A/N Before we begin, shoutouts: icecreamlova, who suggested Manfred. Princess of Monacco, who suggested Manfred (again. He sure is popular!) and Kristoph. Stefan-sama, who suggested doing a character from Rise from the Ashes, and, two villains having already been put forth, I chose Gant. Stefan-sama also chose Matt Engarde as opposed to Redd White. EDIT: Okay, I had this chapter almost done yesterday, but I had to go out that day, and almost the whole of today, so I only got to post it now… Plus, I was waiting for more reviews so I could decide on either Redd or Matt. …It's Matt, by the way.

Kristoph Gavin

His goal within his grasp; atop his palm, sitting there idly, just waiting for him to close his fingers upon it. And he smiles, light glinting off his glasses—it gives a nice, dramatic effect, he thinks—and he clenches his fist.

But a moment too late.

Swooping from beneath him, right under his nose, the prize he has long sought after—the prize of revenge. It slips through his fingers, as his face contorts in rage, as he realizes who has stolen it. It is none other than the subject of his revenge, Phoenix Wright.

Bars crash down, and he finds himself within the confines of a prison.

Revenge is out of his reach; he is foiled. He can do nothing but sit idly within the cell he has striven to furnish with whatever comforts he can wheedle.

But if anything's a comfort, it is the thought that Phoenix Wright still had not achieved what he wanted. The thought that Phoenix Wright remains disbarred, despite his efforts to pin the forgery on Kristoph—oh, yes, Kristoph knows what the spiky-haired man has been trying to work towards. He will meet nothing but dead ends; the German has made sure of it.

For he has ensured his safety by planting an ingenious time bomb in the home of a forger. With Misham gone, no leads will be left to that meddlesome fool. It will, he muses, open up another door for Wright to press through by allowing him to investigate into Misham's death, but Kristoph is confident that Phoenix's lucky blundering has vanished with his attorney's badge.

Yes, he challenges Wright even from within his cell. And though his challenge stands (never to be overcome), he cannot deny the fact that he sits inside a prison; or at least, his physical being is within it. He cannot break the routine of getting up, looking at the skimpy (though elegant, as he has made certain) meal for breakfast time, maybe a few visits—

Ah, visits.

From whom?

Phoenix Wright, a few times. In an effort to uncover more clues, naturally.

Some lawyers, shaking their heads, and knocking their knees—with fear. Simply there for some administrative purposes.

But there is one, one utterly ridiculous person who comes purely for—for want of a better word—social purposes; personal reasons. To uncover the truth, as well as to set his mind to rest, to gain whatever solace he can find.

One foolish little brother.

Is it possible that his truth-loving brother could uncover his motives? Unravel the mystery? See through his ploys?

That brother visits Kristoph because he is his kin, but also because of the truth. But, as Kristoph knows, if Wright cannot find it, the man who has been searching for seven years, what chance does Klavier, who only knows half the picture, have?

But by some warped idea, some crude reckoning, an errant thought borrowed from books and fools, Kristoph thinks that perhaps his prosecuting brother can.

It is not because Klavier has striven to convict so many people, as well as to seek out the whole truth, but because Klavier is his brother.

His closest kin by flesh and blood, bound together in an eternal spiral of life. Klavier may very well understand, better than the others, how his mind works. Then again, Kristoph knows that Klavier alone cannot do it—no, but he is an essential piece of the puzzle. Should Klavier possibly consent to speak to Phoenix Wright… then there would be a definite possibility of a lost game for Kristoph.

Losing is one thing Kristoph cannot tolerate, and he is a tolerant man, or a man practiced at appearing tolerant. Revenge is something that is burned deep in his soul, a thirst so strong even he cannot bear it. In most ways, he is a cool (or cold), collected gentleman—but in the presence of unbearable idiots and fools, he can be very unforgiving indeed.

This is a hate, and such a hate is borne from the reputation he has, or had, to uphold. Reputation is everything. If he were to be defeated by some idiotic Cro-Magnon (and he cringes at the very thought), when he knows he is so much superior to the person, the tarnish that would splatter upon his public image like a poison would take a very long time to burn off. So it is best to poison the offender first.

And the fear borne doubly from his reputation as well as his vengeful soul is the idea of executing the defense mechanism of poison—no, it is not killing. It is losing. It is losing to infernally inferior being that dare interfere with his perfectly organized state of affairs. It is losing control of the brother that once idolized him, turning towards him with a pitying, struggling expression on his face. It is losing his firm grip on reality, on his life, on his influence, on everything that he has worked so hard to build. It's the difference between getting assassinated outright, and killed after you've realized you've lost.

