Disclaimer: Don't own anything.
She hates it when she's alone in Phoenix's office.
When he's out doing some serious business that she just can't understand, or when she arrives early to work, or when she stays late to help tidy up case files long after the moon has risen and she's shipped an exhausted Phoenix home to sleep.
She's alone, and it's suffocating her.
The office suddenly seems incredibly small to her, and she bites her lip as she sorts through the huge file that is the Matt Engarde case. After a few minutes of idle shuffling, finger licking, and paper flipping, she finally sighs and abandons her work, sitting back in her chair.
Maya Fey glares at the area around her.
Stupid poster. Stupid bookcase. Stupid couch. Stupid Charley.
She sighs and reaches over and pats Charley, as if she were petting a puppy.
"Sorry, boy. I didn't mean it."
Charley obviously forgives her. For god's sake, it's a plant.
Gazing out the window, Maya listens to the hum of the florescent lights above her and the sound of cars on the street below. From the window she can see the glowing windows of the Gatewater Hotel and the clouds in the sky that obstruct her view of the stars.
She can't do this forever. She can't sit around and be Maya Fey, Ace Spirit Medium, forever. Because soon she'll have to step up and become Maya Fey, Master of the Kurain Spirit Channeling Technique.
The black haired girl stares down at the paperwork in front of her.
She's pathetic.
She's using Nick as an excuse to stay away from Kurain. She's pretending to be his assistant because she's scared. She doesn't want to go home. She doesn't want to become Maya Fey, Master of the Kurain Spirit Channeling Technique. She just wants to be Maya Fey, the girl who works under the legendary Phoenix Wright. The girl who's addicted to burgers. The girl who stays up late sorting through case files.
But she can't be that girl.
She hates it when she's alone in Phoenix's office.
Because when she's alone, she starts to think, and her guilt washes over her in waves. She thinks of how pathetic she is for running away. She thinks about her future duties. She thinks about Pearl. Mia. Morgan. Her mother.
She stares down at the Engarde case, but as she reads, her mind wanders elsewhere. God, she's just so—
--hired a professional assassin, Shelly deKiller, to kill his rival, Juan Corrida—
pathetic—
--Adrian Andrews, who tried to pin the blame on Matt Engarde by planting false evidence—
shameful—
--Phoenix Wright, who worked together with Miles Edgeworth to solve the case and save the hostage—
scared.
Maya sighs and buries her head in her hands, running her fingers through her ebony locks exasperatedly. Her pearls clink against her magatama as she moves and she closes her eyes, listening to the lights and the cars and the dead silence.
She's vaguely aware of the tears that drip, drip, drip onto the Engarde case, staining the paper.
Maya hates it when she's alone in Phoenix's office.