A/N Another chapter. Thanks all, for supporting me all the way through. This chapter is dedicated to icecreamlova, who suggested a do a chapter about the Feys. The rest of the Feys, I mean. An interesting idea, to say the least, so here you go. For research for this chapter, I went on Ace Attorney wiki for canon details, and also read icecreamlova's highly underrated Screenplay for characterization. Go and read it for a bit; it's great.
As for the rest of you and your suggestions, I haven't forgotten about you guys! I got a load of suggestions from the last chapter, so I can't do all of them in just one, or even two, chapters. All in good time. Also, a note about the quote below, the first ever I've put in a chapter, or even a story. I put it in because… I couldn't help it, especially as I was writing Dahlia's. I did The Merchant of Venice last year on the side, and though it isn't really the best of Shakespeare, I loved Shylock. You can pretty much apply the quote in all the characters for this chapter; Mia's opinion of Dahlia, Morgan of Misty, Dahlia of Mia, and Iris… well, except Iris.
He hath disgraced me, and hindered me half a million, laughed at my losses, mocked at my gains, scorned my nation, thwarted my bargains, cooled my friends, heated mine enemies; and what's his reason? –Shylock, the Merchant of Venice
Mia Fey
Mia had dreams, and she was the type of person to keep on going and work insanely hard to achieve those dreams. But even with the remnants of idealism she retained from her innocent youth, she knew that hard work didn't always translate to firm results. That was simply the way of life, however.
But there was one dream in particular that she had made possible.
It was because of that dream that she was standing in this very situation.
Dreams… who said that all of them were sweet?
Why couldn't there be nightmares?
It was a nightmare she was standing in, of course. And the demon in the center of it all, a deceiving little minx with a devilish smile and a glare of hell.
How many lives had Dahlia Hawthorne ruined?
How many times could Mia have stopped her?
It was her own helplessness she detested, to sit and watch as everything… everyone she… loved was taken away.
She had become a defense attorney for the exact opposite. To protect, not to let it play out right in front of her eyes, just out of reach.
Dead.
Dead.
Dead.
He's dead.
There was no use in saying "He's gone". What value did that have? How demeaning! To say that he had gone, he had left, he was absent—oh, how much that would debase the weight of death!
Terry Fawles was dead.
She could have stopped it. She was too late.
And so began a campaign to bring Dahlia Hawthorne down. Not just herself; she had one ally.
It was dangerous, too dangerous.
Meeting with Dahlia Hawthorne was insanely dangerous.
But wasn't that what we were aiming to do all that time?
Well, yes, but…
We succeeded!
Not yet, not yet.
Exactly. Hence the meeting.
It's too dangerous.
It's what we worked for all this time.
I'm going.
No.
Then why is it that you get to go? At the very least, let me go with you!
No.
What, it's too dangerous?
Then he left.
It had been too dangerous, and the risk prevailed.
No… no… no…
A nightmare. Only she couldn't wake up.
No, that wasn't right. It was him who couldn't wake. Would never wake—a slim chance. But a hope she clung onto with all her might.
Diego haunted her dreams—this time, they were sweet. And it was like Mia was living in a world of dreams, good and bad. Every time she woke, she cursed reality, and every time she slept, she cursed dreams because they would never come true.
Idealism fled. She still fought for her clients, she couldn't not do so, but now she knew that bad endings lurked at every corner, the justice didn't always prevail. That mere perseverance or a fiery heart couldn't always deliver good verdicts.
Dahlia… Dahlia… Dahlia…
Since she had come into Mia's life, nightmares ruled the realm. Fears that never existed before were presented as subtly as a knife drives through a victim's chest.
The last card the demoness played was the one that killed Mia the most. The one that hurt her more than death or pain or betrayal ever could, because it was a combination of all three.
Sleeping, looking as though he had already passed through the realm of the living. Pain, stabbing her in the heart many times over, a wound that would never heal. Betrayal, because he let it happen. Why couldn't she have gone in place of him, or at the very least, with him?
Fear that had been fulfilled.
A new fear takes its place.
Mia would wait until the end of the world for Diego Armando to wake. Nothing would stop her from that.
The question was… when would he wake?
And in the darkest corners of her mind, a little voice whispered to complete the question.
If ever.
Morgan Fey
Morgan was not one to be trifled with, for the very fact of her determination.
There was nothing, nothing at all that would stop her from exacting revenge. From dealing harsh and rightful retribution to those who stole away what was rightfully hers.
Bonds, relationships, what do these matter to her? Though Morgan Fey knew connections were important to manipulate and make use of, it had always been hard for her to simper and pretend for the sake of the fools, the lower masses of buffoons who knew nothing of justice. And family matters were so tiresome; the right to make decisions that affected Kurain had been taken away from her, so why was she seated at the meetings of the spirit mediums, headed by her little sister, Misty?