It is losing in every possible way, mentally, physically, in an infinitely frustrating circle of unending humiliation.

In short (and Kristoph enjoyed summarizing those complex matters that spiraled into tangles of his own mind), his fear is losing.

Manfred von Karma

Perfection.

If there were just one word to sum up Manfred von Karma, it would be perfection. He was a von Karma, after all, and the one who had effectively made the von Karma name synonymous with perfection.

Perfection in all areas—in the arts, with music (idiots, those who couldn't discern Handel, the pride and majesty, from Bach, the contrapuntal form and rich harmonies), in the hard math and sciences, in linguistics (a 'Guilty' verdict was the same in any language, in his opinion), in every possible skill, in every possible way, Manfred von Karma was perfection.

"Miles, straighten your cravat," he ordered, once he spotted the slight tilt to the young boy's accessory.

"Yes sir." The dark-haired teen immediately obeyed, carefully putting it into place.

Miles Edgeworth was the son of one Gregory Edgeworth, an idealistic imbecile who seemed to have felt it his duty to defame the von Karma name, to cast doubt on Manfred's perfection. Gregory Edgeworth had gone with the swift vengeance of a von Karma (it had been a perfect coup), but the old German wasn't done yet. He adopted the young Miles and raised him under his values, the right values, the exact opposite of that infernal Gregory Edgeworth. Yet another vengeance, and vengeance was indeed sweet. Miles had turned out to be quite the bright boy, and was on his way to perfection.

Do you see it? What I did for your son that you would never be able to do. A smirk unfolded itself across the old man's face, as the solemn young boy scanned the room intensely, his eyes narrowed just a bit.

"The prosecution is ready, Your Honor."

"Prosecutor von Karma… that boy… I'm not sure if he's old enough to look into a murder trial…" A timid interjection.

"Enough!" Manfred snapped. "I assure you, he is intelligent enough not to cause any trouble in a court of law. Let us begin! The defendant is guilty."

"I see no room for doubt. The court declares the defendant…"

"O-Objection!" the defense attorney shouted. "I haven't even stated my case yet. Heck, neither has the prosecution!"

The judge sighed. "I suppose… perhaps I have been too hasty…"

Twin glares were directed at the defense attorney, and he shirked back slightly at Miles' and Manfred's fiery eyes. "The case is simple," von Karma began.

In two minutes, and exactly seventeen seconds of testimony, the trial was over.

The verdict: Guilty.

Yes, every verdict would be a guilty verdict, because a guilty verdict was a perfect one. And how dare Gregory Edgeworth dare taint his reputation! At the beginning, von Karma was repelled by the innocent boy. But over time, over, perhaps, prolonged exposure with perfection, Miles had changed and turned into a respectable, von Karma boy.

Still, the fact remained that no matter who might accuse him (though he would make sure that no one would accuse him of anything), he was perfection. There was no uncertainly, insecurity, or fear of imperfection—why fear the impossible, after all?

The fear was that some insufferable idiot would come along and break everything he had built, surpassing even what Gregory Edgeworth had done.

Edgeworth.

He was the cause of it. That trial, and then the elevator. The most delightful idea had occurred to him that day, and like a true von Karma, he carried it out perfectly. But as the statute of limitations drew near, instead of feeling increasingly reassured, he began to feel increasingly annoyed. Annoyed because it was in this period of time that his actions mattered the most, that one integral block in his complex structure of plans would not be taken out of the picture, essentially breaking apart his secrets at the last possible second.

Manfred was perfect. His plans were perfect. Everything about him was perfect.

But perfection can be thwarted by dumb luck, which was what Gregory Edgeworth had. Not to mention impertinence.

Someone with absolutely no skill, no logic, no common sense. Someone with both bad (for having to pit himself against Manfred von Karma) and good (for having enough luck and chance to possibly, unthinkably do what Edgeworth had done) luck (which Manfred detested, because luck was chance, and even a single chance was unacceptable for perfection).

There were people like that in the world. Precious few, and even in that precious few, even less could have exceptional luck on the day itself. The day that mattered.

But Manfred von Karma overlooked nothing.

So in that flawless mind, lurked a little fear. Just a little, he thought, and it counted as nothing, especially in the face of his perfection.

Or so he thought.

