Hey guys. So, I'm not dead. Hurrah! Actually I think it's been a lot less time than it feels like...
So, tadah, another chapter! Not much happens, more a filler, but I really wanted to get something out there so that the next one wasn't super super long. That would take me absolutely forever. But it's filled with a nice amout of Miles angst, and that's always fun. Plus some Franzy action, which I'm sure is nice. I hope she's not too OOC..?

Gravity's bff- Wow! thank you so much! I love you! Wow. You watch Psych too?! *gives pinneapple shaped cookie of choice* I absolutely adore the Yin-Yang trilogy. Gives me the shivers. Especially the second one - and yet, I cry on that one almost every time. It's like, if I watch it enough, Mary won't die this time, you know?
So anyways (I could go on forever about Psych, I really could), did you really think my characters are worth so much praise? I mean, not my characters, but you know what I mean... Thank you so much!

Atroquinine Deadly- I really have to thank you for keeping up with my crap for so long and reviewing just about every chapter. It means a lot, it really does. And you think Gummy's was bad..? Just keep reading... hee hee hee...
No, but seriously, thank you! *cookie for you too!*

Usually I see Sakana-Chan-63 around these parts, but not this time... Oh, well. Thanks to you, too, Sakana, because you review every other chapter!

On with the show. Please review and leave any comments or criticism! Anything helps. Really.

Enjoy this chapter!

The bushes, he decided, provided sufficient cover enough. Not that it really mattered; he was almost positive he could go crashing through the undergrowth right now and still be unable to stir their attentions from the 'distraction.' But that was alright; he'd already planted what he'd needed to plant, and the remnants were stashed in his pocket. Disposing of this bloody weapon – both figuratively and literally – would be simple enough. He was too thorough for that.

He was too perfect.

Looking down upon the still form of the detective, face and coat smudged with mud and dirt found of the path, he almost felt a pang of regret course through his veins. Almost. And then he looked upon Wright's silly, stunned, properly horrified expression, and the triumph reigned in his twisted, dark mind, sending such pleasant shivers down his ordinarily stiff spine, and he decided that it was all worth it.

He hadn't even bothered making tea this time. He was far, far too stressed right now, and he knew that, parallel to the unfortunate fates of his past few heated beverages, it would only become chilled under the intensity of his gaze and the cool flow of the air conditioning.

He couldn't sit still, either – a problem that quite surprised him, as he had always flattered himself on his self-restraint. He stood instead; awkwardly pacing the expanse of his rather lavish office, desperately clutching his hair in his hands, as if that alone would anchor him down to reality at this point. He was shivering, the humming reaching down to his very bones, goose-bumps blossoming over the expanse of his pale skin, even as he was clothed in his many layers of expensive, tasteful, wine-red suit. Under the influence of a strange masochistic streak, he had cranked down the temperature in his private room to an arctic, sub-zero number, suddenly feeling like he needed to be properly cold. He supposed it was to match the coldness he felt spread through his body like a fluid on the inside, too.

It'd been a couple of days already, since the incident, and nothing but cruel, harsh paperwork had made itself known, somehow spawning and multiplying on his desk without him even trying. He'd always insisted to Wright that he enjoyed his work, and his friend would simply look at him incredulously, with a look that asked the unuttered question: how do you like all of that? He'd simply scoffed off the attorney, of course. But now he could sort of see where the wallet-dry man had been coming from; staring at all of the daunting stacks now, added with the surplus of pressure – he really couldn't bring himself to find entertainment in it, let alone show any appreciation or pleasure for it.

With an animalistic growl – one that he'd adamantly deny ever creating at the base of his of throat, if questioned – escaped him, and he paced faster, wearing holes through the hardwood flooring that he took such great pride in. A thought flitted across his mind; one that hadn't occurred to him in many years: he didn't know what to do, or what he was doing. Honestly, he may be a prosecuting prodigy, but he wasn't Sherlock Holmes, for crying out loud! He knew – he knew – that someway, somehow, this murder corresponded in perfect unison with Larry's (oh, the shock that courses down his spine at the mention of it still; the scarlet blood that had bloomed so beautifully, sinfully, across his back-) in that there had been a total, complete lack of any sort of evidence other than the bullet that had been lodged in… his head… and the picture. It was made of the same material as Larry's, had come originally from the same photograph; depicting nothing but the good detective himself, and the washed-out background of the courtroom lobby. Again, there had been absolutely no fingerprints whatever, in exclusion to Gumshoe's (oh, horror!). It was a cold case, a dead end, because there were no other leads at all. They'd traced back the bullet to a gun bought a simple shop down the road, unsophisticated and clean. Apparently, the real owner was someone who had been identified as a 'Jenson Baker,' a rather dull and ordinary name, with a just as morose and commonplace record consisting of absolutely nothing at all, and an air-tight alibi that checked out totally with over 30 witnesses. They'd even interviewed the man. He claimed that no, his gun had never been stolen; it'd been in his living room the entire time.

