they’ve got down at the precinct.”

“I have. I’ve put in several formal complaints over the years. Step aside.” Von Karma brushes past Ema and approaches the machine before even giving her time to move. “A more delicate touch may be required in these circumstances.”

With the grace of a cat settling on its haunches to pounce, she takes a knee on the grimy linoleum and slides her slender arm up to its elbow in the guts of the machine. The steely look of complete focus that Ema has become well acquainted with over the past day overcomes her. Ema watches her tongue briefly slip across her lower lip as she strains against something they can’t see. There’s a clunk as something drops into the bottom of the machine. Her mouth gets a smug curl at its corners, and she rises, holding in her hand like a trophy a… carton of milk. 

Her expression flips from smug to snarling in a heartbeat and her free hand finds its way to her whip. Ema has to abruptly jackknife to the side to avoid becoming struck by the windup as von Karma delivers several devastating blows to the machine that land with a sound like she’s auditioning for STOMP. A soft thump as something else lands in the collection area steadies her hand. She lets out one heavy breath before approaching the machine and fishing the swiss rolls out from behind the flap and placing them gingerly into Ema’s hand. 

“...Thanks,” is what Ema says instead of yeah, that was delicate alright. 

“...Think nothing of it. Now, this wretched contraption will behave itself from this point on.” Von Karma fishes a few bills out of her pocket and feeds them into the machine. The little LED screen then informs her that the order of swiss rolls she’s attempting to buy are OUT OF STOCK, and there’s a tinkling clatter as it helpfully refunds her in the form of a couple of dozen quarters. The sheer volume of them overflows the coin deposit and several fall to the ground before rolling a few yards down the hall. 

“I guess that’s why they didn’t want to come out,” Ema says. 

Von Karma doesn’t say anything. Abandoning the change, she strides purposefully towards the bench at the end of the hall and takes a seat, starting to sip on her pilfered milk. Ema tentatively follows. Von Karma pointedly does not look at her as she starts to unwrap the cakes.

“Hey, um, do you want one?” Ema asks, holding out the package. Jesus Christ, it’s like being in elementary school. If she’s feeling frisky maybe she’ll take this to second base and ask von Karma if she’s got any cool Pokemon cards. 

“That won’t be necessary.”

“Seriously, take it! Wouldn’t have even managed to get my hands on ‘em if you hadn’t helped, probably. You earned it.”

“...Very well.” She starts pulling the glove off of her unoccupied hand with her teeth. It’s completely obscene. Ema feels her face start to heat up and only the knowledge that it would be extremely fucking weird of her stops her from averting her eyes while von Karma slips one of the cakes out of the plastic. She tries to chase the fresh dryness out of her throat with a gulp of her Monster, but it doesn’t help much because that shit’s like battery acid. 

For one blissful, delusional moment, she entertains asking for a sip of von Karma’s milk. That’s at least third base by elementary school standards. She’s nowhere near ready for that.

“Ema Skye,” Von Karma begins after washing down another bite. Ema is almost compelled to apologize for her G-rated risque thoughts as if she’d somehow picked up on them. “Something has been bothering me. Why are you a detective? Were you not studying to become a forensic investigator?”

“...I haven’t qualified for forensics yet.”

“Why not?”

Who else would just ask that? And who else would Ema not immediately hate for asking it? She’s somewhere between a hammer and a scalpel, blunt and pointed at the same time. A machete. She cuts straight through whatever’s in front of her.

“Sometimes,” she finds herself saying, “I think it might be because of my sister. Like, they’re punishing me for what she did. The old guard, I mean. When Gant went down a lot of his people went down with him, or resigned, or retired, but… some of them didn’t. And I think they like the idea of having me on a short leash, since their last lapdog got off of hers.”

Von Karma turns to face her as much as she can when they’re sitting side by side, her brow drawn in, severe and serious. “You mean, you’re being sabotaged!? I won’t stand for such blatant corruption, and, I suspect, neither will Miles Edgeworth. Something must be done about this.”

“I-I-I mean! Maybe?” Is this what she had wanted? “It’s just a feeling I get, I mean. I don’t have any proof. There’s about a million other reasons forensics might not want me.”

“Like what?” she demands. 

“Well… I tend to run my mouth a bit. A lot of forensics is completely bunk. And, shocker, a lot of forensic investigators don’t like it when you point that out! But this is supposed to be science; If you can’t handle being told you’re wrong, don’t be wrong! I mean, there’s the gray area stuff like hair analysis, which has some real but limited use, and lie detectors. Obviously they don’t actually detect lies but they’re measuring real physiological indicators, and what’s sketchy is pretending you know exactly what those biological responses correlate to. Which, of course, people do all the time because subjective interpretation doesn’t exactly play well in front of a judge. 

