Chapter Text
"Court is adjourned for a fifteen minute recess. Please be prompt."
The judge smooths his robes, then quickly scurries off to his chambers. Miles Edgeworth rolls his eyes; everyone knows he likes leaving himself time to talk up the Cough-Up Queen during lunch. Not that that matters much to him. This case is as clear-cut as the California day is sunny.
Sniffle.
"Please, no," Edgeworth whispers to himself.
"I'm sorry..." a quiet voice murmurs besides the prosecutor's feet. Edgeworth steadies himself with a deep breath, then grabs a pen from the bench, only to drop it on the ground.
"Oh, silly me," he nonchalantly chides himself. But once he crouches to the floor, Edgeworth dons his trademark glare. "What is it?" Edgeworth hisses.
"I'm really sorry," the ghost says again. "I keep thinking of Mr. Powers."
"Regardless, could you stop crying for the next thirty minutes or so? You are incredibly distracting," Edgeworth whispers. This just causes the young man to wrap his arms round his knees even tighter and nestle his masked face further into his scarf.
"Okay."
If the ghost weren't so transparent, Edgeworth is certain that he would see the tears in the young man's eyes. The prosecutor has learned over the course of this case that no one else knows this ghost is present. Even he can barely find him under the fluorescent lights, and he's the one that can actually hear him.
Edgeworth grabs the pen, stands, and walks towards the lobby, but he accidentally drags his foot through the ghost's knee. It felt as if he had slipped through an ice-capped puddle. When he sits down in the lobby to rehearse his speech, Edgeworth slaps his leg to shake off the pins and needles, but it's still painfully numb by the time he returns to the court room. The ghost notices how the prosecutor rolls his ankle in discomfort, and begins to apologize, but quickly withers beneath the warning look he receives in return.
"I'm sorry..." he whispers one last time.
Edgeworth prepares to scold him, but he'd hate for the ghost to be an even greater distraction by upsetting him further. Upon noticing that the judge had not returned yet, and that the crowd was all distracted in their own chit-chat, Edgeworth instead leans down towards the wispy figure and mumbles, "It's okay."
The ghost lifts his head and stares openly with wide, glistening eyes, as if a blanket of shame had been lifted off his shoulders. Déjà vu strikes Edgeworth so hard, he almost fails to notice that the judge had struck his gavel multiple times to continue the court session. He brushes back his gray bangs, and prepares himself for Mia Fey's cross-examination, although, after a riveting fifteen minutes, Vasquez was still as unflappable as always, just as Edgeworth had expected.
"We just engaged in a battle of wits. And the result of that battle? You proved the possibility that I murdered Hammer."
"R-right!"
Edgeworth checks his watch, ignoring Mia's spluttering and Vasquez's smugness. He ignores the sniffling beneath the desk.
"But... that is only a possibility. Proof is another thing altogether. You lack decisive proof, Ms. Fey," Vasquez coolly explains.
"No!" the ghost cries out. An electric zing shoots up Edgeworth's leg at the outburst. When that man locks his teary eyes with Edgeworth's bewildered ones, he simply says, "This isn't right!"
"Mr. Edgeworth, your thoughts?" the judge inquires.
Edgeworth snaps back up to face the judge. The court looks expectedly towards the Demon Prosecutor, but the Demon Prosecutor can't block the soft crying from his ears.
"O-of course, it's as the witness says. There's no proof," he stumbles. Mia piques at the sudden change in her rival's demeanor and turns to appeal once more.
"I'd like Ms. Vasquez to testify again-"
"Know when to give up, Ms. Fey," the judge interrupts.
"Why is this happening," the man cries. He suddenly develops a wet, rattling cough, grasps his scarf, mumbling all the while, "Why is this happening," over and over again.
Vasquez and Mia Fey go back and forth for a little while longer before the judge interjects to end the cross-examination, but Edgeworth feels a splitting headache coming on already, and he swears his leg is about to tear itself out his knee socket. Why is this happening, why is this happening. Edgeworth wants to yell at the ghost. "It's going to happen, I will have Mr. Powers declared guilty, just be quiet and accept the fact!"
Mia slams the table and Vasquez blows smoke in her face. The hum of gallery starts to drown out the futile cross-examination. Miles tries to discreetly cover the ear nearest to the ghost, but this does nothing to block out the sobbing. This ghost will cry for the rest of this court's existence, and it's all because Dee Vasquez may be guilty, and both Edgeworth and the ghost know it. That's a fact.
"Objection!" Edgeworth exclaims.
The court goes silent, even the ghost. The judge eventually wipes the wide-eyed confusion off his face to ask, "Yes, Mr. Edgeworth?"
"I, er, I also request that the witness testify again. About, um," Edgeworth glances down at the man who has returned to his soft sobbing, "the body. I mean, what happened after they found the body."
Vasquez takes a long toke from her pipe. "Your Honor. I don't see why both the attorney and the prosecutor are badgering me, but certainly you see that we stand nothing to gain from this."
"Your Honor," Edgeworth interjects, projecting a bit too loudly in order to drown out the unwell ghost beside him. "I insist; a man's life is on the line."
"Well," the judge says carefully, "I don't quite understand what is the meaning of all this, but the prosecution raises a fair point; we can't defer to laziness when the consequences are so dire. If the prosecution supports the defense' request, then I don't see why we shouldn't continue the cross-examination."
Whack.
Vasquez nearly snaps her pipe.
