Miles Edgeworth discreetly spat onto the asphalt at his feet and watched as it sizzled in the noonday sun. It was hot. Too hot. And unfortunately, he would have to brave the heat in order to get to the Bleindend Scayls Turnaboutopolis International Airport.

Why had he come here again? Oh, yes, that's right, because that blithering twit Mrs. Steele had apparently used all of the carrier pigeons he had sent her as target practice for her new bolt-action rifle. The same with the mailman, he had heard. And seeing as how none of his e-mails or calls had gotten through, he assumed that she had done the same thing with her computer and telephone. And if she had done all of that, he reasoned, it was definitely not a good thing to try and visit her at her house. As such, he had no choice but to rely on the various messages that she would send him, setting a time and place to meet.

The latest one came with a photo of her beaming brightly, holding her precious firearm, and a large pile of Edgeworth's avian friends behind her. He decided it was in his best interest if he went along with what she asked…even if he had to take a plane to get there.

Muttering made-up curses under his breath, he trudged through the maze of parked cars and melting asphalt to the relative comfort of the airport terminal.

--

"Ladies and Gentlemen, we are experiencing technical difficulties with our air conditioning system. It will not be functioning for at least the next three hours. We apologize for the inconvenience."

God damn it.

Miles Edgeworth was close to losing his cool. Disregard that. He had already lost it. Standing in the check-in line for a half hour, in a room filled to the brim with people, with sunlight pouring in from the glass wall behind him, had turned him from a Slightly Miffed Miles Edgeworth into a Really Irritated Miles Edgeworth. The temperature inside had risen to incredible levels. Furthermore, for the past fifteen minutes, he had been listening to the people around him engage in an idiotic quote fight. One of them, quite innocently (as most horrors are unleashed) asked his friend how hot he thought it was in the building. His friend had responded, "It's over NINE THOUSAAAAAAAAND!" The response, in turn, came from a middle-aged man who, displaying his newborn son, said, "This baby can take temperatures up to nine-thousand degrees." Pretty soon, the whole line was in on it, and they were having a jolly old time.

The whole line except, of course, Mr. Edgeworth. Having to listen to the other people was, to him, like a cheese grater scraping the parts of his brain that weren't already aching from the dehydration.

In one act of divine semi-mercy, he was finally called to the counter to check his bag. The ruckus of the plebes was still very audible, though at least he was sure that he wasn't stuck in some interminable hell from which there was no escape.

"Hello there, sir!" said one Maggey Byrde from behind the counter.

Miles Edgeworth blinked twice in surprise. "Mrs. Byrde? I thought you were working for NASA?"

Maggey hung her head in shame. "Well I was…but, y'know? You mix up ONE wire, and it causes the booster rocket to fall off before being launched. And then it launches that rocket right into the museum hall. You would think that they would come up for some sort of failsafe for that, wouldn't you?"

Their failsafe is supposed to be the skill of the staff… "I can only hope I never have such an experience. So, you moved to working for Gohtja Airlines after that?"

"No, first I went to work as a tutor for someone at the university. I had to leave that pretty quickly. The guy was…really creepy. Kept asking about my underwear. My bad luck seems to follow me everywhere…"

"For your sake and mine, it better keep away for the next twenty minutes. I'm checking in today."

Maggey snapped her head up, excited. "Oh, of course sir! Right away!"

--

Really Irritated Miles Edgeworth was quickly turning into a Very Frustrated Miles Edgeworth.

The heat had gotten so bad in the terminal that he could no longer wear his usual attire inside. Already he had had to remove his suit coat, his cravat, and his fancy black vest. He was very upset at the cravat. No one would fear and respect him as a prosecutor without it. However, the fear and respect of a Very Frustrated Miles Edgeworth was quickly making up for it.

Added to this was that he had spent nearly forty seven minutes in the damned security line, with all of the gruff, sweating idiots crowding him, having to walk his luggage two steps every minute so he could keep the madness at bay, and that the gods had decided to place an elderly woman who was confused as to the necessity of a ticket to board a plane right in front of him, and one can only wonder how his blood pressure hadn't killed him yet.