“Then you’ve got the stuff that’s complete garbage, I’m talking no real proven scientific value whatsoever, nothing that holds up to any sort of peer review. Stuff like blood spray analysis, forensic dentistry, and I shit you not they’ve got a guy teaching at the National Forensic Academy who does dowsing. Dowsing! Like, walking around with two sticks in your hand and trying to use it to find dead bodies. Can you believe that? These hucksters are sucking up taxpayer money, sending innocent people to jail, and giving a bad name to actually legitimate investigative techniques like fingerprinting, DNA analysis, ballistic marking, or spirit channeling. What a joke!”

“That’s-”

“-Sorry,” Ema interrupts. “Sorry, that was a lot of non sequitur. I just… get a little heated about this. But yeah. It’s not the kind of opinion you have if you want to be popular in forensics.”  

“Hmmph. Don’t apologize for being correct. To me, or anyone else for that matter. It’s pure cowardice. Popularity is for fools like Gavin; accuracy and rigor are for people who are in the pursuit of perfection.”

“Perfection…” Ema takes another swig of her monster. “Well, I guess if you want to be rigorous and accurate, all that garbage I just said might not have anything to do with me being stuck in homicide,” she grips the can a bit tighter and it starts to buckle. “I bombed the test. Supposedly.”

“Supposedly?” She quirks up an eyebrow.

“Not like it’s homework. They don’t exactly give you the forensics exam back with all your wrong answers circled in red pen. They just tell you, sorry champ, better luck next time! And you’re left there chewing on yourself, trying to figure out what you even need to do to fix it, and nobody will tell you.”

Von Karma doesn’t say anything else, busying her mouth with more cake and milk. 

“I guess it’s not something someone like you has to worry about… I’ll bet you were a straight A student. 100s on every test!” She tries to perk up a bit, shift into something resembling kidding to try and banish the sophomorically unprofessional vibe she’s brought to snacktime. 

“I never went to school. Papa instructed us himself when he was able, and brought in tutors when he wasn’t. The only tests we ever took were LSAT prep and mock bar exams.”

“Well, I bet you did pretty good at those, at least.”

“I suppose it depends on what yardstick you’re using to measure. The nasty thing about competing in pairs is that anything other than first is last.”

“What!? You mean your dad really expected you to be able to go toe to toe with Edgeworth as a kid? Isn’t he like, way older than you?”

“Seven years,” von Karma grunts, then shakes her head and sighs. “And such trivial details hardly mattered to him. We were instructed the same, and as such expected to perform the same. His methods, however irregular they may have been, made me the woman I am today.”

“What a crock of horseshit,” she huffs. “Not, you, I mean! Just… There’s high expectations, and then there’s unrealistic expectations. You’re the youngest person to have ever passed Germany’s bar exam, right?”

“California’s as well.”

“How old was your dad when he passed?”

She freezes. 

“I’m not sure… I suppose I’d never thought to ask. As far as I was concerned, he’d always been a lawyer. Anything else was unthinkable.”

“Older than you were, though, categorically. That’s just basic logic. Mr. Edgeworth too. Mock tests are one thing, but out here in the real world, you beat 'em both, right? That’s gotta count for something.”

She nibbles the last few bites of swiss roll pensively, then knocks back the rest of the milk. She even manages a certain elegance doing something as benign as that, the pale curve of her neck sticking out from her collar like a swan’s. 

“You’re certainly free to think of it that way,” she finally says. “Come now, Ema Skye, it’s time we return to our work.”

*

They end up not even needing her testimony again, so by the time late afternoon rolls into early evening and court is let out she’s starving again to the point of being lightheaded, and brutally sore from being hunched over a coffee table. She just has to sit through whatever laundry list of tasks Gavin is going to pile onto her for the rest of the evening and then she’ll finally be her own woman again. Oh sweet freedom, sweet release! He strides into the lobby like he walked on a red carpet to get there and clasps his hands pensively before waving them out in a gesture halfway between a shrug and jazz hands.

“Ah, what an eventful case this is turning out to be! A hidden attic above the crime scene… who could have imagined.” He’s lucky von Karma didn’t bother to observe the trial. Ema isn’t sure how he would have handled dropping the accent in public. He sounds so fucking weird like this, she hadn’t realized how much of the impact it was carrying. Maybe he was right about it being a matter of professionalism. “I hope it’s been a fruitful day of work for you as well, Miss von Karma.”

“And what am I, chopped liver?”

He ignores her.