He mashed his face further into the aristocratic softness of his palms, squeezing his eyes shut, away from all of the difficulty and hardships. To be an unsuspecting teenager again, he'd give nearly anything – even under the reign of the stiff Von Karma heritage.

The photograph, of course, was nothing at all; he and Wright already knew where it had come from. It only served to fuel his suspicion of it being a 'calling card' of sorts, with the same uncertainty behind it; who in their right mind would honestly care about the detective? Unless, of course, presumably like Larry, he'd seen something.

But the both of them being caught up in the same petty matters and having their fates equally mangled? Preposterous. Simply foolish.

Gnawing on his lower lip until he felt a copper-metallic taste flood his mouth, the prosecutor winced and kicked at his desk angrily, upsetting the glaring files that sat there. Even days later, he still tensed with the expectation that any moment now, the detective would come bursting loudly through the door, bumbling like an idiot, and exclaim something just as imbecilic – and yet, no matter what snarky comment or insult Miles would throw his way, he'd retain that same kind, gentle, forgiving demeanor and go off on his own way again.

And what was the up-tight man supposed to feel about it? The late detective, as incompetent as he had been, had loyally stuck by his side for 7 years, never faltering, even when the prosecutor had been under scrutiny for murder. Never had he met another human being so selfless as to simply shrug it off when Miles cut his pay, yet again, and then buy sweet rolls for all of the coworkers ten minutes later without even so much as a 'thank you' in return. There was only one other person in the world that could read Miles' emotions with as much ease as Gumshoe could: Wright. And the good detective always tried his best to take care of him, no matter what he needed, as if subconsciously taking on the role of something reminiscent of an older brother.

Pangs vaulted through his innards, shocks emanating outwards from the region of his heart area, causing him to clench his teeth and hiss in pain. Who knew that emotional pain could become so… physical? he thought with bitter irony, hating the sensation. He wasn't one for sentient displays of passion, and he knew he never would be, but in this instance he knew that he was fully justified to the small fits that had progressively become more numerous and less between.

Two men were dead now. Both of them… were his friends. One had been – more or less – a case partner for so long that he wasn't even sure when it had started, and when it had begun to blend in with his day-to-day lifestyle.

And what about Kay? She still had no idea what had befallen her Gummy and – he felt twinges of guilt settle into his stomach – he had no intent to tell her. Not yet. Perhaps when she got back to America.

With a deep and heavy sigh, he turned on his heel and circled around his desk, before collapsing back into his usually ever-so-comfy-aren't-you-jealous maroon office chair; except, it didn't feel so wonderfully extravagant anymore – not even to his own weary arse. Just like everything else around him, it simply seemed dull; to match the curtains, and the desk, and the hardwood floor (which now had wear-marks on it), the world was merely grey, lifeless, unimpressive.

A muffled groan managed to escape his sealed lips when his cranial domain was brutally slaughtered by a sudden onslaught of aches and throbbing migraines; little demons of thought and stress that floated leisurely through his head, pronouncing it now their own territory. Massaging his temples, Miles briefly wondered if he had any pain medications stashed somewhere in his desk drawers; and then recalled, with a scowl, that he had tidily organized his desk last night in a desperate attempt to restore some order to the chaos that was his life – despite the fact that the state his office had been in had already been deemed impeccable – and knew, for positive, that he owned no Tylenol or Advil or anything of the sort.

In the middle of his attempted relaxation period, an epiphany of sort flashed through the sickening sluggishness of his current thoughts. Glancing down at the confident stacks of paperwork that mocked him from their place on his mahogany desk, he knew he'd probably need a bit of help. Brow furrowed, he rummaged around in his pants pocket and grasped his cell phone; and in a quick flurry of fingers, he had a long-distance number dialed.

"Sie haben Franziska von Karma erreicht, wie kann ich Ihnen helfen?"***

The prosecutor exhaled in relief. "Franziska…"

The surprise in her voice was tangible. "Miles Edgeworth?" And, just like he knew it would, it snapped into irritated-mode. "You foolish fool! What do you think you will achieve by calling me at a time like this?"

