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Title: Turn, Turn, Turnabout.
Spoilers: It's set in between game 2 and 3, but there may be brief spoilers for some of game 3.
Summary: Phoenix Wright is arrested for the attempted murder of...Maya Fey? It's Edgeworth and Pearl on the case.
Turn, Turn, Turnabout
Prologue
Date: June 14
Location: Gourd Lake Park
Time: 1:30 am
(Ow, my head…) Leaves crackled beneath him as he rolled to the side, twigs and rocks taking the opportunity to poke at his already aching body. His head throbbed in time with his heartbeat, and his eyes felt swollen as he forced them open. Everything was dark, vague shapes wavering in the distance as his vision tried to adjust. A low, miserable sound of pain echoed through the clearing. (Oh, wait. That's me.)
His hands stung as he moved, and from the feel, they were caked in leaves and dirt. Raising one to his face, he got a whiff of scent, a jolt of panic and recognition shooting through his body. (How sad is my life, that I can recognize blood by the smell of it? What the hell is going on?)
Another groan slid through the night air, and this time, he was pretty sure that it wasn't him. Rolling in that direction, his eyes strained against the darkness to make out a sprawled body not too far away. The body stirred, whimpered. (I know that voice…) "Maya?"
He forced himself upright, scrambling over the ground to reach her. Her eyes were closed, her face covered in blood. Just like his hands. (Please, let it be my blood, not hers. Maya…) He reached for her.
"Freeze! Put your hands up and get away from the girl!"
Day 1 – Investigation
Date: June 14
Location: Home of Miles Edgeworth
Time: 3:30 am
There was only one thing Miles Edgeworth knew for certain, and that was that whoever was pounding on his door had better be dying, unless they wanted to be dying very shortly. The wretched noise, occasionally broken by the deep clang of his doorbell, echoed through the hall as he stumbled towards the foyer, still mostly asleep. He checked the tie of his dressing robe, quickly thrown on when the dreadful racket had begun. He slid back the lock, snarling, "There had better be an excellent reason for this, this…"
The rest of the words died of surprise in his throat. Standing on his doorstep was a child. That was unprecedented enough in Edgeworth's personal history, but he was also reasonably confident that the wide, brown eyes belonged to the littlest Fey, one of two that usually tagged along behind Wright. She was currently dressed in Steel Samurai pajamas, rather than the usual 'spirit medium' costume, but it was still recognizably the same girl…even after he gave his eyes a good rub to be sure. (What was her name, again? Pansy? Patty? No…Pearl.) Nonplussed, he stared down at her. She returned stare for stare, her mouth hanging open in a silent 'oh' of surprise, her hands not-quite-covering her face. (Who, exactly, was she expecting to open the door?) "…can I be of some service, Miss Fey?"
Pearl looked down, toeing his welcome mat with one bare foot. "I can see your knees, Mr. Edgeworth."
"Ah, well. The robe is rather…" Edgeworth forced himself to stop right there. He was not having this conversation, particularly not with an eight-year-old. There could, he decided, be only one explanation for this outrage, and so he turned his attention to the thick, neatly trimmed shrubs flanking his porch. "Wright, using a child to deflect my wrath is rather low, even for you, don't you think? Come out and…wait, what's wrong, girl?"
At the mention of Wright's name, tears had sprung to Pearl's eyes, and now they overflowed, her mouth opening wider to allow desperate, racking sobs out into the early morning air. Edgeworth recoiled. Prosecutors were not supposed to panic. They were the stern inquisitors of justice, with hearts of ice and minds like steel traps. Thus, Edgeworth hastily assured himself, he wasn't /really/ scooping the bawling child up into his arms and babbling nonsense in a desperate attempt to stop the flow of tears, no matter how it might appear to the uneducated observer. He retreated into the house, kicking the door closed behind them. "Hush, now. Hush."
No effect. In fact, the tone of his voice seemed to send Pearl into a renewed peal of crying, her body shaking in his hands with the force of it. He couldn't possibly be /that/ frightening…could he? He raised his voice above the sobs. "Miss…Miss Fey. If you don't tell me what is wrong, I can do nothing about it." And, at this moment, he was prepared to do anything required, as long as it made the crying stop.
In one of the very few times the world had been on the side of Miles Edgeworth, the sobs cut off, leaving him staring at the child in bemusement. Pearl sniffled, once, then pointed at the television, just visible in the living room. He followed the look, brows drawing downward. "I don't suppose you'd simply tell," her eyes filled up with tears again, "…no, clearly not. Let's turn the TV on, shall we?"
