Turnabout Hellos
December 24, 9:47 pm
High Prosecutor's Office
Slightly ringing, the ice entered the bottom of the glass with a sharp ping. The soft slush of a drink covered the semi-opaque cubes in a transparent brown liquid. One whiff of the concoction would have been enough to tell a person that the drink was a strong one: a double shot of whiskey at the least. The ice was a delicacy, as it had come from the depths of the rambunctious, loud Christmas party being held in the main foyer of the offices. Too much happiness, too much cheer was situated out there. It made the drinker sick, and so he wanted to avoid it in his office to any avail. After all, he had to pack up the case files of the day's turnabout.
Another win, it was. He was what they thought of as a prodigy of sorts, yet despite the fact his win record had come easily he still couldn't beat him. He still couldn't beat that dumb, happy-go-lucky, disgrace of a lawyer that was ultimately the bane to his existence. The man couldn't understand his purpose, which was sick. Being a prosecutor meant that he could convict criminals for their wrongdoings. Criminals deserved to die and to pay for what they had did. However, the attorney insisted upon going on in his way, not understanding this. It was utterly shameful.
He sighed, leaning back into his chair. Taking a sip from the cold, bittersweet drink in his hand he willed for the night be over. In three more days his past would be eliminated from legal existence. The statute of limitation on the DL-6 incident would expire and be gone forever from his life. At least that would lay at rest, of all things that could be put down. All he had to do was just focus on his work until then. He wouldn't bother with anything else.
He got up, taking his drink and case files with him to approach the wall. Stuffing his case files into the right order, he scurried back and forth, putting everything in alphabetical fashion. A light broke into his office and he witnessed the door being opened a hair, while a timid face peeped in. He believed he knew who it was, but continued putting up his files until the girl came in.
"M-mr. Edgeworth," she peeped.
He stopped arranging his files to looked at Ema Skye, the sister of Chief Prosecutor Lana Skye. He said, "Yes Ema, what is it that the chief prosecutor needs?"
"Um, nothing sir," she said, "I just wanted to know if you'd come join the Christmas p-party."
He glared at her, "Go away. I don't like Christmas. The only thing that matters now is work. There is no time for such irrelevancies in the face of justice. I have a job to do, and criminals to send to justice. I'm rather surprised your sister even threw such a trivial event in the first place when the law doesn't rest."
"But Mr. Miles—" she said, being cut off.
"I'm organizing my case files, leave me be," was the only thing he had to say before she ducked her brown head out in fear.
Edgeworth finished doing this work quickly and found himself sitting silently in his office. The outside noise of the party was blaring, so he could still hear it, but he ignored it despite. He preferred being amongst his work, even if he had to sacrifice a bit of peace of mind for it. He took another calm sip of the whiskey. Christmas parties were unfavorable, as was the season, and so the sole atonement that existed was the light haze induced by the liquid luck. A call sounded on his office phone, but he quickly silenced it when he discovered it was from the nuisance attorney Phoenix Wright. He didn't want to be bothered by the outside world, much less him.
Suddenly, there was a shuffling in the room and Edgeworth turned to the door to give whoever was interrupting his silence a piece of his mind. Nobody was present and so he settled back into his chair until he heard it again. It was the brutal screech of metal sliding against metal, like the rattle of chains. He sat back up and looked, but nobody was there. That was when he heard a thud.
A large, black-iron cannonball laid upon his floor. The sight gave him chills. It reminded him of the accused in his first case. He remembered the man on the stand. Clad in stripes, the prison escapee had been a frightening man. He had been tried for the murder of the police officer that had put him on death row in his first trial. It had looked like the defense attorney would have freed him too, but ultimately he committed suicide in the court room. The blood dribbling down the accused's chin would forever haunt the prosecutor.
"MILES EDGEWORTH!!!" A voice boomed, as the prosecutor stood to investigate the cannon ball.
Edgeworth immediately tensed, asking, "Who's there? You think you can play a joke with me just because I'm having a drink!"
"The dead do not play jokes, prosecutor..." said the voice.
