The fairgrounds were packed for such an early time of morning, but the Evil Magistrate didn't mind. The crowds added anonymity as he milled about in full costume, a purple cloak billowing dramatically around his shoulders and a red-streaked mask covering half his face. Only the upper half—Miles refused to be recognized at the Neo Samurai Revival Convention, and eating through the mask was one bridge too far.
He wasn't about to let anything ruin his day of acting out his earliest fantasies: imagining himself a character in the greatest show of his formative years, living out the intrigue and drama and heroics, this was the stuff of every child's dreams. Except that, in his imagination, he'd been one of the heroes. But try as he might, he never quite felt at home in the character of the Steel Samurai. The spoken lines eluded him, the battle sequences unnaturally abrupt—even the spear felt wrong in his grasp. Miles wasn't one to dash boldly into the midst of battle. Dashing foolhardily, he thought.
Not that he was afraid of battle. Miles simply preferred to make a grand, planned, and stately entrance.
But though he couldn't see himself as the Steel Samurai, Miles remained fond of the character, seeing him as sometimes a teacher, sometimes a mentor, and sometimes a friend. How fun it must be to have such a friend in his life: optimistic, fearless, and a little impulsive. Someone to balance out his cold, precise demeanor. Someone to be the sunshine to his stormy thoughts. Someone he could rely on in battle.
Over the years, as von Karma's vice grip tightened around his psyche, Miles had suppressed all mention of—and most thoughts about—the Steel Samurai, only to have them burst unbidden to the forefront of his mind. Night after night, he lay awake, holding imagined conversations with the friend in his head. Tell me, Defender of Neo Olde Tokyo: Where were you when I needed you? Am I out of your reach, here in Germany?
In his mind, the Steel Samurai would apologize. Some nights, he'd promise that he was on his way. Other days, he'd regale Miles of the heroic and desperate attempts he'd made, swearing to reach him next time and set him free.
And as Miles entered his teenage years, sometimes, just sometimes, the Steel Samurai in his mind would confess his love and admiration for Miles, and kiss him, hesitantly at first, then insistently, then passionately, and then. . . then Miles would get to wondering about his Anatomy of Steel, driving all traces of lust from his mind and replacing his thoughts with academic curiosity, and he'd fall asleep with schematics of telescoping steel genitalia drifting through his head.
The Evil Magistrate, on the other hand, required no mechanical engineering expertise to cosplay, another point in his favor. The costume made him feel grand if perhaps a little evil. It had been the obvious choice: haughty and titled, easy to slip into character, and if he resembled the Demon Prosecutor a touch too closely in spirit, well, Miles would think about that another day.
- O -
"Halt! Demon!" A loud cry sounded from across the field, as if his own thoughts had sprung bodily from his head to publicly berate him. Miles rolled his eyes and turned to meet the challenger, another cosplayer dressed head to toe as the Steel Samurai, his enthusiasm rather making up for his clear shortcomings in Samurai background—no experienced fan would've called the Evil Magistrate demon, everyone knew his foes called him dishonorable fiend.
Nonetheless, the stranger had done a convincing job with his costume. Both the stance and the voice were familiar, and even the uncovered jawline triggered something in his memory. As any good cosplay should. He supposed that he should offer encouragement to this clearly-newer fan.
Taking a deep breath to fully immerse himself in the character, Miles answered the challenger with a fierce battle cry. "Who is this impudent warrior clad in steel? You'll never defeat me. The pale moon in the sky cries for your blood!" So saying, he unsheathed his wooden katana and launched into a perfectly-executed Dark Tornado Spin, ending with a dramatic lunge that made the air whistle.
Miles watched the stranger falter a step and grinned to himself. All those hours of practice had been worth it.
Undaunted, the stranger made his own attempt at a Samurai Thunder Slash. He wasn't as fluid or as quick as Miles, who rehearsed with the same fervor he usually reserved for court cases, but he'd clearly practiced it before a mirror. He raised the plastic spear high over his head, showing off his silver-painted pecs and stretching his toned stomach, and Miles glanced over him appreciatively.
Focus, Miles reprimanded himself. This would be one tough battle. He could feel it.