He set her back on her feet; bare feet he noted again with distracted concern. She tagged along at his heels as they entered the living room, and he claimed the TV remote. He flicked through a few channels before finding the right one. And it didn't take the urgent tug of a little hand at the hem of his dressing gown to identify it, either.
The wide screen, slightly dimmed by dust, flickered with an unpleasant and familiar backdrop: the entrance to the Gourd Lake parkgrounds. Superimposed over the shot was a picture of Phoenix Wright after some trial or another, grinning his goofy, self-conscious grin at the camera. Edgeworth thumbed the volume up higher, the sinking feeling in his stomach warning him to brace for the worst.
"—police say. The up and coming defense attorney has been detained on a charge of attempted murder, but sources within the department claim that it is likely that the charge will be revised to capital murder before the trial begins. The victim, Maya Fey, is currently in critical condition, and is not expected—" Edgeworth hit the mute button before Pearl's sniffles could blossom into fullblown tears, again. Her bottom lip was trembling perilously, and she looked up at him with the air of stern expectation one usually received only from cats.
"It's rubbish, of course," Edgeworth said aloud, for the girl's sake. "Wright is constitutionally incapable of malice. Murder? He wouldn't know where to begin."
"What's con-stu-too-shun-ally mean?" Her voice was soft, and just a little hoarse from the crying.
"It means…wait. How did you even /get/ here? Wright didn’t….he wouldn't…" (Damn it, man, you are capable of constructing a complete sentence.) He took a breath. "How did you get here, Miss Fey?"
"I walked."
He waited, but that seemed to be all the answer Pearl was interested in providing. "Right. Well. We'll have to see that you're reunited with the appropriate authorities until this is all cleared up." Her eyes started to widen. "I cannot have you stay here, of course." The lower lip trembled again. "I am not your legal guardian. I could be arrested for kidnapping." Tears welled, began to silently spill over her cheeks, and the prosecutor felt his nerves crack. "Ngggggnnnh. Please, for the love of God, do not cry." He ran a hand through his hair, giving it a sharp tug for good measure. No, not a particularly unpleasant dream. "What is it that you expect me to do?"
Spoilers: It's set in between game 2 and 3, but there may be brief spoilers for some of game 3.
Summary: Phoenix Wright is arrested for the attempted murder of...Maya Fey? It's Edgeworth and Pearl on the case.
Turn, Turn, Turnabout
Prologue
Date: June 14
Location: Gourd Lake Park
Time: 1:30 am
(Ow, my head…) Leaves crackled beneath him as he rolled to the side, twigs and rocks taking the opportunity to poke at his already aching body. His head throbbed in time with his heartbeat, and his eyes felt swollen as he forced them open. Everything was dark, vague shapes wavering in the distance as his vision tried to adjust. A low, miserable sound of pain echoed through the clearing. (Oh, wait. That's me.)
His hands stung as he moved, and from the feel, they were caked in leaves and dirt. Raising one to his face, he got a whiff of scent, a jolt of panic and recognition shooting through his body. (How sad is my life, that I can recognize blood by the smell of it? What the hell is going on?)
Another groan slid through the night air, and this time, he was pretty sure that it wasn't him. Rolling in that direction, his eyes strained against the darkness to make out a sprawled body not too far away. The body stirred, whimpered. (I know that voice…) "Maya?"
He forced himself upright, scrambling over the ground to reach her. Her eyes were closed, her face covered in blood. Just like his hands. (Please, let it be my blood, not hers. Maya…) He reached for her.
"Freeze! Put your hands up and get away from the girl!"
Day 1 – Investigation
Date: June 14
Location: Home of Miles Edgeworth
Time: 3:30 am
There was only one thing Miles Edgeworth knew for certain, and that was that whoever was pounding on his door had better be dying, unless they wanted to be dying very shortly. The wretched noise, occasionally broken by the deep clang of his doorbell, echoed through the hall as he stumbled towards the foyer, still mostly asleep. He checked the tie of his dressing robe, quickly thrown on when the dreadful racket had begun. He slid back the lock, snarling, "There had better be an excellent reason for this, this…"
The rest of the words died of surprise in his throat. Standing on his doorstep was a child. That was unprecedented enough in Edgeworth's personal history, but he was also reasonably confident that the wide, brown eyes belonged to the littlest Fey, one of two that usually tagged along behind Wright. She was currently dressed in Steel Samurai pajamas, rather than the usual 'spirit medium' costume, but it was still recognizably the same girl…even after he gave his eyes a good rub to be sure. (What was her name, again? Pansy? Patty? No…Pearl.) Nonplussed, he stared down at her. She returned stare for stare, her mouth hanging open in a silent 'oh' of surprise, her hands not-quite-covering her face. (Who, exactly, was she expecting to open the door?) "…can I be of some service, Miss Fey?"