Damon Gant

"S-sir…"

Gant gave a pleasant smile, clapping his hands encouragingly. "Now, Oxley, I heard you've mixed up the evidence. Thoughts?"

"Sir, I'm sorry! Just… I…"

Damon surveyed her with those unblinking green eyes. The unfortunate officer was caught in his intense gaze, struck with fear like some small rodent in the eyes of a hissing snake. "You didn't mean it. I know."

Oxley allowed herself a little ray of hope. The evidence had been essential, but they had managed to salvage it, so perhaps the Chief would let it slide. "Yes, sir, I didn't! And we got it in the end, so…"

Damon shook his head. "Yes. But I'm afraid you'll have to bear the punishment of your mistake. Oh yes…"

The officer had heard tales, but never having experienced it herself, she hoped it was an exaggeration. But even she knew it was a slim hope—she could often hear the sound of the dreaded organ all the way from the first floor, and sometimes even from the outside of the building. "Sir, p-please…"

Gant toyed with a prong of white hair with an absent look on his face, as though considering. But when he spoke, his voice was absolute. "Stand right there, and don't move." The latter command was unnecessary; the sound of the organ alone would root her to the spot, never mind the look on Gant's face.

Then it began.

Damon played well, and, most importantly, loudly. The Chief had, of course, gotten used to the sound itself, and thoughts, sharp as razor blades, shot through his mind as he took the opportunity of some excellent music to think everything through.

Through a little cunning, he had groped his way to the top, finally becoming District Chief. Of course, he thought through the blasting notes, that wasn't all. Lana Skye was very important, allowing his to keep control over the rest of the city's law enforcement. His circle of influence was wide, and practically nothing stood in his way.

Practically nothing.

Almost nothing.

There were some loose ends that he'd attempted to tie, though nothing would truly silence them save death, which would raise far too many questions and was unnecessary. No, Jake Marshall and Angel Starr would not speak, simply because they could not. Goodman could be dealt with. In fact, if any of them came close, they could all be dealt with. Lana Skye was another loose end, but he had tied her up pretty well, and nothing could compromise that.

Had he left any traces?

Had he left any clues?

Had he left any hints?

Just one could be his undoing.

Everything he had worked for—his position, his reputation, his influence—could all disappear if one of those people spoke. (Or if someone else randomly figured it out, but that point was pretty much moot.)

Gant had left nothing behind. He was sure of it. But there was always that possibility…

Oh yes. He had, in his carelessness, missed out one other person. Miles Edgeworth. He had been the prosecutor on that case. He could figure it out, though there was practically no chance of that happening.

Everyone and anyone that may prove a threat would prove a very minor one. And yet he had left not one, but five people to give a clue. Collectively… could they…? No, it was unlikely that they would group together. In any case, those vulnerabilities either had no credibility, were being blackmailed, or didn't suspect. Still, if only there were a way to deal with them all in one fell swoop. …He'd keep that in mind.

This incessant worrying was well worth the trouble, Gant felt. It kept him on his toes. It kept him occupied. It meant that he had one less thing to worry about… or not, since he was always worrying about it. There was no helping it—it was, after all, something he feared.

Gant knew this, so he did all in his power to stop this fear from coming true, as all people do. No one would want to face their fears, because if they did, it meant they were no longer frightened, he reasoned. Preventing such a fear, though unlikely, may not be hard, but it was hard in the sense that he needed to lay rest to his uncertainty.

Damon suddenly realized the air was free of the loud chords of his organ, and turned to Oxley. "You may go."

He turned back to the keys, knowing that the officer would stay there for a moment, stunned. Oxley had faced her fear, whether or not it was her worst fear. That didn't mean she was immune to it, because she hadn't chosen to face it. If Gant chose to face it, it wouldn't, as he had always thought, be his fear anymore. In that sense, the only thing to fear was fear itself, as they said.

Still, facing his fear wouldn't vanquish it, simply because it would be idiocy to face it.

So he sidesteps, parries, eradicates any threat that holds fast against his stronghold of power, that proves capable of making his fear bear fruit.

Matt Engarde

People were easy to fool. They wouldn't look, not properly, past the exterior if you conveyed a proper scatterbrained, harmless, airheaded attitude. You were just another quirky movie star, well meaning but bumbling. That was how you acted—the second part of pretending was the appearance. You had to appear all that fitted the character. That was a problem, mostly because of those unfortunate scars. So he had soft bangs hanging gently over the right side of his face, with the other side combed carefully back. Add on a hapless expression, and a foolish grin—and you got Matt Engarde.

