Disclaimer: I do not, sadly, own Ace Attorney or affiliates. I'm just a poor girl that's addicted to the internet and likes writing up stories. What harm could I really do?

If you don't understand it, it's okay. This is actually an excerpt coming from my latest story 'The Science of Burned Bridges,' a Klema story from Ema's point of view. It won't be posted for a while, and this could be read as a one-shot, so I downloaded this first. She's known Miles Edgeworth for a whole nine years by now, since she was 12 and he was 20. Her sister, Lana, was obviously a detective at that time, but would still sometimes bring her younger sister Ema to the precinct, and at times they would chance upon the newly-hired prosecutor Miles Edgeworth. Ema's known him for a while, hasn't she? She's also had this HUGE crush on him.

Enjoy, please! But quiet now; it's snacktime.

Victim: As Reminisced by a Simple Detective

When I'd heard the news - from one of the local detectives; Mr. Wright couldn't speak for three weeks - my first emotion had been anger at the detective. Clearly, he'd been wrong; Mr. Edgeworth was a survivalist, a natural almost. He'd already been poisoned once, and was supposed to die in the hospital just five hours later. He hadn't, of course. So who's to say he wouldn't pull through now? It was like his subconscious knew just how much he had to live for.

So I'd thrown both a temper and more than a few Snackoos at the defenseless detective, and continued on my way.

But I wanted to check on his condition, just in case he had gotten worse (God forbid), so I took a short trip to the Wakefield Clinic after my shift.

The hospital confirmed the detective's so-called 'report.' That's impossible, I scoffed, Mr. Edgeworth is indestructible.

So they shoved their God-forsaken records into my face, telling me "Ma'am, files show he passed away in the ambulance, and had been deceased for 20 minutes by the time they got here."

And then they showed me to the coroner's, who had his body all zipped up nice and neat in the big black bag. Yes, they said, tests resulted positive for overdosed atroquinine poisoning. He had stood no chance.

It was then that push came to shove when it came to throwing me off my high horse, and my legs buckled from under me. The scene before me - the sight of his smooth hair slicked over his face as his beautiful perfection lay limp and lifeless in a bag- was so horrible I couldn't not stare at it helplessly. My mind was numb, unable to register, and it felt like I was seeing everything in third person. His eyes were closed, and he looked as if he could be sleeping. That scared me the most; that a life, so flawless and deserving, could simply be snuffed out without even being touched. That a person such as Mr. Edgeworth, with his whole life to live, could just keel over and die. It... just didn't seem realistic.

I stretched out, determined to touch his skin one more time, no matter how cold; determined to hear his voice in my head whispering "Ema... Ema..." But hands - foreign ones - shot out to grab my arms, dragging me back, ignoring my restlessness.

"Ma'am," they would screech, hurting my ears, "we're going to have to ask you to step away from the body." They released me when I was 'far enough away' for comfort, leaving me to fall back down to the ground like a wet ragdoll.

"Like hell," I would mutter, but they would pay me no mind; I couldn't move, anyway.

My bones were humming - no, full out singing, with the stupid vibrations they made - and I felt a strange sensation at the base of my throat that made me want to cry hysterically and scream maniacally at the same time. Subsequently my brain would think 'What's going on? Where am I and what am I doing?' And somehow, each time, I couldn't provide an answer.

I can't remember how I managed to get home - that apartment, which Mr. Edgeworth had been to so long ago - but somehow, I did, and that's all that matters. However, I remember, vividly, that night after shuffling zombie-fashion through the door. Observing my loneliness, I felt the numbness escaping me, only to be replaced by a passion indescribable; it took possession of my body, furious and sorrowful and heated and denying. My senses were filled with simply one word: "Why?"

What exited my mouth next as a shriek could have been something akin to that word, or just all together baseless. It was more like "AAAAAAAUUUGHH!" as I reached out to grab the object closest to me - a glass vase - and smashed it on the tile floor. Angrily, I kicked the shards with my last ounces of energy, as if they had done this to me, and then sank to my knees, holding my head in my hands. I was totally oblivious to the pain of glass digging into the skin of my legs and piercing me, and instead stared, transfixed on the blood flowing from my own body and pooling on the tiles.

