prosequies

[prosequies]

kurainburdened‌:

She scoffed. “Mr. Edgeworth, what is tenacity even for if not destructive pursuits,”

“And don’t question me on inner peace. I’m the one who meditated under waterfalls. Though, you might be able to have that badge of honor if you ever took me up on my offers,”

"I shall not be going anywhere near a waterfall." It's the sort of statement that should be delivered incredulously, except Miles simply states it. There's no room for argument here, no chance to change his mind. "However, I am—tentatively—open to other suggestions. Mindfulness seems to be..." He crinkles his nose. "...trendy."

[prosequies]

It was odd, only their hands were touching and yet the warmth she felt from him felt so consuming. From her fingers, to her arms to her chest, all the way to her heart. “Miles....I’m happy,” the words meant more than just momentary cheer. “You. Make me happy,”

If the snickering masses were anything to go by, it was terribly satisfying to render Miles Edgeworth speechless. His colleagues across the aisle certainly rejoiced whenever he faltered — but in truth, it wasn’t difficult to shut him up. The stupidity of the general public often left him at a loss for words, for one. And, outside of his work, he had simply never been a dazzling conversationalist.

Presently, in fact, he had absolutely nothing to say. This was either due to the limited scope of things he could articulate, or because Maya Fey was the most recent member of the public to stun him with her stupidity.

He had never made anyone happy. He could hardly make himself happy, thoroughly unable (or unwilling) to separate what he wanted from what had become habit. It was routine to love nothing and no-one more than he loved the pursuit of ideals, and Maya — she knew first-hand. He had spent no insignificant portion of his life decrying her kin and all they stood for, until Maya had taken time he didn’t deserve to show him how ridiculous he’d been.

Now, he couldn’t bear to look at her. He had some idea of the expression she’d be wearing — a look she’d shot him before — and he never knew what to do with it. Routine, in this case, had not bred familiarity. She made him feel far too hot, far too uncertain, far too restless.

Happy. That’s what it was. He was never more content than when he had something to inspire him, but he wouldn’t know where to begin with telling her all that. Loath as he was to admit it, her example rarely led him astray. Take it a little at a time.

“Yes,” he said, as he squeezed her hand (gently; he’d been enough of a brute in the past to span a lifetime). “Inexplicable though it is, you make me happy, too.”

[prosequies]

“Look I know it’s 3am but this is important! Isn’t having cereal just like crunchy milk?”

By nature, Miles is a man who weighs up his options, and there are currently two distinct possibilities before him. Option the first: he is simply dreaming that Maya's name flashed across his phone, some subconscious manifestation of how much he misses a familiar voice, no matter what nonsense it might be spouting. Option the second: Maya is contemplating breakfast foods at what is six o'clock in the evening for her, in whatever part of California she is currently terrorising.

As both seem equally likely, he decides it scarcely matters.

You woke me for this? he considers asking — but even in the groggy, disturbed state of a man rudely awoken, he feels no need to be curt. He would be condemning not the consequences of her actions, but the principle of them: for now, he finds he wants to indulge her.

...Or rather, educate her.

"Predictably, Maya, the premise of your argument is gravely flawed. Various cultures have been known to consume cereal with yoghurt, or no accompaniment at all."

[prosequies]

"You dare dishonor the good name of Pink Princess! I'll have your head for this you traitor!" Maya picked up a broom and twirled in her hands like a spear before charging at Miles ready to make good on her promise

Years of contending with Franziska’s whip have taught Miles methods of self-preservation in the face of ranged weapons — but Maya Fey is fast. It takes him a moment to process that Maya has shifted from harmless bickering to posing a genuine threat.

When he finally thinks to sidestep her trajectory, he leaves only a hair’s breadth between he and the improvised lance. He hooks an arm around the broom, to clasp both the handle and Maya’s hands around it, narrowing his eyes down at her as he tugs her into a harsh stop.