Edgeworth scoffed, "I don't believe in the supernatural. There is only physical, tangible evidence. Show yourself you cretin! So help me god, this is not the time for you to mess with me! Gumshoe, if this is you I'm going to make sure your salary gets cut!"
"I'm not a detective, Miles Edgeworth..." the voice instructed, before its owner appeared.
Edgeworth turned white as he witnessed the man in front of him. The splitting image of the dead man, Terry Fawles. His arms were bound by chains that connected to the cannonball he picked up from the floor. The horizontal ivory and royal stripes of his uniform looked as dirty and worn as that day in court. Still the same, the rough barbed wire scars that marked his face were there, with the choker braid that hung at his neck. Nothing had changed, save for the original sadness in his storm grey eyes. He instead looked angry, sharply glaring at the prosecutor.
Edgeworth reeled back in shock, stuttering, "T-t-terry Fawles?!"
"It is me," he said, coming closer and causing Edgeworth to back into his desk.
Edgeworth almost knocked over his drink, as he tried to get his footing. He was convinced it couldn't be real, but nevertheless he feared the illusion in front of him. He was convinced that it was Ema who had done this, yet he couldn't be sure.
"Ema! Quit messing with me! I know it's you! You think you can play a practical joke like this and that I'll get scared. It's just like that stupid book..." Edgeworth screamed out.
Terry Fawles remained silent, and then voiced, patient, "I do not know of this Ema you speak of, nor do I care."
"Listen! I know this is some practical joke!" pleaded Edgeworth as the illusion came closer, "just quit it already and leave me in peace! I already made it clear that Christmas is a stupid holiday and that I don't want to be a part of it!"
"This is not a practical joke. Miles Edgeworth I am here for you," said Terry Fawles with his chains scraping behind him.
Edgeworth tried to turn the corner from his desk, muttering, "Please stay back. I-I don't know why you're doing this to me."
"Alas," said Terry, nearing himself to the prosecutor, "you will not listen, but I must deliver my message soon now anyways."
"What message?" Edgeworth stopped moving.
Fawles bowed his head to his cannonball and chains, "Mr. Edgeworth, I have come here to warn you. You must change your ways by the end of tonight, or you will end up like me. If you do not change yourself, you will suffer eternally."
"I'm not damaged in the slightest," Edgeworth said, arrogantly, "there's no point in you even being here."
"It seems then," he struggled, "that in these moments you lie to yourself. I have no choice than to tell you this."
Edgeworth backed into his file cabinet as Fawles said, "Tonight, before midnight, three ghosts will visit you. They will show you the error of your ways, and that you still have the chance to change your fate. Listen to them, for despite the fact I do not care for you, it is against my being to let anyone suffer like myself..."
Wanting to reply with an inquiry, Edgeworth opened his mouth. However, the moment he did, Fawles mouth began to bleed. Just like on the day of the trial, Edgworth watched in horror as the man's eyes were laced with sadness and he fell to the ground. The moment after the prosecutor blinked, his corpse was gone.
In that moment, Edgeworth panicked. He realized that it was probably just the after effects of something going amiss with his drink. Quickly, he resolved to pour the entire thing out so he wouldn't have such horrifying hallucinations. He took his entire liquor bottle as well as his glass and headed out into the hall of the building. Trying to avoid any and everyone, he took his glass and headed to the bathroom. Immediately, he poured the entire whiskey bottle out and then did the same for his drink. Setting both containers on the sink edge, Edgeworth splashed some water on his face and sighed until he heard a throat clear behind him.
Ema Skye stood behind him with her arms crossed, "What are you doing here?!"
"I'm pouring out the rest of my alcohol, is that a crime?" Edgeworth asked sarcastically.
"In the girl's bathroom it is," Ema said.
Edgeworth just about doubled over for the second time that night, "What?! I...um...I didn't..."
"Go home Edgeworth," joked Ema, "you're drunk."
Edgeworth didn't have to be told twice. He took his empty glass and bottle with him and headed back to his office to set back his stuff and lock it up. All he wanted to do was go home. However, that wouldn't be as easy as it seemed, as he when he entered his office again he ended up surprised. There at his desk, sat a woman he hadn't expected to see.