Author's Notes // Before we Begin

Hey, guys. This is Fubuki, or shiroandfubuki on these here forums, as well as Livejournal and fanfiction.net. A few months ago (as of June 1st), I started up this fanfic, Follow the Nightingale, and I want to start sharing it with you guys at Court Records now that I'm absolutely positive I'm going to finish this one...sure, it'll take a while. But it'll get done, and I hope everybody here likes the result.

This fanfic has been the result of some good hours of spontaneity: hours of listening to the same five songs, plot discussions with people who hardly even know the games (but love the pairing, for whatever reason), a few dreams, and the occasional hour of actual typing. I like to believe a little bit of my soul goes in to each chapter, even if they're only around 1,500 words each.

Bon voyage!




The Basics // Things you Might Want to Know Before you Start

Title: Follow the Nightingale
Author: Fubuki
Rating: Teen, 16+ (Objection! Fanfic Archive). Mostly because there's murder, as sometimes happens in the PW world. The murder's described a bit, too, but nothing beyond what one might see in the games.
Genre: Drama, with a little Romance.
Status: Incomplete, 2 Chapters
Pairing: Phoenix/Edgeworth
Warnings: Spoilers for games 1 through 4, of course! Also, there is a female OC in a supporting role (and a few others in minor roles), but she doesn't have any relationships with any canon characters! I promise, really!
Summary: "The story started when I met you..." Miles Edgeworth, out of country and out of mind, is unhappy. And, as his reflection vanishes and is replaced by a smart-talking, happy-go-lucky Phoenix Wright, he wonders if he's insane as well. But those two conflicting personalities must work together; to uncover the truth, and to remind Edgeworth of just how human he is and how happy he once was...

Disclaimer: All publicly recognizable characters, settings, etc. are the property of their respective owners. The original characters and plot are the property of the author. Any similarities with the real world are purely coincidental. The author is in no way associated with the owners, creators, or producers of any media franchise. No copyright infringement is intended.

Review Policy: I accept all reviews! Like it? Love it? Think it's too short? Too long? Could you not finish reading it because it made you gag? If so, then why? INPUT IS GOOD. Also, feel free to review on any of the links provided in the Chapter Links section, but don't shy from posting a reply here, too. ^_^

P.S.: I would love to have this Fic submitted to the Court Records fanfic page ^_^ ...Although, it'll probably take a while to actually finish the fic. :P

** The Information Section was LAST UPDATED: JUNE 1, 2008! **




Chapter Links // Let's Read!

Chapter 1: The Degrading Mental Capacities of a Certain Miles Edgeworth
---Court Records Forum - Scroll Down :)
---Objection! Fanfic Archive
---Fanfiction.net

Chapter 2: The High Treason of Shameless Copyright Infringement
---Court Records Forum
---Objection! Fanfic Archive
---Fanfiction.net

** The Actual Story/Chapter Links were LAST UPDATED: JUNE 2, 2008! **






Chapter I

The Degrading Mental Capacities of a Certain Miles Edgeworth



Dick Gumshoe and Franziska von Karma notwithstanding, if you were to ask one who knew the quirks and kinks in Miles Edgeworth's impenetrable armor, they would tell you that they had always believed the poor chap to be a few jurors short of a courtroom. Consequently, they would also say that it would be no surprise to them if the Demon Prosecutor met his end slowly and painfully and as insane as possible; a storybook ending for the families of those he had wrongfully accused.

The two aforementioned would say differently: Gumshoe would, without a doubt, say "That man was as great a man as there ever was, Pal," while Franziska would probably pull out her leather cord and whip whomever dared bring up his name.

And then there were the friends and close companions of Phoenix Wright (a different matter entirely), whom without a doubt would awkwardly defend every decision Edgeworth had ever made, even going back to grade school if it were to convince you that Miles Edgeworth was, somewhere just below the surface, a very nice guy.

But despite the point of view or the traumatic experiences this prosecuting genius may have handed you in the courtroom, all could agree that Miles Edgeworth, son of Gregory Edgeworth and former apprentice of Manfred von Karma, was a piece of work indeed. As far as the prosecution, he was an internationally well-oiled machine. As far as his emotions, he was still trying to learn how to walk.

It is with this mindset and prior knowledge that we ask you to sympathize with Miles Edgeworth; surely, no matter how he has treated you in the past, if one person believes that a kind Miles exists under the chain mail of the Prosecutor Edgeworth we know, then it must be so. Can't we just let bygones be bygones?

#
It was in the following way that Miles Edgeworth awoke that day, a nightmare of Magatamas and "Psycholocks" flitting through his awakening mind: bitter. All the bones in his body ached, every limb felt unearthly heavy, and the taste of blood from biting his lip too hard in his sleep mixed unforgivingly with his natural palette as he stirred.

Even the successes in court were fading in their merits of satisfaction.

Edgeworth let out a terrific yawn and stretched his arms wide, fancying he heard his lower back crack with discomfort. Even somebody so out of tune with the realities of the world as Miles Edgeworth could feel in his drooping spirit that the day would not go particularly well.