And finally, the tears came - a welcome release from everything I'd been holding in.

I did not return to work for three days.

The chief had approved my leave of absence, so I took what I could get.

When I wasn't cleaning the place up or tending to the surprisingly deep gashes in my legs, I simply sat in my room, on the edge of my bed, totally silent. Normally, I'd be blankly staring down at my hands. At times I'd be replaying the scene, over and over, and at others it would be memories and best moments with him that I'd be visiting. But most of my time was used pondering. Why hadn't he told me many details, or any of his theories? What was he protecting me from?

When I finally returned to the precinct, it was not without wounds. My legs were completely bandaged, but the blood was still pouring from the open wound in my heart. I would search the lobby or break room, only to realize that I would not be able to catch precious glimpses of him anymore.

I spoke to no one unless I had to, and it was usually a darkly muttered 'yes,' 'no,' or 'okay.'

The chief told me I had to get reassigned to a prosecutor. He said a name, but I wasn't listening. I wasn't bothering to register 'fop alert! fop alert!', nor was I thinking of the consequences. Even when I was forced to stand in front of Mr. I'm-A-Goddamn-Rockstar himself, my eyes were unseeing, and all I ever replied was the same. "Okay. Okay. Okay. Okay."

Then I heard someone remark, a day or two later, that they had moved Gavin into the head prosecutor's office, and I began to wake up a little, from the boiling of my own blood. It didn't take me long to make the trip across the street.

I stomped into his office, fuming, with a bag of Snackoos ready in my knapsack. He looked up pleasantly from the reports on...his death. I felt myself wilt again, and for a while was unable to recall my former fury.

"Ah, hello, Fräulein Detektiv. I was just about to look for you. See this pile?" He motioned lazily to a giant stack of files at the foremost of his desk. "I need you to take these to the chief, except the top three. I still need those typed up. You can do that for me, ja?"

Silently, I took the stack, but not without some show of attitude. My frown line deepened. But before I could walk away, moodily, I hear him again behind me. "Can you believe, Fräulein, that it was atroquinine? That is, mein leibe, a very slow death..."

The muscles in my neck tensed, and my finger twitched. Was he trying to make everything worse for me? But just before I could escape this hellhole, he spoke yet again, more cheerfully, though it seemed more to himself. "Doesn't that sound like a hit, Fräulein? My Love, Atroquinine... I can hear it now." He began to test the words in his mouth in a singsong voice. "Your love, the bittersweet of poison..." He paused. "What do you think, Fräulein?" He had finally noticed I was still there.

By this point, my pulse was pounding loudly in my ears, and heat was spreading outwards from my gut. My jaw was clenched, my eyes narrowed. I turned around slowly, glaring icy daggers. I set the paperwork down, and he seemed surprised by my body language.

"Fräulein..?"

"You want to know what I think?" I hissed dangerously, ready to explode. I pointed at him accusingly, and my voice rose. "You took Mr. Wright's badge, made his life a living hell, defiling the legend Mr. Edgeworth created, took over his office, trashed it, you're being disrespectful to the deceased, and now you're mocking his death by trying to write a stupid-ass song about a poison! You're a disgrace to the prosecutor's name, and you'll be lucky to be half the man he ever was! You're lazy, inconsiderate, and an egotistical smartass git of a fop! If you hadn't stolen Mr. Wright's badge, when everyone in their right mind knows he's innocent, then Mr. Edgeworth wouldn't have tried to delve deeper, and he'd still be alive, you stupid. Glimmerous. Fucking. Fop!" I had retained just enough self-control to refrain from beating him with my paperwork.

And leaving him open-mouthed and gaping, I spun on my heel, swiped the files, and marched angrily from his office - the one that Mr. Edgeworth used to sit in, clean and neat and sophisticated - with my eyes smoldering like coals - though they were beginning to mist over - and for the longest time I forgot that he was my boss, now. Oh, well; it didn't matter anymore. He could fire me for all I cared.

