Pearl had warned him what would happen. "If you push yourself any more, your soul will shatter," she'd said, her large eyes wide and serious in her small face. "Please calm down, collect your thoughts, and try again." But Phoenix had never known restraint. He trusted his intuition: it had never failed him (except for that time he dated Dollie for months on end, and that time he believed in Engarde, and that time he returned to the office barely five minutes too late, and found Mia bleeding from her head. . . .)

He firmly stopped that line of thought. Nonetheless, he had questioned countless witnesses before, and dangerous ones too. Larry was surely harmless in comparison, and his secrets (annoying as they may be) were always well-meant. What could go wrong?

As usual, he'd underestimated Larry's penchant for trouble.

"Nnrgh! I've made too many mistakes!" Phoenix gasped as his soul splintered apart, and white-hot fireworks exploded in his skull so brightly he couldn't breathe, and when he next opened his eyes, he was blinking up at Pearl's shoes.

"Where am I?" he asked, or tried to. It came out a hoarse croak. "No way," he groaned, looking down at green, webbed toes.

"Nick! Is that really you?" he distantly heard Larry wailing.

"I warned you!" Pearl shrieked, sounding both distraught and disapproving at once. "Now, only true love's kiss can turn you back into Mr. Nick! Lucky that Mystic Maya's waiting at the office!"

True love's kiss? That sounded like a child's bedtime story if he'd ever heard one. Pearls must have confused her temple teachings with tall tales. Phoenix refused to worry as Pearl scooped him up and brought him to Maya.

"True love's kiss?" Maya echoed, sounding dubious. "I guess it couldn't hurt to try. I hope that's not it, it could be a problem for Nick. Let's see. . . ."

Before Phoenix could protest, she'd scooped him up and kissed him square on the lips. Pearl sighed dreamily, a delighted smile on her face. But as the seconds passed, her expression changed to confusion, and then dismay.

"Then. . . you're not Mystic Maya's special someone?" She pointed at frog-Phoenix accusingly.

"Wait, Pearly, don't—"

Before she could stop her, Pearl grabbed Phoenix and flung him out the office window. Phoenix croaked frantically as he fell. He just hoped he didn't. . . croak.

He bounced off something silky and gray. Dazed, he lay on the sidewalk, winded but uninjured.

A familiar face peered down at him.

"Oh?" Miles Edgeworth said, blinking at him. Then, to his surprise, Edgeworth picked him up and held him in the palm of his hand.

The hand holding him was soft and warm. Phoenix stared into shimmering gray eyes, surprised that Edgeworth would deign to touch an amphibian with his bare skin.

"What's this? My frog prince?" Edgeworth pondered, seemingly caught in a whimsical mood. Then, a dazzling smile, soft, open, and unguarded. Phoenix stared at it, mesmerized, wondering if he'd ever shine it at another person. "The man upstairs has no plans for me in that regard, but perhaps you'll do," Edgeworth was saying, before kissing him on his froggy head.

Before Phoenix could respond, Edgeworth was setting him down in the bushes with an affectionate "hop along now." He disappeared into the Wright Anything Agency. The door swung shut behind him.

Not a moment too soon. Phoenix's bones were twisting inside him, limbs lengthening out in an agonizing transformation. It wasn't painful, and yet he got the bizarre impression of being unfolded and turned inside out. A mere minute later, he was crouched in the bushes, gasping and naked.

He hid until he saw Edgeworth leaving, then sneaked inside to face a relieved Maya and an apologetic Pearl.

"Wahhhh! I'm so sorry, Mr. Nick!" Pearl wailed.

"All's well that ends well, right?" Maya said, and then frowned. "But who kissed you to turn you back?"

"N-no one! It must have worn off by itself!"

But as Phoenix lay awake that night, relieved and grateful to be human again, he touched a hand to his spikes, remembering soft lips and melancholy eyes. The man upstairs, Edgeworth had said. Phoenix replayed the kiss over and over in his mind until he fell asleep.


It wasn't unlike Phoenix to mysteriously go missing during an investigation, but Miles hurried to the scene anyway. That man's luck had never run out before, not in the ways that mattered. He was uncommonly sturdy, Miles told himself, firmly pushing away the worst-case thoughts that were always waiting just under the surface. But even Phoenix was in need of a rescuing, now and then.