Pearl looked down, toeing his welcome mat with one bare foot. "I can see your knees, Mr. Edgeworth."
"Ah, well. The robe is rather…" Edgeworth forced himself to stop right there. He was not having this conversation, particularly not with an eight-year-old. There could, he decided, be only one explanation for this outrage, and so he turned his attention to the thick, neatly trimmed shrubs flanking his porch. "Wright, using a child to deflect my wrath is rather low, even for you, don't you think? Come out and…wait, what's wrong, girl?"
At the mention of Wright's name, tears had sprung to Pearl's eyes, and now they overflowed, her mouth opening wider to allow desperate, racking sobs out into the early morning air. Edgeworth recoiled. Prosecutors were not supposed to panic. They were the stern inquisitors of justice, with hearts of ice and minds like steel traps. Thus, Edgeworth hastily assured himself, he wasn't /really/ scooping the bawling child up into his arms and babbling nonsense in a desperate attempt to stop the flow of tears, no matter how it might appear to the uneducated observer. He retreated into the house, kicking the door closed behind them. "Hush, now. Hush."
No effect. In fact, the tone of his voice seemed to send Pearl into a renewed peal of crying, her body shaking in his hands with the force of it. He couldn't possibly be /that/ frightening…could he? He raised his voice above the sobs. "Miss…Miss Fey. If you don't tell me what is wrong, I can do nothing about it." And, at this moment, he was prepared to do anything required, as long as it made the crying stop.
In one of the very few times the world had been on the side of Miles Edgeworth, the sobs cut off, leaving him staring at the child in bemusement. Pearl sniffled, once, then pointed at the television, just visible in the living room. He followed the look, brows drawing downward. "I don't suppose you'd simply tell," her eyes filled up with tears again, "…no, clearly not. Let's turn the TV on, shall we?"
He set her back on her feet; bare feet he noted again with distracted concern. She tagged along at his heels as they entered the living room, and he claimed the TV remote. He flicked through a few channels before finding the right one. And it didn't take the urgent tug of a little hand at the hem of his dressing gown to identify it, either.
The wide screen, slightly dimmed by dust, flickered with an unpleasant and familiar backdrop: the entrance to the Gourd Lake parkgrounds. Superimposed over the shot was a picture of Phoenix Wright after some trial or another, grinning his goofy, self-conscious grin at the camera. Edgeworth thumbed the volume up higher, the sinking feeling in his stomach warning him to brace for the worst.
"—police say. The up and coming defense attorney has been detained on a charge of attempted murder, but sources within the department claim that it is likely that the charge will be revised to capital murder before the trial begins. The victim, Maya Fey, is currently in critical condition, and is not expected—" Edgeworth hit the mute button before Pearl's sniffles could blossom into fullblown tears, again. Her bottom lip was trembling perilously, and she looked up at him with the air of stern expectation one usually received only from cats.
"It's rubbish, of course," Edgeworth said aloud, for the girl's sake. "Wright is constitutionally incapable of malice. Murder? He wouldn't know where to begin."
"What's con-stu-too-shun-ally mean?" Her voice was soft, and just a little hoarse from the crying.
"It means…wait. How did you even /get/ here? Wright didn’t….he wouldn't…" (Damn it, man, you are capable of constructing a complete sentence.) He took a breath. "How did you get here, Miss Fey?"
"I walked."
He waited, but that seemed to be all the answer Pearl was interested in providing. "Right. Well. We'll have to see that you're reunited with the appropriate authorities until this is all cleared up." Her eyes started to widen. "I cannot have you stay here, of course." The lower lip trembled again. "I am not your legal guardian. I could be arrested for kidnapping." Tears welled, began to silently spill over her cheeks, and the prosecutor felt his nerves crack. "Ngggggnnnh. Please, for the love of God, do not cry." He ran a hand through his hair, giving it a sharp tug for good measure. No, not a particularly unpleasant dream. "What is it that you expect me to do?"