Work Text:
Franziska von Karma received the call at 10 PM on Monday. That meant for Miles Edgeworth, it was 1 PM.
She sat at the desk in her hotel room, a stack of filled and double-checked paperwork to her side and pictures of evidence spread across the top. It faced a window, which would have a beautiful view of Berlin if not for the concrete wall of the opposing building.
She had a trial in two days for which she was preparing. Of course, she felt extremely confident about her case: the defendant had been caught on camera stabbing the victim and there were two eyewitnesses. To be honest, she was surprised the defense attorney didn't spring for her incredibly generous plea bargain. The defendant had no chance of avoiding jail time — he would face justice. Still, there must be no room for doubt. Beyond filling out the necessary paperwork, she went through the case with the eye of a defense attorney, preemptively plugging possible holes in her reasoning and making notes about where to lead the flow of the trial. It did not come naturally to her, but that's what the late nights were for.
When her cell phone rang on her desk, she expected it to be work. Perhaps a detective with last minute evidence or one of her superiors outlining their expectations — nothing she couldn't account for. She didn't recognize the number nor did it have a German area code, but with how far-reaching her work was taking her these days, that wasn't at all unusual.
"Franziska von Karma speaking," she said as she answered it, calm and professional as always.
The first clue that something was wrong was the woman's voice. She sounded far more deliberate than anyone Franziska worked with. "Ms. von Karma, this is Los Angeles General Medical Center," the voice said. She hadn't been paying attention before, idly filling out forms she had filled out thousands of times before, but she stopped when she heard those words.
She knew it was for Miles Edgeworth. Two years ago, it was the Los Angeles Police Department. Back then, there was plausible deniability. A note, but no body. "Yes? What is it?" she said.
"Your brother, Miles Edgeworth, has been shot. His condition is critical."
She felt bile rise in her throat and her fingertips grow numb. Before she could stop herself, a question left her lips: "Self-inflicted?"
The woman paused. Clearly she knew something that Franziska didn't. "I'm… We're not sure of the details at this time. If there are any updates, we will let you know."
Words kept coming out of the woman's mouth — apologies and directions and recommendations for hotlines to which she could speak. Franziska didn't care. She hung up. She went to her hotel restroom, gripped the porcelain sink to keep herself upright, and felt herself shake. He had already "chosen death" once. There was a body this time. He was in the hospital. There was evidence. She couldn't do this again. She would not be left behind by Miles Edgeworth again.
Any sort of fantasy she held that, one day, he would acknowledge her superiority and something would change about their relationship slipped away. This was what they were forever. Now she was alone, the last von Karma.
A part of her wished she could say that time slipped by in a haze, that her mind went blank, that she lost time. If her behavior had been out of her control, she would have an excuse for falling apart. Instead, she watched her reflection in her mirror, tears streaming down her face, and felt every second of it. She hoped that her neighbors couldn't hear her. If any of them came to check up on her, her whip would do the talking for her.
Eventually, she wiped her face with a tissue, checked the mirror to make sure nothing in her face was out of place, and stumbled back to her desk. It wasn't a question of whether or not she would be absent for the trial tomorrow and for her other work in Germany, professional and personal. As upsetting as it was, Miles Edgeworth took priority. She just hoped that she had built up enough goodwill with the prosecutor's office that this absence would be acceptable.
As she recomposed herself, preparing to call the Berlin airline to book a plane ticket, she received another call from the same number.
"Ms. von Karma, Miles Edgeworth's condition is stable," the woman said.
"Stable?" she said, barely able to believe it. "Already?"
"Yes. He was shot in the shoulder and he was unconscious when he was brought in. The doctors were concerned about blood loss and shock, but the fainting appeared to be unrelated."
Oh. Her cheeks burned red, embarrassment fighting with relief. He was fine. She was worried for nothing. Of course he didn't take his own life. How foolish of her to think. Franziska hung up without another word.
All the tomorrows that had been closed off were opening back up. He still remained ahead of her and she still needed to surpass him. Nothing had changed.
She went back to her work.
Franziska received the third call on Tuesday at 9:30 AM. 1:30 AM Miles Edgeworth's time.
Normally, by the time she arrived at the prosecutor's lobby, she wanted no distractions whatsoever. However, this morning, despite telling herself that everything was fine, she was clutching her cell phone for dear life.
When it rang and she saw his phone number, she answered without hesitation.
"Miles Edgeworth," she said, leaning back in her chair and rubbing her whip with her free hand. "You're alive."
"Hmph. The hospital called you, I take it?"