He had last been seen that morning, eight hours ago, questioning a standoffish Ms. Ichorus. She'd been brought to the precinct immediately, of course, but her answers thus far had been consistent. Consistently impossible. He had suddenly vanished, leaving his clothes behind, she insisted. Miles pinched the bridge of his nose. He couldn't even say for sure that she was lying: He'd seen wilder theories turn out true where Phoenix Wright was concerned.

He glanced at his watch. An eight-hour interval: he could be up to five hundred miles away. Eight hundred, if his kidnapper liked to speed. At best he would be hungry, and at worst—

Miles tried not to think about the worst.

The scene itself was pretty clean: Wright's suit in a heap with some scribbled notes in one pocket and the magatama in the other. Ms. Ichorus had been completely pristine as well, no sign of blood or a struggle. Miles picked up the magatama, frowning deeply.

He investigated until sunset, and then beyond, mentally cataloguing as the color of the sky changed from nautical twilight to astronomical to true night. The skies were clear overhead, which ironically made the scene darker. Without any cloud cover to reflect the city light back down, it vanished thinly into the atmosphere.

"A metaphor for the fragility of human life?" Miles asked no one in particular, his nerves frayed razor-thin. "Save your unwanted metaphors!"

Surprisingly, the universe answered in the form of a small, furry bat careening out of the sky and slamming into his face.

"Nggooohh!" Miles sputtered, flailing. "Do you have rabies?"

The bat didn't answer, simply flopped away, half-flying, half-dragging itself a few feet before it got itself airborne. Miles watched it flapping clumsily away.

"Got into some beer? Be on the watch for cats!" Miles shouted absurdly after it.

An hour later, he received a frantic call from That Man himself. "Woke up in my office. The last thing I remember is this morning, so I figured you'd be searching for me. Not that you'd have to! I just thought—"

"You seem flustered," Miles interrupted. "Are you all right?"

"Erm. Yes?"

"Good." Miles sighed. "I don't know if you truly don't recall, or if you simply cannot tell me, but either I won't ask. Do you need a ride to the hospital?"

"Oh—no, no that won't be—"

Miles had expected as much. "It would not be an inconvenience. I was on my way there to be tested anyway."

"T-to be t-tested for. . . ."

It was astonishing and a little amusing how Miles could practically hear Wright turning red. "For rabies, Wright. I had an encounter with a bat. Whatever you have in mind is as wrong as your conclusions in court. You should come as well. Memory loss could be indicative of a number of early-stage neurological disorders."

"Oh. Well. . . okay, when you put it that way, I guess."

"Good. I'll bring your clothes."

The phone emitted an alarmed squeak, and Miles thought that the night hadn't been a total loss.


Ironically, having been turned into a critter twice and escaped both times only emboldened Phoenix. Unfortunately, Mr. Civet, the suspect, had been frightened out of his wits.

"Witchcraft! Witchcraft!" the terrified suspect screeched. Bemused, Phoenix looked down at his shiny black fur: a touch more jagged than a normal cat's, but still the prettiest he'd ever been, he thought. He raised an eyebrow at the Mr. Civet, who had backed up quivering against the far wall.

That's rude, Phoenix tried to convey in meow. Black cats aren't really bad luck, you know!

At the worst possible moment, footsteps rang out in the hall. Phoenix jumped, tail automatically puffing up into bushy spikes, and scrambled to drag his clothes behind a potted plant and out of view. He managed it just in time, as Edgeworth walked into the room.

Mr. Civet turned even paler at the sight of him. "The Demon Prosecutor and his demon familiar!" he cried out, eyes bulging in terror.

Edgeworth turned and saw Phoenix.

"Black cats aren't actually evil, you know," he said snidely.

Phoenix purred.

For the rest of the hour, while Edgeworth attempted to question the terrified suspect, Phoenix sat on his lap, purring. Edgeworth absently stroked his head the whole time, nails scratching lightly over Phoenix's scalp, and Phoenix seriously considered staying as a cat. It was nice. He could go live with Edgeworth and sleep next to him, curled on his bed, and leave his responsibilities behind. . . .

No. That was too much like choosing metaphorical death.

When Edgeworth had given up on getting anything of use from Mr. Civet, he sighed and left the room, carrying Phoenix with him. "Aren't you a well-behaved, pretty one," he said fondly, rubbing Phoenix's face. "Your fur is a bit unusual. Reminds me of someone I know."