"Franziska," he started patiently. "It's only 7:30 in Germany right now."

"To be exact, it is 7:32. And I am currently enjoying my meal in the manor. Now," the clang of silverware against a china plate was evident, as was the groan of a chair as the feisty woman on the other line stood from her seat. "You'd better come up with a good excuse for disturbing me, Miles Edgeworth."

He chuckled lightly, her easy-to-stoke temper drawing his mind, for the moment, from the case that had so overwhelmed him. "Of course I do. I have an excellent, legitimate reason; you know I'd never call you, otherwise." But he sobered quickly, realizing with awful clarity that he'd have to tell her, anyhow.

"Well? Get on with it, fool!"

He was very glad that they hadn't invented telepathic whips or something just as equally dreadful. "Have they contacted you with any news about the two most recent murders?"

"Of course they haven't. For what purpose? Do you need my help so soon, little brother?"

"Something like that." He coughed awkwardly, and swallowed down that bothersome little frog. "The victims… are… Larry Butz, and Detective Dick Gumshoe."

Complete and utter silence resounded painfully from the other line, and if it weren't for the faint, static crackle of a long-distance telephone, he'd have thought the woman had hung up on him.

He decided to continue. "Detectives and crime scene hadn't found nearly any evidence, ever. What they have found just leads to more twists and, well, dead ends."

"Such fools. The entire lot of them." She audibly cleared her throat, rather loudly. "Well. How… unfortunate, despite how incompetent they both were." Elongated pause. "What good would calling me do you?"

It wasn't spoken, but he identified that question as vague Von-Karma-speak as 'how can I help?' His dark-bag lined stormy eyes brightened somewhat, almost imperceptibly, but there nonetheless. "Would you consider arriving home a week or two early, Franziska?"

She really wouldn't have minded being in England again right now. She was sure she could have lived her whole life without seeing something like… that. Sure, she's seen dead bodies before. She'd even helped processes them.

But not… not someone she knew. Even someone as insignificant in her life as Gumshoe.

She'd clung to Mr. Wright, after that, followed him home – just as she clung to him now, days later. She simply watched with a limp, lifeless expression as said ex-attorney glared down at his cell phone in ire, frustrated at its lack of working batteries and reception. He'd tried calling Maya Fey for a while now, hadn't he?

She couldn't even remember, really.

He'd forced her to go back to her apartment after the incident, and she'd complied, though she knew she wouldn't be receiving any respite from sleep. And, as early the next morning as she'd dared, had fled straight back to Mr. Wright's living area. When nothing of any importance happened to the two of them – simply some police questioning upon their whereabouts and the time of day – she'd repeated the routine.

A very noticeable sigh of relief drew her from her strange reverie. She blinked owlishly up at Mr. Wright from her seated position on the couch next to him. He was holding his rather large, not-at-all portable cellular device close to his ear, familiar dial tones emanating from the machine.

"Maya," he breathed, as if unable to believe his incredible luck. From the other line sounded, from Ema's point of view, like a few key lines of garbled gibberish. "Yes, Maya, I'm okay, but…" He frowned deeply, disturbed. "No, no. Please, I'll explain later. Just… come quickly, won't you? You need to be here. Leave Pearl there…" A raised eyebrow. "No. Pearl is most definitely not allowed to come. What's happened… I couldn't do that to her. She doesn't deserve to see this. But Maya, please, I need you to be here. You'd understand. Besides," he raised his voice, as if attempting for Maya to hear him over what she herself was saying, "we need to give Edgeworth a visit, anyhow." His tone immediately became exasperated. "Yes, Maya, I promise I'll take you out for burgers… Yes. Yes. Okay? Alright. I'll see you tomorrow."

Hmm. It seemed like Maya would be visiting from Kurain. Though, from personal experience, the science nut knew that the spirit medium would not find it within her to still be hungry for burgers after finding out about… Gumshoe. But she didn't bring that up, and Mr. Wright stayed silent, knowing that she'd gathered enough about the situation from listening in on him. Instead, they simply sat in speechlessness, neither finding enough enthusiasm for small talk.

Maybe she'd go see Lana later on. Her sister would know what to do.

And there it is, folks! Tell me what you think!

I really do enjoy writing Miles, he's my absolute favorite. Second would have to be the crazy serial killer, just for the fact that he's absolutely bonkers in a horrifically ingenious way, no matter what story you read about him.

***You've reached Franziska von Karma, how may I help you?
(sorry if I used improper German; my grasp of the language is terribly rusty and I used Google translate for help.)

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