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From the moment of her birth, Franziska had been certain of exactly who she’d grow to be. It was written on her arm, after all.
It wasn’t all that uncommon for one’s soulmate tattoo to have a name on it. In some cultures, it was considered a matter of course to name the baby according to the words on their body; Manfred von Karma hailed from one such country, so when his second daughter was born with the cursive swirl of Franziska von Karma? trailing up and over her shoulder, he transferred the idea straight from skin to paper without waiting for his wife to provide her opinion. “Saved us time having to make the decision ourselves,” he’d stand by later.
Her mother, of course, had not been long for the world after that, but soon she’d had a family of three anyways in a new little brother, Miles Edgeworth. (He never showed her his tattoo, no matter how much she’d begged and pleaded as a curious young girl, foolish coward that he was to live in denial of his future.) Franziska von Karma knew who she would grow to be, and if she ever lost sight of that truth, it was right there to remind her if she just looked down.
She became a perfect prosecutor, the prodigy. Thirteen and smacking fools into the floor of the courtroom in Munich, and then fifteen and trading her riding crop out for a full whip in Stuttgart, and then seventeen and watching the news as Miles Edgeworth -
and as Papa -
and as Phoenix Wright ripped her family to shreds piece by piece, and then two months later, did it to Miles Edgeworth’s reputation, too.
Prosecutor Miles Edgeworth chose death, and that was what had brought Franziska to Los Angeles. If her foolish little brother refused to stand and face his problems like a man, she would just have to show him how a woman could do it instead - better and more perfectly, even at eighteen.
… And then she was defeated soundly.
No pride in counting that, though! She was Franziska von Karma! She wrote the whole business off and started over, as many times as it took. Phoenix Wright would be defeated. Phoenix Wright would know how it felt to have his precious perfect record soiled, just as she had! Nothing could distract her from a glorious win, putting this Matt Engarde man in his place, showing the scruffy detective how a real investigation is done once more. (Who knew? It might stick this time.)
Nothing but the sudden reappearance of her foolish coward shameful smug bastard fool of a brother at the precinct, of course.
Franziska barely held herself back from whipping the taxi driver like a slow horse all the way to the Gatewater Hotel. It wasn’t good enough, wasn’t fast enough. She had to start this foolish investigation now and she had to do it perfectly. She could not afford to let Miles Edgeworth cloud her mind with distractions. She could not afford to lose. Not now, not ever, and especially not to him or foolish Phoenix Wright.
That was what drove her, when she entered the suspect’s hotel room, to announce with all the fervor in her heart, “I am Franziska von Karma and you will all listen to me this instant!”
There were not that many people in the room. Two forensics investigators dusting corners for prints. An officer hovering disinterestedly near the door.
And one woman, plainclothed, looking startled within an inch of her little life.
“Franziska… von Karma?”
“You heard me,” Franziska snapped. “What are you doing here? This is a crime scene, in case you hadn’t noticed. If you are not involved in the case then you must leave.”
“I -” the woman began to stammer “- n-no, I - I’m - no, Miss von Karma, I’m - he was my - I mean -”
“Spit it out, fool,” said Franziska, fingers twitching against the handle of her whip like a hair-trigger.
“Matt,” she finally answered, “I’m his manager. Matt Engarde’s. Manager. And I’m a witness.”
“Very well. You’re due for questioning, then, I expect.”
“I - y-yes, Miss von Karma, but there’s -”
“Step aside, then. Or take a seat, whichever you prefer. Assuming that these fools have finished checking the area for evidence.”
… She glared daggers at the officers until one of them gave her an intimidated ok-sign hand.
“There.”
It was around this point that she realized she hadn’t taken the witness’ name yet. Not a problem - she could do that momentarily. The witness in question looked around herself rather nervously, fidgeting with a small card in her hands, and sat.
Franziska took her own place on the couch, near to the witness as she could manage it, and opened her notepad studiously. She produced her pen with a flourish. All details would be perfectly recorded and the witness perfectly prepared to destroy any trace of Engarde’s chances at being declared Not Guilty. “Let’s begin. Your name?”
“Um - Adrian, Andrews, and there’s -”
“Is that Adrian with a latter A, or E?” You never knew these days. Ms Andrews didn’t sound French, but Miles Edgeworth hardly sounded German either, and he’d lived there for almost half his life before returning to California.
“Um - both As. Listen, I -”
“Thank you, Adrian Andrews. I’ll be asking the questions. If you have a pressing issue, I will tell you when I am prepared to hear it.”
“I - no, this is really -”
“Adrian Andrews,” she repeated sternly. Really, she never had this much trouble with preparing witnesses. This was almost as bad as that foolish clown had been. And the ventriloquist, to a lesser extent. And the woman, putting on that act, disguising herself as a fool to hide her criminal nature - what was in the water in this foolish country full of foolish fools? Could she find some way to excuse Adrian Andrews from it? Would that make her more capable of sitting still and answering simple questions, instead of -
Franziska choked on the next sentence that was forming in her mouth, as Adrian Andrews reached for the back of her neck with both hands and unfastened her shirt right in front of Franziska.