Naturally, if she should stumble, he will not allow her to fall — but that is the extent of the mercy he will show her now. (When his fingers come to rest in the dips between her own, it is merely reflexive fondness.)

“Of course you prefer the Pink Princess. Not only was she inspired by you specifically, you both have the coordination of a newborn gazelle.”

[prosequies]

kurainburdened:

“Oh, I wouldn’t say that. After all, beggars can’t be choosers can they? Besides I thought you missed me terribly and were enchanted by my tenacity. How can you miss me without missing trouble”

"...Yes. I suppose my fondness for you is equally poor judgement. But you could channel your tenacity into less destructive pursuits." He appears to reconsider. “And what was your training in Khura'in for if not attaining inner peace?”

[prosequies]

kurainburdened:

It’s not often that Maya is shocked into silence but with only a few sentences Edgeworth manages to do that. Though, just as any bought of silence for the not so young Fey, it doesn’t last very long. As his words sink in she breaks into a laugh. 

“Well if I had to rate that, I’d say you were as smooth as sand just now, but it’ll have to do. For now. I can give you some tips over our meal,”

Pride ruffled (as Maya had no doubt intended), Miles straightens up—just a fraction, but enough to be noticeable.

"Yes, well. If it continues to work on you, it's indicative of your poor judgement, isn't it? Just promise me you won't be getting into any more trouble. I can only take so much."

[prosequies]

kurainburdened:

“I’m just saying your ideas sound boring. I guess I’ll go ask Nick, or maybe Gumshoe. They’ll know what to do. Even if they don’t their answers will at least be more fun,” This guy was no help at all!!

"I’m... alarmed by the idea that either of them would have an answer in mind."

Miles pauses, then up goes the corner of his mouth.

"Conduct reconnaissance if you must—but in the meantime, allow me. Miss Fey, I'm enchanted by your tenacity, I've missed you terribly, and I'd like to take you to dinner. What say you?"

[prosequies]

kurainburdened:

“Yeah, well what would you know anyway. I think my idea is way better,”

"You're trying to seduce me. I'm telling you how. Furthermore, what part of committing a crime do you imagine I’ll find appealing?"

[prosequies]

immovable-force.

[ SMS ] – Hey have you had dinner yet [ SMS ] – Meeting got cancelled dont wanna lose the reservation

He’s so pissed at those jackasses, thinking his time is so meaningless that they can cancel ten minutes before the scheduled time. Probably on purpose! He’s gonna bill them for this out of sheer spite, but like hell is he eatin’ alone at a 5-star restaurant. Not when he went to the trouble of wearing a suit.

The pink prosecutor wasn’t his first choice for company, but the most obvious. They had a few things that could be worth discussing over dinner.

[ SMS ] – chefs credentiels are fine before you ask

Dinner. There's an idea. Now that he's been reminded, Miles is abruptly aware of how empty his stomach is—because he's been too busy traipsing through the city all day to stop.

From lunching ambassadors to conferencing academics, his schedule was as busy as it was fruitless. In all those rooms of verbose people, he feels like he learnt very little at all. When he thinks of Kisama, who only seems to open his mouth to be brash, the candour Miles had found distasteful before suddenly sounds appealing.

He stops in the street, glancing over his shoulder as though half-expecting to see Chief Oushiza through the window of the cafe behind him.

[ SMS ] – Always a pleasure to dine with colleagues. Time and restaurant?

[prosequies]

kurainburdened:

“No, Mr. Edgeworth you don’t understand. I was trying to hit on you,”

"This again? You're never any good at it. Here's what you do—commend my strength of character, then ask me to dinner."

[prosequies]

[Immovable-force] A voicemail on Miles' phone from Kisama's number, but not his voice: "Hey hey! This is that Edgey guy's number, right?! Hah, I KNEW he lied about not having it, the sneaky devil! Well anyway, just thought you should know Kissy's birthday is coming up on the 1st! He's trying to let it fly under the radar like a sad-sack, but not on my--" (In the background: "MOTHERFUCKER, DID YOU TAKE MY PHONE!?") "-- Whoops, gotta go, byyyyye!" Click.