Her little sister—detestable. Somewhere, inside, Morgan knew that there had been a time, long ago, buried beneath the weight of revenge, the burden of time, the ache of betrayal, however improbable and impossible it seemed, Misty had been Morgan's true sibling. It wasn't a friendship. It wasn't a hatred. It was a sisterhood. It was the bond that could only exist between two sisters—gossiping, complaining, arguing, bantering, joking, and realizing how similar they actually were, that the other was the one who knew the most about the sister.
But no. Morgan had been fooled, fooled by that stupid wretch of a sister. Misty Fey sneaked underneath her and swiped the position of Master. Misty's powers had always had a strange undercurrent of authority to them, like there was much potential yet to be explored, but Morgan had never paid much attention; she was the older sister, after all. The position of Master was secured. Or so she thought.
The train jumped its tracks.
A skip in time.
Maya Fey is now the prime antagonist. Misty is long gone. And now it is for the sake of Pearl, her precious daughter, that Morgan is forming plans in her mind.
If Misty could steal the position from her, surely Pearl, who was a genius, a prodigy in spiritual ability, could gain the position of Master.
And yet the world works against them. Bias, bias, bias. So Morgan will now work against the world.
The only problem is… without Pearl, she is nothing. Like a shadow of the past, clinging to the last of its honor, the final shred of hope, if the object of potential glory be removed, then all is lost.
Her gifted, wonderful, blessed daughter, Pearl Fey. (Usable. She can help Morgan get her revenge and sweep the bitterness from her heart. Morgan thinks it can rid herself of the darkness—only later, too late and too little, does she realize she is wrong. It will only blacken it more.)
Without Pearl, she is dead. No, worse than that. Without Pearl, she has no more face, no more honor to lift her head and face the world.
It is not love she feels—or at least, not true, motherly love for Pearl. It is love for power. Love for the feeling when both you and everyone else knows, recognizes your superiority. Morgan admits this; there is nothing wrong with that.
Pearl is her daughter. She owns Pearl.
Pearl is her puppet. The problem is that she has no power with no puppet. Therefore she has no power without Pearl.
Her fear is to have no power—but Morgan knows that she can gain power by any means. So it is no fear.
Her fear is that those means are taken away from her.
Her fear is the Pearl Fey disappears.
Dahlia Hawthorne
Revenge is a dish best served cold.
A useful saying, but Dahlia wasn't sure if she followed it or not.
A stabbing. The first time she saw red in its true, beautiful form as it spilt from the traitor's body. Sweet. A touch of poison. Almost sparkling as it fell into the dark, bitter depths of coffee. No blood this time, not even a death, but the result was satisfactory nonetheless. An invisible killer. Lightning ran through his body as he convulsed jerkily. A death.
All these may not have counted as revenge; perhaps, to some, they were merely measures to stop past crimes from being revealed, but Dahlia knew. She knew that they were vengeful strikes at traitors who threatened to unveil her secret should they be allowed to do so.
But there was one instance where no one could dispute it was of vengeful intentions. Or rather, there would be an instance of pure vengeance. One that was sure to succeed.
The subject of this vengeance was Mia Fey.
Kill Mia Fey? No, no, no.
After all, the defense attorney was already dead.
It was testament to Dahlia's notorious habit that every single person who had once wronged her, or would soon do so, would pay (and her threats were not empty) that she found a way to defeat Mia Fey.
Dahlia herself was dead, but both her death as well as Fey's was only a small hurdle compared to her elaborate plan. She would instead kill Maya Fey, Mia's beloved sister. What could hurt more than that? There was, she reasoned, no one else who could possibly hurt Mia more than that.
Mia Fey disgraced her.
As Dahlia thought about her plan, her mind jumped to the accursed attorney that had condemned and destroyed her.
Mia Fey.
Ridiculously, bumbling, smugly self-satisfied woman that thought she had gotten the better of Dahlia. Ha! Her complacency, she mused lightly with a smile that could never be identified as merry, would someday lead to her downfall. And that someday was coming very soon.
Oh, the exhilaration of lying! The red-haired beauty loved it so much she could never stop, even if it were not necessary. Then the adrenaline somehow morphed into a different, less jubilant kind as Mia cornered her. Damn… damn… damn… All her exits, excuses that she had crafted carefully so she could worm her way out were slowly being slammed down, even as she tried with some desperate, ravage triumph to stretch whatever credit she could muster from her lovely exterior. A distress that was tempered with a twisted ecstasy coursed through her body as her mind raced to possibilities that seemed out of reach. Mia Fey condemned her, then, to die.
