Disclaimer/Note: I do not own Phoenix Wright, or any of the characters mentioned in this story. I am not making any money off of this story. Please do not sue me. I wrote this story in one sitting, without a beta reader, at SakuraCon 2007 as part of a contest. It won in the Best Serious Fic category, which I am very proud of. The story takes place after the end of the second game, Justice for All, when you don't get Engarde a guilty verdict. Warnings for vandalism and character death. Enjoy.
Turnabout's End
The air in the office was cold, dry and lifeless, like the plant in the far corner. It stood by the window across from the Gate Water Hotel, its tall stem brown from drought and fern-like tendrils curled in upon themselves. Nearby, an old desk had been placed sometime ago, now covered in dust, worn by time and disuse. He had been away for a long time.
It was not long enough.
The man in the doorway scowled, brown eyes narrowing darkly with the action. Why had he returned after so long, a blink in the now meaningless span of his lifetime? There was no business here for him to conduct, no trial to prepare for. He had turned in his attorney's badge years ago, had stopped paying rent on this space around the same time. There was nothing left for him.
Not even her.
Perhaps that was what had dragged him back to this god-forsaken place, filled with painful memories and naïve hopes. But she was not here. What reason would she have had to stay after he left? He tried to reason with his disappointment. He was the one who walked out of the courtroom after hearing the verdict:
Not guilty.
"There is no such thing as a miracle," he reminded himself quietly, reaching into his pocket. There, he found a lighter, fingers wrapping around its rectangular form tightly. "No miracles, and no justice. . ."
The man stripped off his thread-bare blue suit jacket, backing out of the room briefly before he returned. He brought a can of gasoline with him, the liquid sloshing as he walked to the center of the room. Deftly, he uncapped it, upturning the tank and spreading its contents across the floor. The sickly sweet stench filled his senses, adrenaline pumping in anticipation. He soaked his jacket thoroughly, and threw it onto the desk.
A flick of the thumb, and an orange flame arose from the lighter, casting odd shadows that caught around his eyes like tiny demons. No justice, and no miracles, he repeated the mantra in his head with a fanatic's reverence.
The lighter fell from his hand to the floor, fire bursting out like a shockwave along the carpet. Phoenix Wright closed his eyes with a sigh, and lifted his palms up to the heavens in surrender.
"Turnabout is fair play," he whispered to the old building, to all the ghosts who followed him. His last words were swallowed by the growing inferno, drowned out by the red-hot teeth that bit through his flesh. "I'm sorry, Mia. . .Maya. . ."