"No, it is you who should gaze upon the moon. . . For it will be the last moon you ever see! See you in hell, Evil Magistrate!" The Steel Samurai yelled, and he was charging at Miles, spear raised high like a sword—all wrong, Miles thought. The Samurai Spear ought to be either hefted for throwing, or wielded as a staff. Miles's eyes narrowed: he could use this to his advantage.
His opponent swung with all his strength, clearly expecting Miles to block. At the last second, Miles sidestepped, letting momentum carry the Samurai off-balance and staggering, the spear whacking awkwardly off the ground. Miles reached out to grapple the opponent's outstretched arm, but the man was already twisting nimbly away, muscles bunching and wearing a wicked grin that left Miles feeling off-balance. He gritted his teeth and slashed with his katana, a low, horizontal slash that would be hard to parry.
Hard but not impossible. Incredibly the man seemed to have anticipated it, or perhaps read Miles's actions in his body language with lightning speed. The spear came up held in two hands, catching Miles's swing right in the middle and heaving him back. Miles gritted his teeth and circled his opponent with begrudging respect and newfound appreciation, carefully watching for the slightest telltale sign: a shift of the foot, a coiled muscle ready to spring—
Faster than thought, an inexplicable impulse shot through his gut, his brain making sense of the man's minute movements like a well-worn pattern. Miles leapt aside as the man charged, then dropped to the ground to sweep out the man's legs—
He wasn't there. "Looking for someone?" the Steel Samurai taunted from right by his ear, and Miles looked up just in time to shield his face as the Samurai tackled him to the ground.
Luckily for Miles, he had seen this exact move in a battle sequence. He was tensing before he hit the ground, and as his back impacted the dirt, he twisted, rolling both of them over and straddling his opponent's hips. Fiercely, he slammed a knee down on the other man's chest and flattened him, holding his katana to the silver, dust-coated neck.
"Ooof!" the Samurai gasped as they both fell still, breathing hard. Miles allowed himself a smirk, and the Samurai's lips quirked up in return.
A smattering of applause rose through the audience, growing louder by the second. Miles looked around at the surprisingly-large crowd that had gathered, and a flush crept through his cheeks.
"Evil has triumphed today!" he declared to uproarious cheers, then turned back to his captive opponent. "Now that I have you at my mercy, whatever shall I do with you?"
"You'll never make me give in to your evil ways," the Steel Samurai spat, with a deliciously defiant glare, playing his role perfectly.
"Hmm. . . I could run you out of town. Strip off your mask and reveal your true identity. Force you to abandon your crime-fighting and leave me free reign of the city." Miles reached down and hooked a single finger tauntingly under the Samurai's half-mask, giving an experimental tug.
The Samurai flicked his head, neatly catching Miles's finger between his teeth, and making the whole movement look rather rakish. Miles quashed the urge to yank away, impressed despite himself. Perhaps this stranger had performance experience.
"I know," Miles continued smoothly, dragging his finger across the stranger's lip. "What say we. . . have the crowd decide?" He gestured grandly to the audience. "Well, my fine citizens of Neo Olde Tokyo? Shall we unmask this weakling?"
An unintelligible clamor rose up among the assembled spectators, but rising above it all came a single word. "Kiss!"
Miles scanned the assembled crowd, which had grown to the hundreds. The distant suggestion had come from somewhere near the edges; it was impossible to tell whom, but the crowd was latching on. "Kiss! Kiss! Kiss!" The audience chanted.
Perhaps Miles should have been more flustered or less delighted. Perhaps the mask or the persona gave him courage. Perhaps Miles should have refused, stuck to his lines, and sent the Samurai packing.
Instead, the Evil Magistrate smirked. "I suppose our conflicts have been heading in this direction for a few seasons now, have they not?" he asked, teasingly, his voice going low and soft.
"I-we. . . they have?" The Steel Samurai spluttered.
"Very well then!" Miles spoke loudly for the crowd to hear. "As the price of my victory, I, the Evil Magistrate, shall demand a kiss from my greatest enemy, the Steel Samurai!" Slowly, regally, he rose to his feet, sheathed the katana, and reached down and offered the Samurai a gloved hand.
"Er. . . Thanks," the Steel Samurai mumbled.