"The witness will testify to the court concerning the events after they found the body. Please proceed."
Edgeworth rolls his ankle again. The pins and needles begin to fade.
Edgeworth returns later that day, just before he knew the guards would lock up the building. The sun is low enough below the horizon that his shadow slinks across dozens of steps, spilling out towards the guard posted at the entry door.
"Wait, stop! You can't— oh, Mr. Edgeworth! What's going on sir?" the guard asks.
"Nothing. I merely, er, misplaced my...cravat."
"Your cravat?"
"I-indeed."
A beat passes. Edgeworth momentarily considers threatening some nonsensical performance review to "persuade" the guard further, but what if the ghost is monitoring them right this very second? Would that be another strike on his record?
"Sounds good to me! Where do you need to go sir?" the guard eventually replies, much to Edgeworth's relief.
"Courtroom number four, thank you."
"No problem, just make sure to shut the door again on your way out. Oh, and please don't take too long," the police officer adds. "I'm already under hot water with my boss for being 'sloppy' and 'neglecting my duties.' Can you believe it?"
"I-I see."
Edgeworth manages to save his disparaging expressions for after he's alone in the courtroom.
After shutting the door, he takes a deep breath and scans the area. Nothing seemed out of the ordinary. No ectoplasm dripping off the witness stand, nor any muffled crying from the pews.
"Hello?" he calls out. The emptiness of the room makes him feel shy. If someone were to walk in right now, surely they would find his behavior foolish, if not concerning. In fact, he considers leaving. The policeman would be suspicious if it took him more than a few minutes to find his "lost cravat," but he can't leave just yet.
Edgeworth feels like he's dragging himself through concrete, a reluctance he hasn't felt since taking the bar at twenty-years old. He tells himself that "No ghost should make affect me this much," and stomps right up to the prosecution's desk. Before he reaches the destination, he hears a voice peep up from the defendant's chair.
"Hi."
Edgeworth slowly turns around to face that man. If the ghost hadn't spoken up, Edgeworth might never have noticed him. In the harsh lights of the courthouse, the man is washed out into nearly nothing. The beige skin and dark hair are nondescript at this level of paleness, but even that bright pink sweater stands out at minimum saturation. Edgeworth walks closer, trying to get a better look at the mysterious person's face, and decides to shut off the lights instead. Although he immediately scolds himself for his stupidity, he soon discovers that complete darkness helps him see the ghost more clearly. Perhaps human perception of ghosts doesn't follow the logic of physical vision. Nonetheless, the ghost's visibility does improve marginally, but he doesn't glow like Casper. It's more akin to imagining an apple in your mind; clear conceptualization, but poor visualization.
However, now that the lights are off, Edgeworth can see a few more details. He sees the pink sweater actually has a large 'P' printed in the middle, and he only now notices that the two seem similar in age, even though his face is partially obscured by his mask, and mostly buried in the scarf. And, although Edgeworth knows it's impossible make out the appearance of the ghost's hair when its dark color blends into the blacked-out room, he swears they are shaped into spikes.
"Do you...did you have a cold? You had an awful cough earlier," Edgeworth eventually asks.
The ghost perks up and his eyes almost come alight before he averts his gaze. Releasing a pent-up breath, he lifts his head, and finally faces him. "Yes. The worst."
"Ah," the prosecutor replies, for once, at a loss for words in this courthouse. He's never had to interact with ghosts before. The novelty of it all makes him feel as though he's never held a conversation in his life.
"Are you Miles Edgeworth?" the ghost asks. The prosecutor only nods. "We knew each other. It was a long time ago, and you might not even remember me, but we were once friends."
"Friends?" Edgeworth wishes that he could just shine a flashlight and pull down that mask, he can't make heads or tails of who this person could possibly be. "I don't recall having any friends like you."
"Or any friends at all?"
"Grrk! That's not what I said!"
A faint outline of a smile wrinkles the mask, but the warm expression juxtaposes how his hands anxiously twiddles with the scarf. "I don't know why I'm being so cryptic. It's too late for me to care about my dignity, or being cool." He stands up from the chair to meet Edgeworth at eye level. "I knew you when you wanted to be a defense attorney."
That statement steals Edgeworth's breathe away. "A very long time ago indeed."
"Why did you stop? Why did you become a prosecutor?" the ghost inquires. "Didn't you want to help people?"
"What?" Edgeworth replies. "Who are you? Why is this your concern."
"Because you're the reason why I'm here in this courthouse, in this...this state," he replies, gesticulating to his wispy form. "I don't know why you changed, or how much time has passed, but you have to know that you're hurting people. You almost sent Mr. Powers to his death."
"I am a prosecutor, I serve justice," he replies coldly.
"Well, you did today."
Edgeworth can feel indignation turning his face red, but he forces himself to unclench his fist and steady his voice. "I want to know who you are."
"If I'm haunting you for the rest of your Los Angeles career..." he trails off. However, he remains still, his arms close to his chest, and his fingers still nervously fidgeting with the red fleece.
"Wha-"
"I need a second." The ghost's clipped tone silences the prosecutor immediately. "I'm afraid you won't recognize me, or that you will. I-it's hard to talk about."
"I don't...you don't need to remove your mask. Just tell me your name," Edgeworth tries to assure him, despite struggling to stay calm.
"Right. Why didn't I think of that," the ghost mutters. "M-my name is Phoenix Wright. When we were in elementary school, you saved me."