Receiving calls at ungodly hours is one career hazard Miles isn’t surprised to see repeat itself in Naobi. A nebulous workload, one that restricts itself to no time-frame nor sense of reason, is merely to be expected—so with only a distracted sort of interest, he plays the message from Chief Oushiza’s line while popping his toothbrush into his mouth.

Said toothbrush is discarded once he hears the nickname usually applied to him by Larry Butz. That is one thing he hadn’t expected would follow him from California: the grim phantom of childhood embarrassment and uncomfortably humble beginnings. Yet he supposes Kisama’s men must think they came up with it on their own, especially if the point of this wretched call was to humiliate their boss.

Miles is unconcerned with birthdays at the best of times. He gifts things to those within his social circle, of course—money, usually, because the natural alternative of finding perfectly-tailored gifts would be too time-consuming. Until now, it hadn’t even crossed his mind that Chief Oushiza might qualify as someone to whom he should send the usual card-with-banknotes.

Yet, he supposes, Oushiza is the closest thing he has to an ally in this city—in this country. And there must be a reason why, of all the people here, an officer commandeered Oushiza’s phone to call him. It’s simple deduction: the sort of thing Miles has come to rely upon when calculating where he stands with people, because abstract cues aren’t admissible evidence and he can hardly go around asking.

Oushiza expects something from him, then. Or he gave his men that impression, by the sounds of it. This is both a development and a headache—because Miles at least knows Oushiza well enough to recognise the Chief wouldn’t take kindly to an American benefactor opening their wallet. The guise of festive altruism won’t fly with such a cantankerous man.

This time, Miles has no choice, it seems. He must send a gift.

Later, around noon, a parcel will make its way through Naobi’s police department. It will arrive in Oushiza’s office at around what would have been lunchtime, back in L.A. Perhaps Naobi observes no such thing to break up the day, or perhaps Oushiza will be at his desk regardless. The sender, though not quite a fish out of water, has yet to familiarise himself with how Naobians do things.

The sender has yet to familiarise himself with a lot of things here. But it’s not for lack of interest, nor motivation—as the slim, rectangular parcel comes with a note attached:

Apologies for the simplicity, but short notice made it unavoidable. Next time, please remind me ahead of schedule. In the meantime, I hope this will bring you the same mental repose it brings me. I believe you might benefit. - M. E.

Inside, Oushiza will find a glass chess set: one army clear, one army frosted.

[prosequies]

Throws a paper fan at his face.

"What the—"

It's almost customary for high-profile civil servants to be pelted with things in public, but Miles would’ve expected flour at best, eggs at worst. Even as he muddles through a white flash of anger, he can appreciate the creativity of being struck with a fan.

He pins it in place with a foot, lest his assailant attempt round two, and draws himself upright. His taut mouth is far calmer than his unwavering gaze.

"Give me one good reason why I shouldn't have you arrested.”

[prosequies]

ask

“—And ye shall receive?”

[prosequies]

nonsense

“Undoubtedly! Who, exactly, does that reporter think she is? Waltzing in late to court proceedings like she doesn’t hail from the contemporary answer to a garish penny dreadful—”

And though Miles could go on, he pauses after clocking the mirth on Athena’s face by extending her a cursory glance. She’s mocking him, is she? Maybe she’d call it teasing.

“Very well, Miss Cykes. I look forward to seeing how you handle being hounded for soundbites by the press.”

[prosequies]

"When will you love me like you love Ronald Reagan,"

First, it was Otto von Bismarck. Then, it was Robert Jackson. It seems he can mention no figure from history—or, indeed, the present—with any degree of zeal without Maya invariably accusing him of wanting to marry them.

Miles grimaces, folds his arms across his chest, and primly lifts his nose.

"Perhaps you should consider a presidential bid.”