“It has been acceptable. Detective Skye has been a suitable assistant.”

“I’m glad to hear it. It’s nice to see her so motivated for once, you’re truly bringing out the best in her. Now, I’m well aware there’s still plenty to be done, but how about a bite to eat? No sense working on an empty stomach. There’s a wonderful place just a few blocks away, small plates to die for. And if that’s not enough for you, they’ve got a great karaoke scene too.” He leans forward a bit with his hands on his hips to meet von Karma’s eye level with one of his Grammy-winning grins. 

“Don’t get ahead of yourself, fool,” she begins. “In the middle of an active investigation is hardly the time for karaoke.”

“I didn’t mean to suggest-”

“Karaoke is celebratory. We will sing once your case has been concluded, and not a moment sooner.”

Seriously!?

“Seriously!?”

*

By the time Los Angeles settles into the hazy brown that passes for the dead of night, Ema is stumbling through the halls of the district prosecutor’s office on the unsteady legs of a newborn fawn. It must be nice getting to live in countries that aren’t this one; when she’d studied in Europe it became clear that the biggest upside to criminal cases that didn’t come with a built in expiration date was that people actually got to go home at reasonable hours. And the lower false conviction rate probably. Whatever. 

God willing, Justice will have this one in the bag by tomorrow afternoon, and everyone will get to leaver early. Just one snag: by all appearances the hidden attic seems to have had someone living in it, and they have no idea who. 

She explains this all to Gavin; the winch and straps they found conspicuously above the trapdoor in the roof panels, the piles of other decidedly aged high end electronics, the twin mattress with the rumpled sheets and chest of secondhand clothing next to it, the stray long brown hairs they’d swept up off the floor. He listens patiently and then rubs his eyes a bit.

“So, that’s our killer, then. Adrift in the wind without leaving behind a single lead.”

“We don’t know for sure that the killer is the person who’s been staying in the attic.”

He just looks at her.

“...Most of the clothes we found up there looked like they belonged to a kid. Not a little kid, definitely past the growth spurt, but… Not the kind of clothes an adult would pick. Y’know?”

“That’s… unfortunate.” He drums his fingers on the desktop in an even rhythm for a little bit before continuing. “What’s even more unfortunate is that it doesn’t change anything. Our job is to find out who killed him, and right now it looks to be the case that the only person who even had the means of physically committing this crime is whoever was in that attic.”

“And if we can’t find them?”

“Then I suppose this deliberation might be a bit harder for our jury. We’ll simply have to do the best we can with the information available to us,” he holds his arms out surrenderingly. “And, on the subject of available information, a local collector has come forward stating that he had been lined up to buy Victrola’s television for a significantly discounted rate. Provided he was able to pay in cash.”

“Even a discounted rate for something like that has got to be a lot of money. Let me guess—the cash has gone mysteriously missing?”

“No, actually. No money had changed hands yet. The sale was supposed to be occurring tomorrow.”

“Huh… Well, I gotta be honest, I’m not sure what to make of that one.”

“I can’t see any direct relevance, yet, but I’m keeping my eyes open. I get the sense there’s an angle to this we’re all missing… Do you think our flower in the attic may have something to do with Interpol’s case?”

“...What makes you say that?” She hadn’t thought about that. Should she have been thinking about that? Could that have been another one of Victrola’s urchins, in the waiting room for superstardom? But all of that stuff was technically above board; no reason to do anything as shady as hide someone in an attic.  

“Well, it’s some sort of human trafficking situation, isn’t it?”

“Who told you that!?”

“That’s just what the scuttlebutt is.”

“Well, whoever your sources are, they’re wrong. It’s an intellectual property case.” 

“Oh, really!? Fascinating,” he says, seemingly in earnest. ”Ah, what a shame! I’d love to ask von Karma a bit more about it, but I’d rather not push for details before our own case is properly handled. She seems to have some concerns about my professional conduct, and I’d hate to give the impression that my own work is not of the utmost priority.” 

He looks very pensive. By now she knows him well enough she can tell he actually thinks he’s being the bigger person here.

“Can it! You are such a martyr. You just don’t want her to get snippy and embarrass you again.”

“Oh yes, because it’s martyrdom to try and get along with people. Knowing you see it that way certainly helps me understand you a bit more.”

“You. Do not. Understand me,” she hisses. “Not even a little bit. Get your head out of your ass! You’ve never even tried to understand me.”

“You haven’t given me much reason to, Fräulein! You’ve been snippy and hostile to me since the day we met. You want to talk about martyrdom? How is behaving like a moody teenager in a place of work and then getting upset that it doesn’t endear you to people not martyring yourself. Plenty of people have had a bone to pick with me over the course of my career. Trying to win them over isn’t the way I prefer to spend my free time.”

