Disclaimer: I do not own Phoenix Wright. It is the property of Capcom; I merely borrow the characters for my own amusement.

--

Forza Del

It must be fate.

It certainly must be, he decides as he stands in front of that wriggling piece of plywood. The thing is an eyesore, an abomination to anyone who calls themselves a legal enforcer, and now he would be leaving that ridiculous thing forever. His suitcase lies heavy in his hand and as usual, his mind thinks over all the things he had done, and what he might have missed.

A phone call, he tells himself, and just as quickly dismissed the notion. His departure is hardly worth the airtime.

But as he takes one last look at the Blue Badger and walks away, the weight of his suitcase seems to drag him down like lead.

--

It must be fate.

But life in Europe isn’t so terrible, Miles decides as he surveys the cramped streets through the window of his penthouse suite. It was merely another country, another language, another—another life. Other than that, it isn’t as if Europe is any different from where he’d come.

Except for the people, the person, Miles tells himself, and forces himself to look out over the street again, instead of inwards towards that stewing bundle of regret in his chest.

On the sidewalk, there is something of a commotion, and he watches as a group of boys replay every elementary school drama, six against one. The one they pick on huddles into himself, arm over his eyes as first he tries valiantly to curtail his tears, then gives up the attempt altogether, tiny shoulders heaving with the exertion of sobs, lips moving in a never-ending litany,

I didn’t do it, I didn’t do it, please believe me, I didn’t do it, why won’t anyone believe me, I didn’t do it?

It isn’t a scene he is unfamiliar to, and he takes action accordingly.

Miles pulls close the curtains and turns himself away for the first day of work. Daydreaming would make him late.

--

It must be fate.

Or some twisted version of someone’s already very sick joke, Phoenix muses silently as he looks around him with lazy eyes. Scores of people wander about, children squawking delightedly at every exhibit, parents cooing over the accomplishment of messy, exploding, paper-maché volcanoes. And his Trucy now lorded over her own display, which he could see even from where he stood, an auditorium away from her project.

A pint-sized magician, educating the ignorant masses on the importance of science in everyday life.

If that isn’t irony, he doesn’t know what is, especially since it is Trucy he sees up there, dressed in her magician’s outfit (as cute and adorable as ever).

Nearby stands a table with a rather impressive five-foot tall model of the DNA double-helix, and a little boy in a newly-pressed white shirt and tie, pulling nervously at his suspenders, rocking back and forth anxiously on his heels.

The sight is one that makes him smile, and to turn that smile on the little boy, conferring his silent encouragement. The boy says nothing back, or responds to him in any way, but his rocking has stopped, and for some reason, the suspenders no longer bother him.

--

It must be fate.

So anyone, Miles included, will think, as an initially innocuous stroll in the park turns into the proverbial, so-cliché walk-down-memory-lane.

(More appropriately in this situation, a tumble through the boulevard of nightmares.)

The scene itself appears harmless, a beautiful morning composed of dancing sunlight and gently swaying foliage, and butterflies, delicate and pink, as are common of springtime. To add to the picturesque, a dainty lady, parasol and back turned to him, and yet, such a pleasant sight dries his mouth and causes him to turn on his heel, to walk away—

To walk very quickly away.

He remembers the evil of that woman, and of the terror she instilled in people. He thinks of that trial, gone so terribly wrong, so many years ago. He remembers why he feared, but more than ever, he remembers why he is angry.

Miles sees in his mind’s eye the newscast of the widely publicized story, and of the terrified, broken young man in a blush-pink sweater, the real victim in all of the ugliness.

And he remembers.

--

It must be fate.

So anyone, Phoenix included, will think, as though the giant the man had been could not be buried merely by a few thousand miles of distance and limitless ocean water.

(Though such is often the case, and really should not have been surprising.)