I sat myself heavily in my cubicle rolling chair when I reached my section of offices again, hanging my head low, curling my fingers through my hair as tears began to flow again. I didn't care anymore whether or not they were visible.

Somehow I had managed to avoid the stupid rockstar for the rest of the day; either that or he was choosing to avoid me, as well. I had another detective - incidentally, it was the same one who had first told me about Mr. Edgeworth's... condition - take my finished reports to the glimmerous 'prosecutor' for me. I remained in my little cubby-hole the entire time, staring unflinchingly at the harsh brightness of the computer screen, and then white papers, and then the screen again. My lab coat was wrapped around my body protectively; it was worn, and a tad small for me now, but I didn't care.

For some reason I found myself unable to stop munching loudly on my stash of Snackoos as I tried to concentrate solely on my paperwork. The eventual ache in my jaw was a welcome alternative to my thoughts.

I was still bundled in the comfort of my coat by the time I left the precinct, holding it tightly to my body. My head was bowed, and I stared intently at the concrete at my feet. The skies were dark and unfriendly, the wind whipping my hair this way and that.

Klavier Gavin, High Prosecutor? It was just unthinkable. When one uttered the words 'high' and 'prosecutor,' you thought of the great Miles Edgeworth. Not some stupid-ass rockstar. Every aspect of it was just...wrong.

And then, I'd heard that Gavin had an older brother. A defense attorney, if I wasn't mistaken. Unlike the Fop, the older Gavin was supposed to be mature beyond his years. It was gratifying to hear that; it was sort of like... Mr. Edgeworth.

My gun, in its holster, was pressed up protectively against my hip, bulging slightly from the cover of my white coat.

I dug to the bottom of my knapsack, searching for one item in particular. My fingers rooted around until I felt the smooth metal of a zipper, and the jaggedness of the teeth. Years ago, I'd sewn in a special pocket at the very bottom of the cloth bag, to hold anything important. At the time, that would have been things like a small wad of spare cash or a unique pin. Now, though, it held real purpose.

Slowly, I extracted from it an oval of gold-plated metal slightly larger than a half-dollar coin. A white, many-fingered cross decorated it, complete with a tiny, red, circular bit of glass in the center.

It was a prosecutor's badge.

It was Mr. Edgeworth's prosecutor badge.

I'd found it next to the coroner's black van; they must've shook it loose from his breast pocket as they sealed him away.

Staring at it, I gently cradled it in the palms of both my hands. A thumb carefully rubbed away the tiniest speck of dirt.

It was all I had left of him. Unless you counted the stupid little plastic bench with the stupid little plastic plaque reading 'In the Memory of High Prosecutor Miles Edgeworth' in tiny letters outside of the prosecutor's building. Which I didn't.

My feet led me farther down the sidewalk in the direction of the bus stop. I didn't realize how slowly I walking - actually, I wasn't registering that I was walking at all - but I'm sure I wouldn't've cared.

A single teardrop splashed onto the cold badge, and once again that dreadful mist threatened to overtake my eyes. I let my fingers curl around my treasure, gripping it tightly. I closed my eyes, and pressed my hands firmly to my chest.

By this time, to stifle my sobs was too much to ask of myself. I'd only seen the badge twice now.

My already snail-paced walk had since ground to a halt. I was now standing alone in the middle of the sidewalk, still only paces from the precinct, all the while shivering uncontrollably, tears rolling down my face, and a prosecutor's badge held to my heart.

It had been several days, almost a week, and yet still I told myself after finding my thoughts wander to him, It can't be. It just can't. He wouldn't do this to me. He wouldn't leave me so alone like this.

But he did. He had.

Dejectedly, the badge was replaced in my knapsack pocket, my fingers pressing into the lump it made in the cloth. I sighed, then sniffed, and held my head in my hands. Streaks of salty wetness still marked my face. I savored my few moments of blissful silence. Tiny droplets of rain water began to speckle my skin.