“Self-centered prick.”

“Self-centered!” he laughs. “Self-centered!? Just because I don’t care what particular reasons you may have for hating me?”

“Yes! Absolutely Exactly!” she hollers. Thank god his stupid office is soundproof. “You’re so self-centered you can’t even realize your completely transparent, easy-breezy above-it-all shtick is shooting you in the foot! You don’t care what I think about you, but you clearly care what von Karma thinks about you. And because it's all about you, you, you, completely in a vacuum, you don’t even realize that the two of us dislike you for the exact! Same! Reasons!” She pounds on his desk along with the last few words. That feels good. No wonder everyone’s always doing this shit in court. “And I don’t know if you’ve ever noticed this, but your own boss doesn’t care much for you either.”

“Fine. You want me to care about this so badly? You win. I’ll happily indulge your little tantrum here. Go ahead, I’m listening.” He spreads his arms out in a facetious welcome. “Read out the charges, Detective.”

“I don’t care if you actually know-” Gavin interrupts her to scoff. She keeps talking. “-I care that you didn’t seem to give a shit. If your reputation as a prosecutor actually matters to you beyond what it does for your record sales, then you’ve got plenty of ways to look into the consequences of your actions without me having to spoonfeed you the rest of it.”

She flips her glasses down from her head onto her face and pushes them up the bridge of her nose. Never one to resist throwing a stone in a glass house, she puts on her best impression and says, “Afterall, evidence is everything.”

*

Moments later she’s in the prosecutor’s office hallway. The adrenaline still pumping through her veins means that when someone calls out to her from a few yards away, she turns and shouts “What!” before realizing it was Mr. Edgeworth.

“...I take it the investigation isn’t going well,” he responds. “In that case, I’ll leave you to it.”

“No! No, sorry, I can talk,” she corrects frantically. “The investigation’s going fine. I mean, the case is still complete nonsense, none of the information we’re digging up seems to add up into anything. But we’re digging things up, at the least. Found a secret attic today and everything. What’s up?”

“I just wanted a quick word. If you wouldn’t mind stepping into my office?”

She follows suit, with a feeling like she’s being dragged in front of the principal to be lectured. 

“What do you think of Interpol’s case?” He asks once they’ve settled in.

“Oh! Uh, I think it’s a bit…” What’s a diplomatic way to say bullshit waste of time? “Strange, I guess. Not the kind of thing I would have thought Interpol was too concerned with, at least based on the lowdown I got from von Karma. You probably know more about it than I do, though.”

“I believe you’re right. They don’t seem to view it as worth their resources. As best as I can tell, this is a bit of a pet project of Franziska’s, and it’s on the strength of her skill and reputation alone that she’s been granted leeway to pursue it.”

“Oh,” she says, because she’s not sure what reaction she’s supposed to be having to that.

“I get the sense it’s been… difficult for her, putting herself into this position. She’s not used to being the underdog.”

Except when it comes to you, it seems. 

“All this to say,” he continues. “Thank you for being so diligent in the assistance you’ve provided her, regardless of any misgivings you may have with the value of this investigation. I can tell it’s meant quite a lot to her. And it’s nice to see her being friendly with people her own age.”

Like she’s ten years old, and he’s trying to set the two of them up on an afterschool playdate so he doesn’t have to shell out for a babysitter. The casual, well-intended condescension makes her miss Lana terribly for a moment.

“Is that what she said? I got the impression she just needed a warm body, and I’m the one that happened to be around.”

“Yes, well. My dear sister’s bark is far worse than her bite. Don’t take her outbursts too seriously. Anyway, it’s late. I won’t keep you any longer. I just wanted to check in. And,” his mouth presses into a thin line. “I’m sure this goes without saying. But on the off chance that it doesn’t, don’t tell Franziska I told you any of this.”

“Yeah, sure, of course. There’s just one thing about this I don’t really understand, though. Why’s she so set on this case? I mean, I’m not trying to say that talented artists getting left for dead so some bigwig execs can profit off of songs they don’t actually own is a good thing, it just seems so…”

“Banal?”

“I guess so. I mean, from what it sounds like, it seems that most of these people’s options were either selling out and living the high life until they join the 27 club, or not even making it that long to begin with.”

“I’ll admit I’m having a hard time seeing the benefits of this particular investigation myself as well. Franziska’s always been the type to develop fixations on this or that, but I find myself quite puzzled by this one. Whatever the driving force behind this one is, it’s beyond me.”

“Guess I’m along for the ride, then.”