Only one of many, the television rattled on through its court documentary, more often focusing on the young prosecutor than on the proceedings of the trial. It isn’t hard to see why, Phoenix had seen it all before, and firsthand—the Edgeworth poise, the Edgeworth elegance, the clear Edgeworth dominance of will and, of course, the very clear Edgeworth outcome of the trial.

Phoenix looks for a second or two (probably much, much more), examines the silvered hair, the steely eyes, the marbled complexion, the granite features, and he smiles—

He turns off the television, and tosses the remote onto the table carelessly, without a second glance.

And he tries to forget.

--

It must be fate.

Or something like it, Miles agrees with a wry smile. The television screen fades into a title screen, welcoming the viewer to Neo Olde Tokyo, as though such a place merited visitors. A gaudy, upbeat tune fills the emptiness of his suite, accentuated by the clash of metal and the strained yells of battle.

The quality is barely passable, and the animation mediocre, but Miles continues to watch until the two-hours-long special is over, and the Steel Samurai has triumphed (for what must be the umpteenth time in the short span of an episode).

As the ending credits peter out into commercial jingles, Miles realizes with a jolt that he has been humming along with the theme song, which has played multiple times throughout the hour, even at the most ridiculous and inopportune moments.

The show has cemented the tune in his head, but Miles knows it was first made familiar to him through a former friend’s (now acquaintance?) obnoxious ringtone.

Right (Wright) for that reason, he has never forgotten it.

--

It must be fate.

And it is not with pleasure that Phoenix feels thus, for Phoenix is now not a happy man. He is a (nearly penniless) father, out shopping with his (very adorable, very wonderful) daughter, but he is not a happy (nearly penniless) etc. etc.

Trucy (dearest one, apple of her father’s aghast eye) models a lovely dress with many a flit and twirl—the fabric is decent, the style fairly recent, the price more than reasonable—

And the horrendous thing is a loud, brash, painfully outrageous pink—excuse him, magenta.

Daddy, it’s seventy-five percent off, (so intelligent, so talented, so stubborn) Trucy tells him, ever the voice of reason in this unbalanced, unstable world, And it was already thirty percent off.

He balks, like a good man when confronted with a clothing dilemma. He reasons, cajoles, bribes, pleads, weasels, and finally slinks out of the store to buy us some lunch, like a good daddy does (which he is beginning to feel less like with each passing moment).

Trucy (too perceptive, too mature) is outside waiting for him, sans the monstrosity.

I’ll buy it when my daddy doesn’t hate pink so much, she chirps, like she means every word, and though he was once a brilliant lawyer, Phoenix finds it nearly impossible to convince himself that Trucy (his brilliant little magician) didn’t mean a little something extra as well.

--

It must be fate.

There is no other way to explain how he could be here, standing again before that disgusting thing, squirming and flailing about as though years had not passed since Miles had last seen it, as though tomorrow had never come.

Just like he remembered it.

When he looks up, a couple feet, and maybe a lifetime away stands a man and a girl, one familiar (almost like he remembered him), one not, and their expressions equally different, one frozen, one curious. He has changed, yes, in more ways than one, but behind the exterior there lies the man he once was.

It must be fate, that Miles has returned to the one person whom he had never left behind, and that person looks as though he shares not even a shred of the same euphoria.

It must be fate, he thinks, with a self-effacing smile, It always is.

--

It must be fate.

There is no other way to explain how Phoenix sees him again, for the first time in nearly a decade, that he is back.

It must be fate, that Phoenix walks close enough to pull his old friend into an impromptu hug (as hard as he can manage), that he introduces (dearest, loveliest) Trucy as his daughter, that he watches the pure, unadulterated shock that races across Edgeworth’s face with laughter (knowing it has more than made up for the grievances of bygone years), that Trucy will soon have a stunning, bright magenta dress to call her very own, and that he won’t have to pay even one of his long-hoarded, treasured pennies for it.

It must be fate, Phoenix decides, and laughs, because he can.

--

It must be fate, and it certainly is.