Eyes wide as anything (she had never - she was only eighteen, and she had been quite busy all her life besides, far too busy for - this was quite unprofessional -) Franziska struggled to find the right response to this frankly lunatic course of action. Until, of course, the words that covered Adrian Andrews’ sternum, laid out neatly in three lines above her left breast, were revealed.
I am Franziska von Karma, and you will all listen to me this instant.
Immediately a great number of facts began to place themselves in alignment for Franziska. Chiefly that this must have been why Adrian Andrews had been so out of sorts from the moment she’d burst into the room - who could retain composure, when the name you’ve been waiting your whole life to hear finally comes out of someone else’s mouth unbidden? Who wouldn’t fidget and stammer and stare?
(And stare Franziska did, as she recalled that Adrian Andrews’ first response had been to repeat Franziska’s name back to her. Exactly as had been written up her own right shoulder all along; confused, uncertain, questioning.)
“I -” Franziska scrabbled for words, for answers, for anything other than the way her eyes kept traitorously flicking between Adrian Andrews’ tattoo and what little she could see of her breast above the flipped-down line of the fabric of her shirt, because of course she had no bra on, the neckline was entirely the wrong shape for that and Franziska needed to stop looking “- Adrian Andrews. This is a crime scene.” She could focus on that, at least. “If there are - are further pressing matters to attend to, then - then you and I can discuss them after we are done with this conversation. I am the prosecutor assigned to this case; I must complete my job to my usual standard.” Never mind how far that standard had fallen in the last few months, courtesy of one spiky-haired fool and his various young Fey friends whose main contribution to the operation seemed to be spirit-channelling a second, better lawyer to assist him.
“Y-yes, of course, Miss von Karma.” Adrian Andrews fumbled with the clasp on her shirt to redo it, and then fumbled her way through an explanation of what exactly she had seen and done in the moments after Juan Corrida’s murder.
It was a funny thing, though; as she continued to talk, a certain air of confidence began to form about her, like a fog rising up off the morning water of the sea to shield her. There was something artificial about it, sure, and Franziska could tell that there were a dozen little parts of the story that Adrian Andrews wasn’t volunteering, but it was like she was finding a totally different version of herself to become as she spoke, from the startled and shattered deer-in-headlights reaction Franziska had received on her arrival.
Franziska watched this transformation with some interest, putting most of her focus into taking notes on Adrian Andrews’ version of events, not letting herself think about the words on either of their bodies as she worked. She was Prosecutor von Karma, the Prodigy, right now - not curious little Franziska who had nothing to go on but the letters of her own name and one infinitely unsolvable question mark, but a professional adult who had a job to do. If only Adrian Andrews would tell her exactly what she was leaving out without prompting, so that Franziska could know exactly how to prepare her as a witness…
“Adrian Andrews,” Franziska said, as she came to the end of her recounting.
“Yes?” Adrian startled, that mask of composure slipping once again.
“You are not being entirely truthful with me.” No use in beating about the bush with it. “I am the prosecutor on this case; I represent the police force and the state. I am here to ensure a guilty verdict against Matt Engarde. The information you are withholding from me will not be used to indict you as long as it is entrusted to me and me alone. Do you understand?”
Adrian began fidgeting with her little card again, not meeting Franziska’s gaze. “Are you sure? I can’t be arrested for that, right? Like - like doctor-patient confidentiality? Lawyer-… witness confidentiality?”
Franziska was not particularly interested in going over the particulars of her obligation to report criminal confessions. Who would she be reporting them to, anyway? Scruffy? He’d just pass it all on to the defense team without permission or regard for decency regardless. “You retain the right to remain silent on the grounds that anything you say might be used against you, Adrian Andrews. But if there is anything else that you know, that might help me to ensure that my case against Matt Engarde… is perfect… you would do well to inform me. As I say, I have no interest in you receiving any criminal charges.”
(Her eyes returned, again, to the blue of Adrian Andrews’ shirt, where the words would be. Impossible to see, smooth and flat against the skin, but unforgettably present. Had she been waiting for Franziska very long? She was Matt Engarde’s manager - a position like that was not the kind that a fellow eighteen-year-old attained. Had she been lonely, in the years between? Had she found other women to fill her nights? Men?
… Franziska cursed her foolish wandering train of thought and wrenched it back on track. She had a job to do, verdammt.)
“I - okay,” Adrian Andrews ventured, quite hesitant again.
A pause. Franziska looked over her shoulder. There was still an officer dawdling in the corner. “What are you still doing here? Get out!”
“Yes, sir!” he started, and did just that.
Now it was just the two of them in the room. Franziska shifted forward in her seat, smoothing her skirt, inclining her ear and raising her pen just so. Everything about Prosecutor von Karma’s presentation was perfect, just like the rest of her. “Adrian Andrews?”