He was close…so very close…just through this point would be the terminal. And then he would be free to wait, hopefully in a place farther away from the sun and from all of these godforsaken people who were still in the middle of their quote fight. But of course, it could never be that easy. This woman was not only hard of hearing; she had a very loose grasp of the English language as well. Looser than any of the claims Wright could ever come up with…or something. Damn it…I can't even insult Wright well anymore. This is getting bad…no, scratch that. It was already bad…it's getting worse…and will that blasted woman just go back to the check-in counter already before I have to-

Before Miles could even think about what he was going to do next, a large man in a Jumpy suit came running from the check-in area. Spotting the elderly woman, he picked her up and swung her over his shoulder with one hand, brandished what could only be described as a hand-cannon back toward whence he came, and shouted from within the grinning mask, "You'll never take me alive, coppers! Never!" With that, he stormed off through the security line, chased by a large number of the police force. The rest of the security team working the checkpoint quickly followed suit, leaving only a vast array of stunned passengers and one very confused ID and Ticket Verifying Lady.

Waking out of her daze she turned to Miles and said, "Y-you're…Miles Edgeworth, I take it? I saw one of your cases once. Why don't you…just go on ahead and…gather evidence for this. I get the feeling you're going to be the one to deal with it."

She spoke to him like someone who had just seen…well, what she had just seen. And while he would have done the morally righteous thing and told her that she was out of her goddamn mind if she thought he was going to get involved in any of this, he was not going to pass up this chance to get through security scot-free.

As he picked up his shed clothing and walked through, all he could hear behind him were cries of, "It's a trap!"

--

He didn't know how it happened, but he had just ceased to care. The first few times the happily armed kangaroo went rushing by him, he had pondered the inanity of it all, gotten frustrated that it had distracted him, and angrily went back to work on his computer. Now…now it felt as ordinary as the delayed flight. Everything around him seemed…normal. All was calm. All was suddenly…peace.

All good things, though, come crashing down eventually.

Two hours later than his scheduled departure time, Edgeworth had finally been called to board the plane. His cravat, suit, and vest were carried easily and neatly under one arm, while his other hand held the handle of his suitcase gently, ready to guide it along if need be. If anyone knew Miles well enough, they would be stunned at the look of serenity upon him. Although, the shock of seeing a relaxed Miles Edgeworth was enough that they could easily mistake it as a sign that he had gone functionally comatose. Edgeworth wouldn't have cared. After all the effort it had taken just to get here, waiting for a while longer was…easy.

As he stood there, unattached to everything around him, his ears picked up a few sentences from a couple of men right behind him. Sentences which, if considered with a bit more wisdom, would have prevented them from being said at all.

"Is that guy seriously carrying a cravat? Who wears those outside of the 19th century?"

"You think he actually wears that? No way. No one is that fashionably retarded."

"Why else would he carry it? It's with the rest of his suit. God, cravats are so stupid…"

Impossible…

He didn't…

"Excuse me," Edgeworth said, turning to meet the two gentlemen, "I couldn't help but overhear you two distinguished gents. Was I correct in hearing that there were some disparaging remarks about my cravat in your conversation?"

One man, dressed in a blue suit, shrugged. "Well, yeah. That was what it was all about, really."

The gauntlet thus thrown, Miles's face curled into a wicked smile. "That's what I thought," he said, before pulling his arm back and giving the blue-suited man the biggest backhand that the world had ever seen, causing him to fall over into his companion and for the both of them to come crashing down on the floor.

Pulling him up by his collar, Miles slammed the poor man into a nearby column. Wearing Glare #86, he spoke slowly so as to get his point across the first time. "Listen, you can break down my pride, you can spit on my honor, you can make jests at me, you can insult my mother, you can even club me with a baby seal. But once you insult the cravat, that is where the line is drawn. If I ever catch you or your friend berating this marvelous fashion trend again…I will end you." With that, he let go, letting gravity doing the rest of the job.

Grasping his suitcase and walking to the front of the line, he handed his ticket to the girl working the machine. She didn't need to ask; his newly formed comfortable scowl (#8) told her everything she needed to know.

--

Finally…I can relax…three hours…easy hours…I think I'll take a nap…let myself rest before the heading into the eye of the storm…

As he stretched out across the three seats (after seeing the display outside, most other passengers elected to sit as far away from him as possible) he thought briefly to the people he'd be leaving behind for a few days. He chuckled quietly, knowing in his heart that he would not miss them one bit.

"May I have your attention, please. This non-stop flight to Transylvania is now departing. Please fasten your seatbelts, and have a nice flight."

…Transylvania? Ha, foolish woman. We're clearly heading to Turnaroundia. It even says so on my ticket…right…here…oh FORNICATION!"

And as the plane flew off for Transylvanian skies, there was a loud cry of

OBJECTIOOOOOOOOOOON!

from above the skies of Turnaboutopolis.

"Erk…!" said one Maggey Byrde, nervously looking at her computer screen and her watch, "I sure hope he caught that before he left…!"

NEXT TIME: EDGEWORTH VERSUS VAMPIRES. TURNABOUT BLOOD BANK.