For the so-called crimes Dahlia had committed. Oh, the idealism! Naivety, 'Pheenie' had probably learnt it from her. Was it truly a crime to kill something you hated? Not in her eyes.
Mia… Fey…
Again, the name echoed through her mind as the woman tried to halt it in its course, lest her hatred consume her being—not that it hadn't already. But if she couldn't hold a clear head, the plan may just fall to pieces…
Mia Fey was the stuff of nightmares. An old hag, desperate to prove her worth, and fools her way through clumsily, with mock superiority.
There were some things that were worse than death. Mia Fey was one of them—of course, practically any person who had shamed Dahlia as Fey did was worthy of the title.
So if Dahlia Hawthorne had to choose one thing to hate, to fear, to revenge, it would be the one who humiliated her as Fey had. The disgrace would trace and follow even in death; was there really something worse than that?
To be shamed was indeed the most detestable curse one could ever lay.
And though Dahlia did not know it herself, it had also been the fear that gave rise to the insecurities Dahlia did not feel. It had been her fear in the days of life, of killing and of revenge.
And though Dahlia does not know it, it still is.
Iris
Iris's expression was usually one of a deer caught in headlights. It wasn't her fault—Iris just happened to have the sort of face that seemed so magnified and innocent that she just couldn't help it. And yet there was another person in the world whose features were supposedly exactly the same as Iris's.
Her twin.
Some people said they couldn't have been more different. When her sister's true colors were revealed, a death glare from that heavenly face, they had received quite a shock. Iris, however, merely exposed a burning determination under her mousey exterior.
Different, they said, different as can be.
Not so different, Iris thought.
Sisters that supported each other, helped each other—were they not like the other sisters of the world? And were they really so different?
The same demure appearance they held, the same acute determination they possessed, the same single-mindedness they had; the difference in character was that Dahlia did things.
Iris didn't like things changing, because it meant Dahlia would change too. And she was always changing, so quickly that she was volatile, each emotion flicking past like a stream of bubbles popping at lightning speed. Iris tried to read her emotions, predict her next moves, and with practice she could, but when Dahlia had a dark cloud over her mind, there was no telling what the red-haired girl would attempt.
But Dahlia killed.
Innocent lives; maybe it was because Iris had been raised in such a place at such a time, but murder was wrong. But to Dahlia, it was right.
Nature or nurture? Dahlia and herself, having grown up in totally different environments… was it possible, just possible, that the reason for their stark contrast in personalities was the way they were raised? What they had been exposed to?
Had Iris's compassion been carefully nurtured, and Dahlia's stripped away? Had Iris killer instincts been drummed out of her mind, and Dahlia's fuelled by an insatiable revenge? Had Iris's plain personality been made, and Dahlia's sneaky disposition been essential?
They had needed different things to survive. Iris didn't need much, admittedly—under the kind Sister Bikini, she just needed an agreeable nature and faith. Dahlia was tossed from side to side, seeing what Iris never observed; the true ugliness of the world, and she conformed herself to that terrible picture. No, surpassing it. But only because it was what was needed to survive in a dog eat dog world.
Almost like evolution. No, that was wrong. What was the word? Adaptation?
But both Iris and Dahlia were pretenders. That much was obvious. How else could she have lied to Phoenix Wright for six months straight, acting… not meekly, but quietly demure? Both she and Dahlia looked out at the world—her, being incurably positive, and Dahlia being irrevocably condemning. But both their observations on the world had a weight of truth in them. Sometimes, sometimes Iris could understand her twin. That scared her. And it scared her that it scared her. Understanding cold-blooded murders.
Why ponder on Dahlia though? Why not just accept she was who she was, regardless?
Because Iris was normal. Normal. It was normal to think about these kind of things, marvel at similarities and ponder on differences.
It's no use lying.
No matter how good a pretender you are, you can't hide the truth.
Not even Iris. Not even Dahlia.
You can't hide the fear.
Selfless, they called her.
That silly, little fear.
Well, at least that's one thing about me that isn't clichéd.
Not a fear of losing my close ones.
Nothing as noble as that.
The fear, buried so deep into her mind, under layers and layers of reassurances and expectations that she was overall a kind and bright person who wouldn't care about pittances like that. She couldn't even think it.
And yet, that thought hung in the air.
Fear.
Fear.
Fear.
Of what?
And Iris gathered her courage, and dared to look at her not-at-all caring-about-others fear.
(She could surely afford to have some thoughts for herself.)
Fear of turning… into Dahlia.
A/N Not much editing for Dahlia and Iris, sorry about that. I'll read it again next time, and if I am unsatisfied, I'll go back and redo. It's just that I want to get this out into the fanfiction world for both your sakes and mine. Toodles. (Okay, 'toodles' is a bit awkward. But still.)