"They did. The foolishly foolish fools decided to foolishly inform me about your condition before the fools of doctors actually knew what was wrong. They told me you were in critical condition one minute and stable the next."
"Grk. Those idiots." He cleared his throat. "Regardless, I… apologize for the inconvenience. It was merely an investigation accident."
Franziska waved him off, realizing too late that he wouldn't able to see her. "Understandable. What happened?"
"I found a suspect still at the crime scene. I thought I had accounted for all six shots from her revolver. Unfortunately, I was mistaken. Anyway, I'm fine. If you were coming to America — "
"Of course not, little brother," she interrupted. "I have both trials and our family business to attend to. Do you think I would drop it all just for a visit?"
"As expected," he said, his relief obvious over the phone static. "Goodbye."
He hung up.
Franziska didn't know what she expected. They were both busy people, doing important work. The distance between them may not work for anyone else, but it worked for them.
When the bailiff came to tell her that the trial would begin soon, she put it out of her mind entirely.
Franziska received the fourth call on Tuesday at 5 PM. 8 AM Miles Edgeworth's time. Her case went frustratingly long; she only had a few hours to work on her next one. The defense attorney managed to discredit an eyewitness and certain pieces of evidence because of the German police's poor evidentiary procedures. She still won, but what did that matter? She would be sure to let the Berlin Chief of Police know about this.
As she walked in between the courtroom and her hotel, that's when the phone rang. She checked it. Another, different unknown number. "Franziska von Karma speaking," she said.
"Franziska, where are you?" Phoenix Wright said.
Franziska froze, ignoring the way other pedestrians bumped into her. Was there an emergency already? This couldn't be happening again. "In Berlin. What's wrong?"
"What do you mean? Edgeworth was shot!"
"Again?"
"What? No! He's in the hospital. It was a few days ago."
Franziska groaned and started walking again. She was glad he couldn't see her flushed cheeks. "Fool! Do not foolishly tell me about my foolish brother and his foolish injury like it's the first time I've heard it!"
She expected an apology, but to her surprise, his voice grew more serious. "So you knew?"
"Tsk, tsk, tsk. Of course I knew. Weren't you the one who gave the hospital my information?"
"I did, yeah. I figured they must not have called you. Otherwise, you would've been here by now."
Franziska paused. "Why would I do that? I have trials to attend to."
Phoenix Wright's sputterings cut in and out of the phone static. "Because he was shot! Don't you even care about him?"
If not for the fact that it would hit an innocent person, Franziska would have whipped the space in front of her a thousand times. Instead, she dug her nails into the whip's leather and gritted her teeth. "Phoenix Wright. If you had bothered to speak with Miles Edgeworth, he would have told you that he called me the morning after. During this time, he specifically told me that he did not want me to travel back to Los Angeles for him, not least because there's von Karma family business to take care of in Berlin that concerns the both of us. Don't you dare say that I don't care about Miles Edgeworth ever again."
She was going to say more, but the slow, heavy breathing caused her to pause. Eventually, Phoenix Wright spoke. "Yeah, I'm sorry. That… that was out of line. I'm gonna get some sleep now." Then he hung up.
Once she had gotten back to her hotel room and whipped every piece of furniture, plus the bellboy who came to check in on her, her head started to clear. She could not believe the fool Phoenix Wright and the garbage that came out of his mouth. Her? Not care about Miles Edgeworth? She was certain to surpass him, yes, and he could be a fool at the best of times, but he was still her little brother. How dare he?
She was no one's mother nor their guardian. She would not drop everything to run to Miles Edgeworth's side as soon as he was injured. She was an adult. She had responsibilities. She worked harder than anyone else to become a prosecutor at 13, and still that wasn't good enough for them. The mountains she needed to climb were so much steeper than anyone else's because of what it meant to be a von Karma. And Phoenix Wright wanted to shame her for that? He knew nothing about her life. None of them did. Not a single other person knew what it meant to be a von Karma.
Except for Miles Edgeworth, the man her father raised to be his heir.
When that thought came to her, all the fight left her body. She glanced to her side, where the restroom was. She saw her face in the mirror. It looked wrong, completely unlike what her face should look like, but she couldn't figure out why.
Then she realized she was expecting to see the face of a thirteen-year-old.
She wanted to sleep, but she couldn't. She wanted to go to Los Angeles, but she couldn't.
Unless, she realized, she planned her days very particularly. She had no case work scheduled between Friday and Monday, and she could finish But that wasn't hard. She was Franziska von Karma. Precision ran in her blood.