"And now, for my prize." Miles carefully tilted up the Steel Samurai's chin, giving him plenty of opportunity to make a showy escape. . . but he wasn't taking it. Instead, he was leaning in like a madman. Through their masks, Miles could make out dark eyes reflecting the brilliant blue sky—
As their lips pressed together for one brief second, one short, simple kiss, the crowd broke into raucous cheers. The Samurai's lips were surprisingly warm, sending heat flooding through every part of Miles's body. Miles broke them apart, flushed and unexpectedly shaky, and very, very grateful for his stage makeup.
Across from him, the Steel Samurai stood frozen in place, his eyes wide and his lips parted.
"Verily," Miles said, scraping his thoughts back in order. "I'll see you next time, if you haven't fled the city with your tail between your legs!" Before the Samurai could respond, Miles slipped away through the crowd.
- O -
The stranger caught up with him by a Samurai Dog stand. "Wait!" he yelled, sprinting up to Miles.
"What is it?" Miles asked.
"Kiss me again," he blurted out.
"I beg your pardon?"
"You were so. . . magnificent with your Dark Tornado Spin," the man said breathlessly. "I want to kiss you passionately—Um, I mean, for great justice!" he hurriedly corrected himself.
And wasn't this a scene out of Miles's wildest fantasies. I'm sorry, I don't have flings with strangers, sat on the tip of his tongue; he swallowed the words away. He was so eager, and there was something trustworthy about his opponent; he couldn't quite place a finger on it, something about the angle of his shoulders or the determined set of his jaw. He had dreamed of this exact scenario for a long time, and he knew what to say. Canon dialogue had been quite helpful in that regard.
"Then join me."
"What?"
Extending a hand imperiously, the very picture of control despite his wildly pounding heart, Miles slipped easily into the well-memorized speech. "Join me as my loyal servant and my right-hand man. With you by my side, we shall be unstoppable!"
"Why should I? You're a bad guy. . . with a plan to do. . . evil actions!" The man winced, evidently dissatisfied with his own improvising. Somehow, he'd managed to look cute in a vaguely-hapless way. "Goddamnit, sorry, let me try again. Ahem." He drew himself up to his full height of an inch or two shorter than Miles, puffed out his chest, and restarted the scene. "Why should I? You're the villain who's long terrorized these streets. I will not abet your reign of evil!"
It was really quite good for a spur-of-the-moment effort, even if it wasn't exactly what Steel would have said. Miles decided right then he had to convince this stranger, this role-player who was attractive and clever and wanted him back. He would never have another chance like this.
He wanted so desperately that he found himself at a loss for words.
Well, he had borrowed the face. Perhaps he could borrow the words too.
And with that thought, the Evil Magistrate's season five cliffhanger finale speech began to flow.
"I have long admired you, my oldest and greatest rival," he began, the scene vivid in his mind's eye as he acted out the gestures. "Since my first defeat at your hands in the—" courtroom. Miles coughed. "On the battlefield," he corrected. "I have studied your tactics and your techniques and made them my own, and become a deadlier Magistrate as a result. Yet you continue to surprise me. You are, without a doubt, a worthy foe."
"Ah. Umm. . . join me instead?" the Steel Samurai answered, looking slightly dazed; he seemed to be intently focused on the speech. Miles smirked to himself. This guy really needs to memorize some more dialogue lines.
Although, to his dismay, the available dialogue had just run out. The Steel Samurai of canon had never considered the Evil Magistrate's offers.
Before Miles had a chance to improvise or even consider his next step, the Steel Samurai shoved him against the wall, cold bricks scraping against his back. "Magistrate," he breathed, his eyes dark and wide behind the mask, and then he was on him. His mouth pressed breathlessly, hungrily into Miles's, open and eager and wet. His hands slid along his jaw and settled possessively along his face and neck, burning hot beneath the silver paint. He gave a little sigh of pleasure, breath huffing over Miles's lips and whispered, "You have no idea how long I've wanted to do that."
"I'm glad I'm not the only one with a Steel Samurai fantasy," Miles murmured, staring at the stranger with awe. He must be handsome under the mask—Miles could tell from the shape of his face, and if he tilted his head just a fraction, the man almost looked like. . . . Miles cleared that thought away. Perhaps this stranger had also waited many seasons, secretly (or not-so-secretly) rooting for the hero and villain to get together, although something tugged at the back of Miles's mind, a loose thread of logic. Something seemed out of place with that reasoning.
