trace (vestiges)
"They're called 'Psychelocks'," Phoenix had murmured groggily, his exhausted seeping into his tone over the phone clear as day. Miles had heard this weariness a thousand times before; every good-morning call with Phoenix tucking himself into bed had always carried this same level of blurred, barely-coherent fatigue. Phoenix had mumbled something else which Miles can barely make out, his voice hoarse and croaking.
This all had led Miles to sigh and simply scold Phoenix into going back to bed to deal with this miraculously-light fever. He had no idea what in the world Phoenix means by that name- his call had been about those strange red padlocks, about why in the world a random stone kept glowing through his pocket- but with Phoenix's less-than-coherent answers, Miles had doubted he had even heard it right.
'Psycho-locks'? he had repeated in his mind, trying to lock down a name for the strange occurrence he had borne witness to in the detention center. It just- it can't be real. Those locks cannot truly be Iris' truths manifesting into visibility. It simply cannot be.
Those thoughts had haunted him all the way down to the courthouse. However, as he sits in front of the appropriate clerk in the main office, thoughts of Psycholocks and weird, supernatural happenings and Iris' and Phoenix's past fizzle away into nothing, drowned out entirely by the sorry state before him.
His horror cannot be contained, smearing any confidence he would normally project with the sickly sheen of disgust, his fingers trembling thanks to a grizzly mixture of rage and shock. The clerk does not notice his shaking, though. Seated behind her desk in the courthouse, she barely even glances up at his face; he does not recognize her, so he doubts she would truly know who he is, either, but the fact that she simply nods and writes his name down as the defense attorney in the upcoming trial of Iris without so much as a glance at anything other than the attorney's badge in his hands is horrifying.
His fingers tighten around the steering wheel of his car. He had assumed that coming home to his familiar convertible would bring him some modicum of relief, but with just how lackadaisical the entire court appears to be at this point, there is nothing on his mind but reeling, almost overwhelming fear.
What in the world has our judicial system become?
There is absolutely no way any of this foolishness would ever be tolerated in Germany. In fact, he had often griped about the amount of forms which had constantly lined his desks back in his office in Berlin, but in comparison to the absolutely cavalier attitude the courts had on simply allowing anyone in-
This is not a problem for now, he tries to tell himself. Thank your luck that you were accepted as the defense attorney. I just need to make sure that the judge does not recognize me- if His Honour does not understand I am a prosecutor by trade, then it shall not pose as an issue. It is only until Wright comes back, after all.
His palms are far too clammy upon the leather steering wheel than he'd like. He cannot help it, though; this sinking dread cannot be simply wished away.
After what feels like a millennia of stewing within his own brewing anxiety, he finally pulls up alongside myriad police cars and construction crews. The process of rebuilding a bridge which has been set alight is well-underway, leaving the officers naught to do but investigate this side of the temple grounds until a connection is re-established. Ignoring the officers, the scenery itself is strangely beautiful, he thinks; in the distance, the mountainside is covered by snow-capped trees, the banks of icy white glimmering like crystalline fields dotted in jewels under the bright afternoon sun. His breath emerges in a cloud, his entire body shivering as the cold finally hits now that he is outside of his car. This chill pervading his bones- it is so different from the relentless warmth of the city.
He is cold. His heart aches. He wishes Phoenix were here to capture this view with him- to keep him warm as they survey this serene landscape.
However, it isn't entirely serene- not truly. The remnants of the fire which burned down the bridge, precipitating Phoenix's fall, still scorch the earth. The snow has completely melted in the two-foot radius from the bridge's edge, the remnants of its support beams charred into crumbling ash. The brush which had been growing along the side of the cliff is stained and blackened and shrivelled, and the pervasive scent of smoke still lingers in the air. It makes his sleep-deprived form wobble a little bit.
Miles' heart palpitations ease a tiny bit as he sees Detective Gumshoe's face once more, the oaf of a man surveying the scene with a deeply troubled scowl jutting out his unshaven chin. Gumshoe's face lights up for a moment as he spots Miles' approach; however, a cold chill runs up Miles' spine as even that dopey look of joy, which usually lingers upon Gumshoe's face whenever Miles is present, fades away almost instantly. This case isn't normal, Miles thinks bitterly, shoving his hands into his pockets to ease the icy temperature.
His fingers immediately wrap around Phoenix's badge and the Magatama.
A quick rundown of the case thus far does little to ease Miles' nerves; Maya is supposedly trapped within the temple grounds upon the other side of the bridge, Pearl is still nowhere to be found, and the prosecutor who should be in charge of the case is nowhere to be seen, leaving the investigation at its wit's end. "We don't know how to proceed from here, pal," Gumshoe explains, his fear painted plainly across his face. "Those two girls- I really hope they're okay."
Miles silently pulls out his phone, calling Maya. She still does not respond. His eyes track over to the edge of the sheer cliff dropping sharply into the river below.
…please, Maya. Pearl. I pray you two are safe.
He cannot allow the last time he had seen the two girls to be a video call during the winter holidays. He simply cannot.
For now, however, they have an investigation to commence. Miles goes forth, interrogating the witnesses and examining the crime scenes, with Gumshoe trailing by his side whenever he can; the older man provides him the evidence he shall need in court, along with more details of whatever the police have managed to dredge up. Miles can only massage his temples and sigh as he fights to keep every piece of information straight in his mind as more and more is piled on- the weather data interacts with the bridge and the tracks and the fire, and he cannot help but admit that Larry is likely involved too, as much as he would prefer he didn't have to deal with his inane childhood companion any longer. It simply does not add up. There are too many pieces, too many people, missing.
One of whom being the prosecutor. "Who in the world is the 'Godot', anyways?" he asks as he examines the statue of Mystic Ami Fey, under which the body had been found by Phoenix and Sister Bikini. "I've never heard of him."
There is a peculiar look upon Gumshoe's face as he says this; the detective goes to explain that he had heard that Miles Edgeworth had indeed endorsed Godot's work as a prosecutor within their courthouse.
To this, Miles can only laugh. "Why in the world would I endorse someone who's last name and credentials I do not know?" he scoffs wearily.
Gumshoe shrugs. "I dunno, pal. The only thing that's clear about the guy is how much he hates Wright."
At this, Miles perks up. Why in the world would anyone hate Phoenix, unless if they had been someone related to a criminal Phoenix had managed to catch?
His heart races in his chest for a moment, so fierce he fears it shall break through his ribcage. Is he in danger- what if someone attacks him in the hospital-
"He'll be fine," Miles murmurs, more to himself than to the baffled detective. "He'll be fine."
Still, even amidst Miles' fervent mantra and his precise, analytical work examining the scene, he cannot resist calling the precinct and asking the Chief Detective to station an officer in the hospital outside of Phoenix's room. He cannot watch Phoenix hurt any longer, and if this Godot fellow is an enemy, then…
I'll keep you safe, and I'll get your case extended. Don't worry, Wright.
He is exhausted, and this case makes absolutely no sense to him, but his goal is resolute, unwavering. He shall see it done. It is a promise.