Just then, I heard a sort of shuffle in the distance behind me, as if someone was turning and trying to be silent. It wasn't really noticeable, but detectable. I froze, then my hands began to slowly, almost subconsciously, move to the pistol on my waist, still hidden by my coat.

A small tap on the concrete revealed a footstep, closer this time. Gripping the gun tightly, I whirled and unveiled my weapon to the intruder that was behind me, pointing with finality in front of my body.

The person - a tall man - stumbled backwards in surprise, hands lifted in a submissive manner. "Woah, there, Fräulein! There is no need for that." He positioned himself in a more casual stance this time, digging his thumbs into the pockets of black, shiny pants, convinced I would cause no harm. It was slightly arrogant.

It took me a little while to realize who stood in front of me. When I did, I growled and shoved my gun back into its holster. "Goddamn it, Gavin!" I wiped my face clear of the incriminating evidence of tears quickly on a sleeve of my lab coat, then looked up to glare at him. "What the hell do you want? I'm busy, you stupid fop."

He studied me with only curiosity and calm in his blue eyes, and it infuriated me. For a while, he said nothing.

Making a noise of disgust, I spun on my heel and began to stomp away. "I don't have time for you."

His voice carried over the wind. "Why were you crying, Fräulein?" I heard him step closer.

I stopped dead in my tracks. My back still to him, I snapped, "I wasn't crying, fop. Now go away."

"I saw you shaking as I was about to leave, myself."

"I was cold. Got problems with that?"

"Your eyes are red."

"They're dry from staring at the damn computer all day. Now get the hell away from me. I'm going to miss my bus."

"It's because of him, isn't it? Herr Edgeworth?" I reeled, and he must have seen me do so, because hand on my arm gently turned me to face him.

As I did, I noticed just how close he was to me now. His ear-length blond hair was blowing around his head like a halo, but horns would have been more appropriate. His eyes held sympathy, and care. And it only made me afraid.

I can honestly say that I was scared. He knew my weakness now. How stupid could I get? I'd walk into the precinct tomorrow, and everyone would be laughing, jeering. 'Ha, Ema Skye was crying! Ha, Ema Skye is a weakling! Ha, Ema Skye, in love with Prosecutor Edgeworth?' I didn't want his stupid sympathy, either. He could take it all back and shove it up his ass, and I wouldn't give a damn.

So I mustered my strength, one last time, and spat, "Wouldn't you like to know?" and yanked myself from his grip.

I turned and ran, not once looking back at the man - whom I still refused to call a prosecutor - behind me.

The darkness was suffocating that night, and it felt like my wounds had been ripped open again, exposed to the evening air. That, or they were never truly healed - it was only now that they were beginning to fester.

It was all Gavin's fault. He's the cause of my infliction.

Was that his destiny? To simply be my poison, killing me off slowly?

Mr. Edgeworth... I will track down whoever did this with my every ounce of strength. I will find what they were hiding. You will not die in vain.

With that thought in mind, I knew that there would be no more tears left to cry. Now I had to be strong.

Protectively, I curled into a fetal position, squeezing my eyes shut. But even in the safe blackness it produced, a pair of eerie blue eyes floated in my vision. It both scared me and angered me - those same blue eyes, so filled with sympathy and... kindness?... had gazed upon Mr. Wright with hatred, and upon Mr. Edgeworth's case with total indifference. He had even had the gall to try to make up a song about Mr. Edgeworth's death.

Those eyes, when he had fixed them upon me, had promised both everything and nothing; my rebuilding and my destruction.

And honestly, it seemed my quest for vengeance would lead me down that path to my eradication, in my own right. Emotionally, mentally.

If that was the key, then so be it.

So did you like it? Worth posting as a one-shot?

Hope you enjoyed reading it! If so, pretty please review? And if you didn't, review anyway! Tell me why you loathed to read it.

I'll even throw in a free cookie.