Phoenix was leaning blissfully into lovely, luxurious face scratches, when the unthinkable happened: Edgeworth dropped a light kiss on his furry forehead.

Phoenix froze in horror. Any second now, he'd transform back into a man, and a naked one at that! He hissed frantically, taking a panicked swipe at Edgeworth's face and leaping away.

"Ah!" Edgeworth touched his cheek. His fingers came away bloody.

Miserably, Phoenix fled, his tail bushy as a squirrel's, and his ears flattened to his head.


It scarred.

Edgeworth's beautiful face, that smooth, porcelain visage, exquisite in joy and alluring in anger, was scarred. A younger Phoenix had shamelessly taped a newspaper clipping of that demon prosecutor article in his law textbook. More recently, he'd carried a photo around in his wallet, hidden on the backside of his Costco card. Now the face of his fantasies had been rendered out-of-date by his own paw.

He felt lower than a cockroach.

He swapped out his suit for a stained hoodie, locked the doors, and let his phone run out of battery. Weeks passed while he sat in his dim apartment in self-loathing, hungry and unwashed and gnawing on expired foods.

Edgeworth stormed in on his pity-party, perfectly poised as usual. He hadn't even smashed down the door; he'd picked it so skillfully that there was barely a pause before it swung open. Phoenix had no time to hide his heaps of half-eaten take-out.

The scar gleamed on his cheek: three sharp gashes, pink and raised against his lovely skin, the middle one a touch thicker than the others.

Phoenix stared, his mind slowing to a complete stop, too ashamed to even react, while Edgeworth surveyed the mess in growing horror.

"Goodness, Wright, what's gotten into you? Have you—you haven't been eating this?" He prodded a moldy rice bowl with a disgusted sneer.

"I. . . ." Phoenix trailed off. How could he ever explain? He had stolen three kisses from this man, and repaid them with three scars. Truly, there was no justice in the world.

He couldn't give him back his perfect face, but at least he could give him the truth. Phoenix reached for the magatama. "Why are you here?" he grumbled.

"Isn't that obvious? I came to check on you."

No chains, no locks. Edgeworth's scars flashed like Engarde's, and Phoenix chose his next words carefully. "Is that the only reason you're here?"

"I—yes?"

There they were, all the locks and chains. Got you. Phoenix smirked. He'd give his friend the truth and freedom, all in one.

"You're here to laugh at me. You're here to see how far I've fallen. You're here to take the victory that you couldn't get in court." The accusations felt rotten in his mouth, fouler than that shriveled apple he'd been nibbling. Edgeworth's eyes widened in shock, and he staggered back from the onslaught.

The magatama was smoking, searing heat in the palm of Phoenix's hand. Just one more push. "You're here to throw me out of your life forever, because even looking like some kind of Engarde-lite, you've only gotten prettier. Forget being in your league, I'm not even in your conference."

"Conference?" Edgeworth repeated blankly, a flush creeping into his face.

"Oh. Sorry. Football term. American football, that is." The magic was working. Phoenix's bones were being folded and folded again, smaller than he'd ever been. Perhaps this time, he could disappear.

"I know what a conference is," Edgeworth was saying over his shrinking head. "If we're using American football terminology, you should know that a league encompasses thirty-two teams while only sixteen comprise a conference. Being out of one's league would be automatically disqualifying from that conference."

Fucked that up a little bit, Phoenix thought morosely, taking in his new form. Long, thin legs and a brown, rubbery carapace. It was poetic: an outer ugliness to match the one within.

Before he could escape, Edgeworth reached out and grabbed him, peering at him curiously, the gears almost visibly turning. Phoenix tried to close his eyes, and then frowned in dismay: his newest form didn't have eyelids. Any second now, Edgeworth would figure out who had scarred him, and then he'd squash him like a bug.

Edgeworth's face remained impassive, perfectly controlled while the Logic whirred within, with only the softest "Eureka" to mark his conclusion. Then, to Phoenix's surprise, Edgeworth kissed him.

Calmly, Edgeworth set him down atop his little heap of clothes and turned his back.

"What?" Phoenix sputtered, human once more. "You kissed a cockroach! That's unsanitary!" Though his face was concealed, Edgeworth's shoulders were tense, and his ears as pink as the suit.

"Put some clothes on," Edgeworth said. "Or I'll follow through on your bad guesses."