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“How dare you-”
Miles doesn't get to hear the end of her sentence before his left eardrum bursts.
She had accosted him by his car outside the courthouse as he retrieved his bag from the passenger seat. He had turned to face her, hoping to make it through the conversation relatively unscathed. He was worried about the wrong person.
On Franziska’s perfect white sleeve, a red hole begins to stain everything near it pink. Miles can’t hear anything. He lunges on instinct.
He tackles her to the ground, presses her flat against the pavement, bracing for a second shot that never comes. He can’t hear her breathing and panics before he feels the shuddering inhale underneath him. Miles glances behind him and, seeing nothing, scrambles to his feet. Franziska’s working arm reaches for him as he goes.
“Fran- Franziska you-” He says, patting at his suit coat pockets. Where’s his phone? How fast would an ambulance get here? Can she wait that long?
“Miles!” The image beneath him burns itself into his memory alongside elevators. Her face screwed up in pain and terror, searching for comfort, her arm still extended towards him. He feels sick. There’s no time to wait. He kneels to the asphalt next to her.
“You’re going to be okay Fran you’ll be alright it’s going to be okay,” He lets platitudes fall out of his mouth as he slips his arms under her, lifting her up and against his chest. As gently as he can, he carries her to and sets her down in the passenger seat. The red on her sleeve is beginning to reach her cuff.
Fuck. Fuck!
Calm down, Edgeworth. You are-were-are a prosecutor, you should know enough about wounds by now. How do you stop bleeding? Pressure. What’s the nearest strip of cloth?
With practiced ease, he whips off his jabot. The neat ruffles fall apart with a flick and he wraps it once, twice around Franny’s shoulder. He ties it off as tight as he can and murmurs apologies at her whimper of pain. He grabs the seat belt and clicks it, tugs it to make sure it’s tight, muscle memory from when they first met. A flash of her, barely 3-years-old, crosses his mind and the nausea threatens to rise again.
He shuts the door then throws himself across the hood of his car, a maneuver he’s never attempted and hopes to never again. Sliding into his seat he jams the keys into the ignition and shifts gear the second it roars to life.
Often he regrets his choice of sports car. An immature decision that he is too stubborn to sell. It languishes in evening traffic and in office parking lots.
Ripping down city streets at near felony levels, he appreciates the smooth handling and steady speed. It allows him to grab Franny’s shaking hand across the center console, rubbing his thumb against her clammy skin. It allows him to outpace the rising tide. He splits his attention between the road and her rabbit-like pulse.
His tires screech as he pulls up to the Hotti clinic and only barely remembers to put the car in park. Racing around the front he rips open Franny’s door, unbuckles her, and then pauses. She was so scared along the way, tears flowing freely in front of her much-hated brother. A vulnerability afforded only to him. With a quick brush of his hand he wipes the streaks from her cheeks, knowing that for a von Karma, that kind of weakness is worse than being shot.
Her legs are undamaged but still he picks her up once more and runs into the hospital. It is a blur of white and beige as he shouts for a doctor, telling them everything he can. He channels every bit of the prosecutor he declared dead one year ago. He lays Franny down in a bed when instructed and can only nod when the doctor informs him that luckily, the bullet only hit soft tissue and they can do an emergency surgery to remove it. Bolstered by the declaration of being shot “non-vitally”, Franziska pushes herself up on one elbow.
“How long will that take? I have a trial that requires my presence in only a few hours.” Her jaw is clenched with rigid determination, and excruciating pain.
“Franziska you are in no condition to prosecute. I will handle the case, please just focus on your recovery.” Miles pleads, looking down at his baby sister covered in her own blood, trying to prove something to a dead man. They share few family resemblances, save this.
She turns to retort and argue further with him but the twisting pulls on her wound, sending her falling back to the bed. Tears prick at the corners of her eyes once more. She scrubs at them angrily, laid flat on the cot. He knows what that feels like, all that shame and hatred and pain bubbling its way to the surface.
He cannot cup her cheek nor hold her like he might’ve in hidden moments when they were children. She would take that for coddling or worse, still-living care. He can only grab her hand once more, leaning over her to try and block out the world.
“Please. I will handle it.” He begs. Her eyes lock with his. He cannot say ‘I’m sorry’ or ‘I didn’t want to leave you then’ or ‘You’re still my sister no matter if you hate me’ or ‘I can’t lose you too.’ He can only hope that whatever expression his face bears communicates enough.
Her eyes trail from his down his cheek and he only realizes what she was following when a teardrop lands on her dark vest. There is so much neither of them can say. He can only hope they get the chance one day.
“My files are at the Criminal Affairs Department. I’m sure that scruffy detective can at least find those.” Franziska von Karma looks away, wrapping her arm around herself. She looks so small there, a little girl with too big a mantle to uphold.
“Understood, I will review them immediately.” Edgeworth says, standing to leave.
“You’re going to be okay.” Miles whispers so only Franny can hear it. He exits as the doctors swarm in and take her away.
He gets in his idling car, keys still inside. He drives to the Criminal Affairs Department. His vision is blurry. He still can't hear out of his left ear. The startled shouts bounce off his right.
He grabs the files, brushing off Gumshoe’s concern in favor of telling him the address of the hospital and moving past. He kept a spare change of clothes here, just in case. He never thought he’d have to use it for anything more than coffee stains.
In the single stall bathroom, he takes stock of himself. His hair, stuck to his face with sweat. His skin, paler than usual, ruddy around the eyes. His suit coat bears a darker patch over his left shoulder. The tsunami of nausea rises and finally crests.
Once he’s done retching into the toilet he strips his upper layers and folds them on the baby changing table. His vest has been spared but the thought of putting it back on makes him want to be sick again. His undershirt is soaked and makes him shiver so that too he trades out. He buttons his replacement dress shirt with shaking fingers. The vest and suit coat follow shortly. He supposes the adrenaline is starting to wear off. Only his jabot remains.
Its length draped across his hand, Miles can’t help but think about Franny. Years ago, she had been lucky enough to be able to hide. Today she was not. Their positions rise to the forefront of his mind. Him, with his back to the bushes on the edge of the lot. Her, at an angle just left of him, vision of the shooter obscured due to her smaller stature. It would not be the first time he got a von Karma shot, or a loved one killed.
His mind mercifully goes blank after that.
He blinks and he is standing in the prosecutor’s lobby, body both numb and humming with tension. Miles is terrified for his baby sister’s safety. Edgeworth has larger works at play that need careful maneuvering. Franziska’s opponents, blood loss and a certain lawyer, stand in his way. Both of them pursue their goals with dogged, unwavering resolve. He has little power over the former, so he shall focus all he has into the latter.
Miles wants to curl up into a ball on the floor and cry until he gets a phone call telling him Franny will be alright.
Edgeworth shoves that immature little live-wire of a boy down with decades of practice. He must be strong. He must be unwavering. He is a poor excuse for a von Karma. Hopefully, by the end of the day, he won’t be the only one left.
-
The trial is a roller coaster, ending in a derailment involving evidence only he cares about, but he has somewhere else to be. Edgeworth files the card away into his personal folder, and Miles peels out of the parking lot.
She is upset, and putting on a brave face, and lashing her whip around clumsily without the help of her right hand, but she is alive. She still draws breath enough to shout at Wright and declare her conviction in her methods of prosecution. She survives.
Miles Edgeworth is not sure of much, but he is certain that Franziska von Karma is one of the strongest people he has ever known.