Chapter Text
You might seem behind bars, but friend, this cage is inside out / It's dangerous out here, Socrates / It's lonely out here, Socrates
-Will Wood, "Willard!"
The streets of Paris aren't particularly kind to Athena Cykes.
Perhaps the revolving door of doctors and therapists were right to suggest that she take her university classes online: She hasn't been in a traditional school since she was young, and even then she spent many days squirreled away in her mother's lab anyway. It was simpler, then, because at least she had Junie—sweet, kind Juniper, to whom she really ought to send her new address—for as difficult as those years were.
If the doctors had their way, Athena would still be holed up in that flat in Berlin with her relatives, but to tell the honest truth, Athena would rather live next to the combination glass factory and opera house than spend another year there, "safe" but unheard, lonely yet never in peace. So whichever lab coated bogeymen advised her not to take this scholarship can stick it, Verpiss dich, au revoir and good riddance!
But holy heck, did they have a point.
Paris is loud. Cities are loud. Athena knows this! She's lived in cities her whole life—except, of course, that she was sheltered for most of her life, so maybe she underestimated how hard it would really be to uproot and start anew at the tender age of sixteen. French on the ground feels a whole lot different than the French her tutor taught her, and it feels heavy on her tongue the way German did five years earlier. People say that she speaks strange, that she stares too much and not enough, that her keen hearing and overall demeanor are off-putting and uncanny. She knows better, now, than to beg for quiet when they hurt her ears, because the things she hears are better left unsaid, and she learned that lesson the hard way.
All this to say: On the day it happens, Athena could be convinced that the lax, meandering lilt of a California accent was the voice of an angel, or something equally divine and prophetic. And then she opens her eyes on a bench outside her lecture building, hands clasped over her ears, to see in front of her an entirely average man in a shirt and tie, sleeves rolled up and jacket over his arm, sweating in the sweltering heat of the Parisian summer. He's holding out a pair of headphones with an expectant smile; reluctantly, despite all her aunties taught her about accepting things from strange men, she takes them and puts them on.
The relief, to her surprise, is immediate—the noise cancellation will never block out everything, but it dampens the ambient static to something more manageable, less painful.
"Are you alright?" the man asks in that familiar tone, and when she nods, he—as though surprised she even speaks English—deflates in relief. "Mind if I sit next to you? I'm waiting for my friend and my back is killing me."
For whatever reason, despite herself, Athena nods again, and the man takes a seat on the other end of the bench with a heavy grunt.
"You're not lost or something, are you?" he asks.
Athena shakes her head, opens her mouth, closes it, opens it again, and then manages to find her voice: "I'm a student."
"Oh. Really? That's neat. You just seem young, is all."
"I'm sixteen," Athena says. "I skipped a few grades."
The man's face lights up. "Hey, look at you! You must be a real smart cookie, then. You're only a little bit older than my daughter."
"I guess so. You have a daughter?"
"I do! I have two kids, actually. Well… kind of. Two adopted kids, although if the oldest heard me refer to him as my son, he'd put me in the ground." The man chuckles, and there's such sugar-sweet fondness radiating from his every word that Athena has a hard time imagining that. "What do you study? I'm Phoenix, by the way. Phoenix Wright." He holds out his hand for her to shake, but when she doesn't take it, he moves it away again, unbothered.
"Athena," she says. "I study analytical psychology."
"Oh, that's cool! How'd that come about?"
Athena doesn't know why, but something about Phoenix Wright—his demeanor, his voice, the kindness and sincerity she can hear bubbling out of his heart like soda pop—makes her want to open up. So she tells him about her mother's work: the psychology research, her own superhuman hearing. She tells him there's someone she wants to help, someone she wants to save, and something like quiet recognition settles on his face.
His words are warm and bright like sunshine when he says, "Hey, Athena, have you ever thought about being a lawyer?"
This gives her pause; Simon was a lawyer, after all, though his own lawyer didn't do him much good. But what if Athena could be better? What if she could be different?
She tilts her head. "What do you mean?"
Mr. Wright laughs. "Oh! Right. I should probably clarify." He clears his throat and pulls a flimsy business card out of his wallet. Wright and Co. Law Offices, it says, with an address in Los Angeles. "I'm a defense attorney in the States, and I think this psychology stuff—and that hearing of yours—could really help people. Just, you know, food for thought."
"I see," Athena says, thumbing the card almost reverently. Her hearing, help people? That'd be a first.
Mr. Wright stands up as another man—probably the friend he mentioned—walks briskly toward them, dressed in a burgundy suit with ruffles that remind Athena of the birds Simon used to show her in his books.
"Wright," the man calls in a distinctly less Californian accent. "I've been looking everywhere for you! We're nearly late!"
"Huh? I've been waiting for you!" Mr. Wright says.
His companion pinches the bridge of his nose beneath his glasses. "You could try waiting at the correct building next time, you fool!"
Mr. Wright studies the signage nearby and hums. "Ah, right. Well, you know I don't speak any French, Miles."
The other man—Mr. Miles, apparently—looks like he wants to kill him, but there's nothing stronger than fond exasperation in his voice when he says, "You're hopeless, Wright. Ah!" He jolts as he seems to finally notice Athena, still on the bench. "And who is this young lady?"
"Miles, meet my new friend Athena. She's a psychology student here at only sixteen, would you believe it?" Mr. Wright says. He turns to Athena. "Athena, this is my good friend and colleague, Miles Edgeworth. He's a prosecutor, but don't you worry, he's not the kind that bites. Anymore."
Mr. Edgeworth smacks him in the back of the head.
"Ow!" Mr. Wright whines, then clears his throat. "Anyway, we'd better be off. Think about what I said, Athena. If you're ever in California and need a reference, give me a call—but of course, I know that's a little far."
"I'm from Los Angeles too, actually," Athena says, and Mr. Wright's jaw drops.
"Really?" he asks. "Huh."
Mr. Edgeworth tilts his head. "What did you say your name was, miss?"
"Athena," she says. "Athena Cykes."
"Cykes," Mr. Edgeworth muses, curiosity coating his voice. "Hm." A beat passes before he stands up straighter and says, "Come along, Wright. You take care, Ms. Cykes."
"Yeah, yeah. Catch you later, Athena!" Mr. Wright calls as they walk away. As Athena waves back, as strange as it sounds, she thinks they very well might meet again.
After all, he never took back his headphones.