"Oh, erm, yeah. Or in my case, an Evil Magistrate fantasy," the man hastily agreed, leaning in for another kiss, this time winding his arms around Miles's head and pressing their bodies deliciously together, all heat and shifting muscles.
"Go on, tell me why I should join you," Miles coaxed.
"Well. . . for starters. . . I'm clearly set up to be victorious. You wouldn't want to meet your end impaled on my Samurai Spear." The stranger gave a teasing, salacious wink, making the innuendo sound positively filthy.
Miles was not so easily defeated. "That doesn't sound very becoming of a noble Samurai. It wouldn't fit your character," he retorted.
"Obje-I mean, obviously, I'll just have to make it fit," the Samurai said, gesturing suggestively.
"You seem quite confident of the. . . dimensions of your spear." The words were out before he could stop himself, bold and challenging. The Samurai's eyes widened in shock and delight; Miles found he couldn't quite regret them.
"The shaft is quite thick and sturdy," the Samurai said knowingly, and rocked his hips to prove it.
"What would you do if I. . . parried your attack?" Miles fired back.
The man let out a small, breathy gasp. "Then I shall be forced to cross my weapon with yours," he said, eyes sparkling with mischief.
At the first touch of skin-on-skin, Miles hissed. "Quite eager with your weapon, are we?" the stranger teased. "I'd say it could use some. . . polishing," he added. "You've got to take care of your equipment, the way you were throwing it around back there."
"You were pretty heavy-handed yourself," Miles protested, with complete futility, melting into the Samurai's touch.
"Oh, I can be very adept when I want to be." As if to prove a point, the Samurai deftly massaged Miles's skin with his fingertips, making his breath hitch and his eyes flutter closed. "Beautiful," the Samurai sighed, capturing his lips in an oddly-sincere kiss, a gentle hand supporting the back of his head.
Miles opened his eyes. The Steel Samurai was staring right at him. He quickly looked away, and Miles wondered whether he was blushing beneath that silver mask.
Defiantly, the Samurai tightened his grip. "Was that too rough for your delicate sword? Wouldn't want to smear your fussy equipment."
Fussy? What's fussy about any of it?
"Watch what you say about my equipment, Steel," Miles warned. "Or I'll shut that insulting mouth of yours."
"Ohhhh I'd like to see you try, my dear Magistrate. Who do you think is on top of this partnership?"
"I'm in charge of this operation, and you'll do as I say," Miles snarled with sudden force. He spun the Samurai around and pressed his face into the wall in one motion. Underneath the loose fabric, the man's skin was a lovely tan, a proud and defiant color, Miles thought. He reached around and grabbed the man threateningly. "Don't try your luck."
"Fuck," the Samurai groaned.
"Fuck indeed", Miles agreed. Firmly, decisively, he wound an arm around the Samurai's shoulders, applying the faintest suggestion of pressure against his bared throat, and pulled him close, the man's muscled back flush against his chest.
"I always knew you'd come to see our conflict from my angle," Miles purred.
"I guess you could say I'm turning the other cheek," the Samurai teased.
"Ah yes, you certainly do hold firm in your principles," Miles sighed. "It makes you such a. . . tantalizing opponent. . . and my victory over you all the sweeter."
"Get on with it, you. . . ." A pause. Hitching breaths as the Samurai searched for words. "You lily-livered scoundrel!" he settled on with another wince. Clearly not what he'd wanted to say.
Lily-livered scoundrel. Where had he gotten that one?
"Oh, I will," Miles growled. "I'll have you if it's the last thing I do. Because you're the one who drives me to learn and. . . grow. . . and try my hardest," Miles joked even as his breathing grew ragged.
"Fuck, Mi-Magistrate," the Samurai gasped, his body reacting spectacularly to the veiled words. "That's really flattering, coming from you."
And the way the stranger writhed and panted, his voice raw. . . it was impossible, and yet far too easy to let himself believe he held That Man in his arms, the impossible fantasy setting his words flowing. "You simply bring out the best in me. My fullest and fiercest fighting spirit emerges to meet you."