So Adrian Andrews told her the missing pieces. The knife, and the button, and the incriminating fingerprints. All things that the defense would have a field day with if they caught wind of any of it. “But it wasn’t me,” she entreated at the end of it, “I swear.”
“I believe you, Adrian Andrews.” Franziska hesitated - then she put her pen and notepad on her thigh, and reached to take Adrian Andrews’ hands in hers, across the space between the seats. “Now, you must promise me that you will not admit to any of this. If you are asked about things you cannot answer, you must invoke the Fifth Amendment against the defense. He cannot touch you as long as you do not give him anything to work with.”
Adrian Andrews, staring through glasses slightly-askew at the contact she had made with Franziska’s gloves, nodded silently three times.
“Aside from that,” she finished, “it ought to be an easy enough case to argue. Especially for me. I am Franziska von Karma, after all - the Prodigy. Very little gets in my way.”
“I - I know,” Adrian Andrews murmured, “I’ve been following your cases. I mean, I always followed your work, since I first heard you were the youngest person to be certified to practise law, I was - I was thrilled, really, that you were so successful at such a young age, I really -! But, um, my - um. My mentor, I suppose you could call her. She said I shouldn’t pay too much attention to all that. Her soulmate broke her heart when she was young, you know, it really made her sour against the whole thing, she always said that love didn’t need to line up with whatever a stupid little tattoo said, she was - I’m sorry, I’m getting off topic, and rambling, and -”
“Adrian Andrews,” Franziska shook her head, the utterance of the name an admonishment in itself. “Do not apologize to me. Do not excuse yourself, either. If I did not want you to explain these things to me, I would have whipped you for your insolence by now.”
Adrian Andrews flushed. “Right. I - I’ve heard about that, too. I’m…” she let out a little sharp exhale, smiling “... excited to see you in action, Miss von Karma. For real, I mean. I was never b- I mean, I was too busy to make it to any of your other trials this year.”
“For the better,” said Franziska tersely, pulling her hands away. Adrian Andrews would do well to witness this one trial, Franziska’s soundest and most assured victory, and then never attend another trial again. It would not do for her to see Franziska confront the possibility of failure; luckily, under no circumstances would failure come to her in matters of Engarde.
Adrian Andrews’ eyes flicked away, then, towards the doorway, and Franziska turned as well. She was, unfortunately, greeted by the sight of the little tag-team, Pearl Fey and Phoenix Wright. Ugh. Did they have to come in here and interrupt this moment, this arguably sacred moment of union between her and the woman who’d been following her career all this time, excited and waiting to meet her? Must she leave Adrian Andrews to be cross-examined, leave her in much less trustworthy hands than her own?
“Ms von Karma?”
“What are you doing here?” Franziska hissed, indignant, frustrated.
“Um,” Phoenix Wright made a foolish grimace of a face, “well, you see,” and he gestured to Matt Engarde’s room at large, “I’m his lawyer, so…”
Franziska did not have time for any of this. She would, she decided, check where that fool of a scruffy detective had gotten to now while he’d been unsupervised - Pearl Fey seemed amused enough by her tracking device, although she also appeared to be running a little low on fumes (what on earth was Phoenix Wright doing, dragging a little girl of her age around an unrelated crime scene like that? It was one thing for her to be involved in State V. Fey, for which she had been present and provided valuable testimony, but in regards to State V. Engarde, she was just a child following a grown man around while he stuck his nose into places where it didn’t belong). Then, she stood abruptly.
“Now then, let’s stop wasting time. Adrian Andrews!”
“Y-yes?”
“Think hard about what we’ve discussed today. Understood?”
“A-alright,” Adrian Andrews nodded again, looking and sounding a little lightheaded.
For a moment, her hand came up, resting hopefully against that spot above her breast where the writing sat. Franziska stopped herself from copying the movement with her own mark, and made herself scarce. She needed to focus on her job - she had an extremely important job to do now, yes, keeping Adrian Andrews from indictment, and she needed to do it to a standard of von Karma perfection - and there was absolutely no use wasting time in that regard.
When the case was perfectly resolved tomorrow, she decided, then she would invite Adrian Andrews for dinner in the evening to celebrate her victory and Adrian Andrews’ complete lack of criminal charges. And to learn what she had missed about Adrian Andrews’ life, all the time that she had been able to follow Franziska’s career in international news.
All for the having of the other’s name, instead of her own. Funny, how asymmetry could work like that. Franziska had spent her entire life so sure of who she was, having it written plainly on her body any time she might feel self-consciousness or doubt about her path or her emotions; Adrian Andrews had known only that Franziska von Karma was a woman to be loved and to be listened to. How much had these words made either of them into the people that they were now? Impossible to say.
What Franziska did know was that, if Adrian Andrews had spent her whole life waiting for Franziska, then she would do the utmost to ensure that their future together would be a perfect one. She was as certain of that as she was of her very self.