This is the first fanfiction I wrote in English, because my first language is French. Normally you shouldn't find any mistake, but if you do, it's probably because of that, and I apologize beforehand. (Even if, actually, it's in this introduction you're the most likely to find one ^^)

I said above that there shouldn't be any mistake ; obviously, it's not a feat of my own. I would like to thank a billion times Clydell Humphries, who had the kindness to pre-read this fic and to correct every one of my (numerous, whatever she might have said) mistakes. She did a wonderful job with my fic, but not half as good as she does with theirs, and I greatly suggest you to have a look at them, because they are incredible.

That said, I wish you a nice reading!

Franziska von Karma, Miles Edgeworth, Dick Gumshoe and Phoenix Wright (c) Capcom and don't belong to me. I earn no money with this either.

« Shlack! »

She harshly threw the letter on the table, with the same large and raging movement she used with her whip.

This couldn't be real... and though, it was far too likely for it to happen. She was left behind, as usual, so why was she still upset?

Foolish foolery of a fool. This was the only thing that rolled on and on in her head, while she was standing facing the letter. She should not be upset. No, it was victory she should be feeling on that moment, or superiority, or better, nothing at all. Certainly not the confused mix of anger and despair that was tightening her throat, nor the irrepressible desire to tear up the piece of paper and everything it meant.

He couldn't have done it, it wasn't possible. Once again, she took the crumpled letter and unfolded it. Her uncredulous eyes slipped through the clumsy handwriting, as though she were looking for a clue, something she had missed that would have told her it was just a trick. But there was nothing of the sort. Instead, the detective's sorrowful words only anchored deeper into her memory, piercing a little hole inside she tried to ignore. Still, she couldn't prevent the sentence from throbbing in her mind, this pathetic, inconsiderate, foolish line of him, that seemed nothing but a heartbreaking prank :

Prosecutor Miles Edgeworth chooses death.

Suicide. Was it as simple as that? A single gesture, and he was done with his shame and his mistakes? After all, he had failed. He had lost, been defeated by that blue-suited lawyer she had seen in the American papers she used to buy from time to time to practice her English. She had been delighted then to hear the sweet news that he fell while she was still standing. It had never happened before, and it gave her a lovely feeling of power she had rarely tasted much regarding him. However, she had never realized what this fall truly meant until now.

A prosecutor who fails was as good as dead. It was what her late father always said, and what she believed as well. It was why she had never considered that she could ever lose. She, as well as Miles, had to be perfect. There was no way it could be different; no question to be asked. Never had she wondered about what would happen if that perfection were to be broken, and even the tale of her brother's breakdown had not raised the thought. The consequences hit her all more hardly as she came to the conclusion that they stood in the exact line of thought they both had always been taught.

Therefore, all of this was only logical, and he deserved what happened. He wasn't as worthy as she was ; he wasn't a von Karma. She should not be disrupted for someone she had always despised for stealing away the lights from where they belonged, that is to say, on her. So often, he had made her believe she was not as good as she should be, not as good as he was. On that day, he should have understood he could never stand as high as she did. He should have given back to her the position she was worth : a perfect prosecutor's one, not a lost little girl's.

However, that was not what had happened. Even out of the way, even without his overwhelming shadow looming on her, he was affecting her. He was causing her pain while he should have released her. He had left her behind once more, while he should finally have let her walk along with him. The fall she had been waiting for so long was made in betrayal, and she hated him even more for that. He made her feel like the lost little girl she did not want to be, now more than ever.

But it wasn't possible, he couldn't have done that. That was not like him at all... or at least, not like what she knew of him. He had never trusted her like she had trusted him. If he certainly knew her well enough to find the way to hurt her most, he didn't let her see as much of his personality as to permit her to be sure whether he could have achieved such a feat. She didn't know enough of him to push the question aside, and it tormented her even more than it would have been, had she seen his dead body.

Dead.

The fact hit her once more, tough and merciless. He was dead, like her father before him, her father he had taken away from her so often. It should not hurt her ; she had wished so many times that he would disappear from her life. Why then was her throat so dry and her breast so heavy?

No, he couldn't have done that. She couldn't believe it, and didn't want to believe it. She would not fall into his trap and allow him to fool her like that. It was not hope, it was determination to not let him injure her more. She was not a little girl, whatever he might have thought. Only fools foolishly grieved for fool's fooleries. Never would she stoop to that.

He was alive. She wasn't sure of it, but nevertheless, she decided to believe so, for she knew otherwise she would fall as well. She couldn't accept the contrary. He had to be still there, to see how she didn't care of what happened to him. The lost little girl he always left behind, for once, would leave him behind too.

She sat down, lay the letter on the table, and with irritation wiped something from her cheeks that was pricking her. Her hands were wet; they shouldn't have been. There was no reason for her tears to flow out of her eyes; firstly, a von Karma did not cry, and secondly, she was given the chance to finally prove she was better than him, and that was nothing to cry about.

Dead or not, he was gone, and thereby he had made way for her. She would continue to walk on and on, go further than he had ever been. Without him, which was perfect. She did not need him ; she had never needed him, even if perhaps he had thought so. She could perfectly make her way alone. She was a von Karma ; von Karmas didn't fear loneliness.

And one day, if he returned – no, rather when he would return - thinking « if » would be playing along in his fooleries, and anyway she couldn't afford to think so – he would see how far ahead she was already, and finally realize her true value. She would achieve von Karma's perfection, something he had never been able to do. He would be forced to recognize it.

The sweet thoughts had calmed her a bit. A confident smile appeared on her lips, while she stood up and took the sheet of paper to put it away with the rest of her mail. There was no need to think of it anymore. It didn't deserve it, nor did its purpose.

Carelessely, she gave it a whip lash either way, to unburden her of the remaining emotions she had gone under in the last few minutes, then went away. She had things to attend to : some paperwork, and a case file to study. She had no time to foolishly slacken off like that. Without a single look back, she left the room to head towards her office, focusing entirely on her job, her face as collected as usual. Perhaps even a little more.

It was out of the question to let anyone realize something had broken inside her. She was Franziska von Karma, prosecuting prodigy who ruled the courtroom since she was thirteen. She wasn't as weak as to be stopped by such foolish things.

Even if she sometimes wished she could break down and let herself go, she wouldn't bend.

Because she was not, had never been and would never allow herself to be, the weak, lost little girl she felt like.