"Oh god, you-I l. . . please," the Steel Samurai keened.
"Tonight, I could've simply killed you, but the world and I would be poorer for it, for I am strongest with you by my side." Miles's moaned as the Samurai cried out and squirmed in his arms.
"Yes, I'll stand with you. . . across from you. . . by your side. . . every day if you'll have me," the Samurai babbled in broken bursts, his head falling onto Miles's shoulder. Miles flicked his tongue over the man's bared neck.
"Nothing would bring me greater pleasure than to take you as my—" co-conspirator, the Magistrate would have said. "As my partner," Miles concluded in a possessive whisper.
A shiver went through the Samurai's whole body. "Magistrate. . . I am defeated. . . finish me!" He cried out, and Miles complied, biting down on his silver neck with all his might.
"Miles!" The Samurai gasped.
They both immediately froze.
A second passed, and then ten.
The Samurai seemed to recover first, launching into a confused jumble of words. "I can explain! I meant. . . my. . . erm. . . I was hoping. . . this is awkward. . . I. . . fuck," he finally concluded, coming up empty. "A true hero knows every citizen by name?" he tried.
"Who are you?" Miles managed to gather his wits enough to ask.
"Erm, sorry, can't tell you that." The man rubbed his neck in a disconcertingly familiar gesture, then caught Miles staring and hastily dropped his hand. "Don't want to get murdered in my sleep, you see."
"Right, I see." Miles sighed.
The stranger gave an odd little twitch and a muffled squeak.
"Something the matter?" Miles asked distractedly, still preoccupied with his disastrous turn of events. If word were to get out. . . .
"Oh, erm, nevermind. I must have. . . misheard. Yeah. Yeah. Nice having this talk with you! The citizens of Neo Olde Tokyo need me. Up, up, and away! To infinity and beyond!" With that horribly mangled line, the Steel Samurai scampered away, beating a hasty and panicked retreat.
"It's the pale moon calls!" Miles yelled after him.
"Your pale moon is the only call I'll answer!" The Samurai yelled back, earning weird looks from several passersby before disappearing around the corner and vanishing from sight.
Miles smiled despite himself, watching the departing stranger whose name he'd never know. Absurdly, he wondered if he might have asked. But no, he reminded himself. The man was almost certainly looking for a fling, a brief fantasy, as he himself was. His quick exit had all but proved it. Still, he had been incredibly, deliciously attractive, even in all that getup. Especially in all that getup.
At least the other man seemed to know who he was. Perhaps he would track him down. Miles felt his traitorous heart flutter helplessly in his chest.
He won't, Miles's brain said sternly. Abandon all hope, ye who enter here.
He will remember, I say, his heart insisted. Even in another time.
- O -
Epilogue
A week later, Phoenix Wright showed up at the Prosecutor's office door, right as Miles was leaving. It was late, past all reasonable calling hours, the brilliant moon hanging low and full in the sky, casting their pale faces in sharp contrast against the street's deep shadows.
Inexplicably, Wright carried a delicate little velvet pouch, tied with a satin ribbon.
Miles heaved a weary sigh. "It's past ten o'clock, Wright, and I have one more crime scene to investigate tonight. Can't this wait?"
"Can't a guy see his favorite Chief Prosecutor?" Phoenix replied evasively, then shoved the pouch at Miles without waiting for an answer.
He fidgeted while Miles gave him a look.
"What's this for?" Miles asked.
"Just open it."
Miles loosened the ribbon, and out fell a keychain: an elegant, glowing circle on a deep purple background, mother-of-pearl set in cool, polished enamel.
He breathed deeply as his heart whirled through a hundred unidentifiable emotions: embarrassment, dread, terror, but most of all, hope, the flickering ember he'd stubbornly held and nurtured. "I don't understand," he whispered, trembling.
Wright waved his arm, gestured at the night sky overhead. "The pale moon calls," he recited with a triumphant grin.
And as Miles gaped, he held up his own matching keychain: a blazing red sun on a field of shimmering silver. "And your partner's here to fight by your side."
- O -
Author's notes: Quotes borrowed from Dante and Sappho.