Franziska entered the Los Angeles General Medical Center on Sunday at 1 PM, both of their times. As she walked into Miles Edgeworth's room, he turned to look at her, open surprise on his face. She wasn't quite sure how she felt about it.
"Little brother," she said.
"Franziska," he said. His voice sounded strained. He tried to sit upright, but it was clearly straining him. "You're here in Los Angeles? I assure you, I'm quite alright."
Franziska sat next to him. "Don't think so highly of yourself, I'm here on business. I have work for you." She took out a folder from her bag, containing the work she finished Friday night. "Pictures and valuations of everything from the von Karma estate. Tell me if there's anything you want." Her papa never wrote a will, for reasons Franziska could only speculate on. As the two children involved in his life, she and Miles Edgeworth were made co-executors of his estate. Before splitting the inheritance between the two of them and the other von Karma hangers-on, they needed to appraise the estate and note whatever they didn't sell.
He snorted as he took the folder. "Unlikely." Still, he poured over each picture with a self-seriousness she didn't expect. He spent next to no time in Germany; he grew up with Manfred von Karma in America. What possible sentimentality could he have for objects from her childhood?
He studied picture after picture, with enough intensity in his stare to burn a hole through the paper. His forehead creased and his breathing grew more shallow the more he looked through them.
"You don't need to be here for this," he said abruptly, breaking the silence filled only by hospital machinery. "I can tell you my answers later."
"Don't be stupid, Miles Edgeworth," she said. "I'm staying right here."
For a moment, Franziska thought he was going to press the issue, but he didn't. He continued looking through the photographs. The silence was louder than before and Franziska knew less how to break it.
To be honest, if she had any other work to be done in Los Angeles, she would rather be doing that. Looking at the photos was almost as difficult as being at the von Karma manor itself. Feelings and memories that she used to be much better at ignoring kept bubbling up inside of her. Writing letter after letter to her beloved papa when he and Miles Edgeworth were in America, telling him of her accomplishments and asking so directly for him to come back home. Waiting on hand and foot for him when he was in Germany, always so overt about comparing herself and Miles Edgeworth and practically begging for his approval. It was truly pathetic.
After all, he failed the von Karma name. He was a failure as a prosecutor and a failure as a law-abiding citizen; surely that made him a failure as a father as well. He didn't deserve any of her attention. She didn't know why she cared anymore.
"What was Manfred von Karma like?" she blurted out, her mouth a traitor to her mind.
Miles Edgeworth furrowed his brow as he looked toward her. "What?"
She wanted to stop talking. She didn't actually care about this. Let the past be the past. "He paid so much more attention to you. Surely you have something to say about the man he was."
Miles Edgeworth stared at her, through her. Like he knew something she didn't and was trying to figure out how to break it to her. Like she was missing something obvious and he was trying to be polite about it. Like he was an adult and she was a child. The longer he stared without saying a word, the harder she clenched her teeth until she felt like they would break.
Finally, he found whatever he was looking for. He said, "Not really," and turned back to the photographs.
Something in Franziska shattered. She launched out of her seat, whip in hand, faintly aware of the chair crashing to the ground behind her. Her whip was in hand and she was stretching it with all her might. It was everything she could do to stop from whipping Miles Edgeworth where he sat, because what was wrong with him?
"Franziska, what are you talking about?" he said, eyes wide. It took a few moments to realize she said the last part out loud.
But she could no more stop herself from yelling as she could stop the tears from flowing down her face. "You were his heir! You and him spent all your time in this country, while I was hidden away in Germany! I had to beg to see you two on vacations and holidays! Tell me what you did while I was gone! Tell me what I missed!"
"I don't remember," Miles Edgeworth said.
He said it so quietly that she almost missed it. She froze. "What?"
He stared her directly in the eye, as unapologetic as before, but without any anger. "When I try to remember anything before I passed the bar exam, it comes out in bits and pieces. A nonchronological blur. I know the lessons he taught me, but I don't remember how."
Franziska glanced at the photographs as she let the words sink in. "Do you remember… anything at all?"
Despite everything he just said, Miles Edgeworth turned away before he answered. "You."
Franziska well and truly did not know what to say to that, not least because of how familiar that idea was. She grabbed the photographs and stuffed them and the folder into her bag. Her brother did not protest.
They sat in silence for a moment. Franziska didn't bother to count how long.
Finally, she said, "Do you remember our first Christmas together? When you came to Germany?"
Her brother nodded. "Tell me again."
And she did.