An actor had to know how to pretend. He had to know how to fool the audience. But most of all, he had to know how to fool himself. To submerge himself into the character so deeply that every movement was flawless, every speech precise, to make himself completely in character by being that character—that was true acting.

Matt Engarde was an actor, and he did all of the above. Of course, it's hard to lie to yourself all the time, which was what he needed to do, but he maintained a façade so well that he barely needed to even think about it. The problem was that he didn't fool himself completely, something that while not necessary, would be a definite pro. In his mind, he was perpetually replacing 'dude' with a much… nastier word. But that didn't matter much, Matt supposed, because they were all idiots, and could hardly be expected to know the truth—to know the real Matt Engarde.

And yet—and there was always a 'yet'—Engarde couldn't help but feel a little insecure, becoming the centre of a murder investigation. He could get off. So long as Wright believed, so long as his little friend, sister, assistant, or whatever she was was kept hostage, Wright had to keep fighting, whether it were for Matt, justice, Maya Fey, or… anything, really.

But Wright was as idealistic as he was naïve. If Matt were to somehow let slip his true personality, that attorney would be in a dilemma, lowering Engarde's chances of an acquittal. That Fey girl was a failsafe, but he didn't like to rely on any Plan B's… which was why his foolish demeanor had to be kept till the very last moment. Of course, if he felt it wise to discard it, if he were fed up enough (with, of course, the assurance that Wright wouldn't stop defending him)… Well, that would be different. Very different.

But if someone were to discover it!

That would be different too. In a very bad way.

Frankly, the thought made Matt Engarde shiver.

It wasn't an unfamiliar fear to, well, any actor. The fear being, of course, that they simply weren't convincing enough. That their 'Oh… help me' fell flat, or their cry of pain sounded more like a strangled squawk from a chicken that had eaten one too many elephants. It was an inborn fear, one that couldn't be quashed by even his own self-importance, his presumption.

"Er… Mr Engarde…" the guard said hesitantly, breaking through Matt's thoughts.

"Yeah?"

"Well, I'm a really big fan… Do you mind…?"

Matt understood. He shifted his stance, readying himself, before crying out:

"Grasping Ocean Spin!"

He executed the move perfectly, as he had done over the course of the last 289 accursed episodes, finishing off with the signature:

"Nickel Petal Slash!"

The guard watched on in awe, as Matt flashed him a goofy smile and straightened. He gave thanks to Engarde with a wide grin, and returned to his post by the door, glancing at Matt intermittently.

That guard could be fooled, just like every other person in the audience. People could be fooled, if the fooler were skilled enough. Matt was skilled. But sometimes, when he looked at people, he could see an unsettling perception—nothing, of course, that could make them suspect him, but an odd intuition nonetheless. And naïve as Wright was, he had this perception. It was odd, because at the same time, he held a blind belief to his clients, but Matt wasn't complaining about that.

It was people like Wright that looked at the world sideways, upside-down even, instead of the proper means. And his acting was like a tall wall stretching in front of him, an excellent cover for proper people who saw the world straight and nicely arranged. But just edge a little to the left, and in the peripheral vision, and a little darkness seeped out.

Not yet though. No one had uncovered him yet. And he intended to keep it that way.

His intent was so strong that that insecurity turned into a proper fear of being found out, of his acting somehow failing him.

It was the fear of being seen as himself.

A/N Kristoph, to my mind, is a little like Dahlia. His fear, that is—and his personality in general. Ha ha, he refers to Klavier as a 'foolish little brother'. Now, where have I heard that before? In no less than two places, of course, and not exactly restricted to AJ. I think Manfred von Karma is funny. I can't help laughing when I read it, for some reason… Must be hysterics. I haven't played Rise from the Ashes for a while, so I made do with a summary online. (On a side note, it was a last minute decision that Oxley be a female. And yes, I didn't mention swimming. Oh no!) Then again, I haven't played JFA for a while either, but Matt Engarde was easier than I thought it would be. (I still used the Ace Attorney wiki as reference, though.) I came up with the ridiculous names for the moves by staring at the picture of the Nickel Samurai. I loved writing this chapter.

I don't have anymore chapters planned after this, since I didn't have any specific requests, and nothing I really want to write, so for now, this will be set as completed. Actually, I haven't written a request yet, which was to pick my favorite one-time witness (or something along those lines), but I haven't thought of it yet. I may write it next time round. Of course, suggestions are still accepted, in which case… well, I'll write more.

Review!