But, in the dim humming of his awakened mind, it never really registered. Just another day: wake up, go to work, go to court, go back to work, have dinner alone, go to sleep. Lather, rinse, repeat. Even miles away from home, in the fancy hotel that the regional Prosecuting Office was paying for, life lacked the spark that it used to.

With the overall feeling of "life sucks" looming over his head, Edgeworth began his morning as he always did. He stood up, pink pajamas hanging loosely from his frame, and bent down and up twice to stretch out the muscles that had so dutifully cried out in protest at his awakening. He stretched out his arms again, and again yawned with a loud sigh deep in his throat, and left his bedroom with his bed unmade.

He had grown in to the habit of brushing his teeth with his eyes half-closed, if only to keep from the effort of opening them, and he did that now: a trail of toothpaste was forced out on to the toothbrush and the entire ensemble was stuffed in to his mouth without Edgeworth even batting an eyelash.

It was when he opened his eyes at last that this story truly began.

Instead of his reflection, the same Miles Edgeworth that he had put up with seeing for a small eternity, had been replaced. Instead of Edgeworth's reflection, there was without a doubt, though seven years had passed without them even exchanging a word, Phoenix Wright looking down on him from the mirror.

The toothbrush dropped from Edgeworth's mouth. The same did not happen to the Phoenix in the mirror. No toothbrush in sight, Phoenix put on a goofy grin and said:

"You look ridiculous."

#
"Hello. This is the number of the New York State Prosecuting Office, correct?... No, I'm not calling to file a claim. This is Miles Edgeworth.

"I'm afraid I won't be able to come to the office today as I had planned. I'm not feeling very well... Don't worry. It's nothing serious. I'm sure I'll be back to normal soon... Yes, I will notify you further in advance next time.

"Thank you. Goodbye."

Edgeworth hung up the phone and let out the sigh that he had been holding in. The entire weight of his body still seemed to be pressing against him, and he still felt all of his senses on edge. This entire situation was completely absurd.

He turned to Phoenix, or whatever it was, who was still watching him, arms crossed, from the refrigerator. Every reflective surface in the luxury suite bore Phoenix's face as Edgeworth passed by - it was as if there was no escape.

"You didn't have to do that, you know," said Phoenix Wright's disembodied reflection. "Don't you have people to impress at the Prosecution's Office or something?" Edgeworth ran his fingers through his musty grey hair, both confused and frustrated.

"That will have to wait. I'd rather they thought I was sick for a day than insane," Edgeworth replied.

"You don't seem crazy to me."

"I'm hallucinating that Phoenix Wright is talking to me from a refrigerator. If that doesn't mean I'm losing my mind, then please, tell me what does."

Phoenix looked up for a second, as though thinking, and finally said "Prove that I'm not Phoenix Wright, then."

Edgeworth stared with a blank face. "Hm?"

Phoenix, as Edgeworth had seen him do many times before, suddenly turned serious. It was something that Edgeworth had never been able to do: to be cheerful one moment and boldly icy the next. Edgeworth had always believed it to be a ruse, as even he had moments when his cold demeanor broke down.

Mostly, those walls broke down around a lawyer in a blue suit.

"Didn't you say once," began Phoenix in a steady crescendo, "that the only thing that matters is evidence?" Phoenix pointed at Edgeworth; another familiar gesture. "So prove it, Edgeworth!"

Edgeworth flinched. He had said that once, but so long ago that it had faded from his mind. Many years ago, before so many bad things happened...

So Edgeworth forced himself to look more closely at his vision of Phoenix Wright. And honestly, thought Edgeworth, it seemed as though nothing had changed, as if Phoenix was suspended in time. The azure suit, the spiked hair he's had since grade school, the attorney's badge Edgeworth had always imagined Phoenix had worked so hard for...

"You're not Phoenix Wright," Edgeworth finally said, though he felt as if his conviction had vanished; he almost wished it had been the real Phoenix there. "It was huge news when it happened. Wright got his badge taken away seven years ago."

"And you never called," he replied smartly, without skipping a beat.

Edgeworth had expected the fake Phoenix to deny it - the badge was right there on his lapel, after all - but no such objections were made.

"Hehe... I guess I'm guilty as charged on that account, huh." Phoenix's mood swung again, and he scratched the back of his neck in embarrassment. Edgeworth recognized it as another thing he knew Phoenix to do.

"I'm not the real Phoenix Wright," he said.

"Then," asked Edgeworth, calm and confused, "Who are you?"

"...I'm you."

Whatever sense Edgeworth had made of the situation had vanished; "But... You said, just now... If you're me and Wright, then what does that make you?!" He was perfectly aware of how much his voice had risen. Phoenix fumbled with his hands, obviously trying to come up with a way to explain.

"Well, you see... This isn't coming out right at all," he mumbled.

"Anyway! Anyway," he suddenly bursted, "I'm Wright, but I'm also Edgeworth. I'm everything in yourself you associate with Phoenix Wright. Everything Phoenix is to you, I am.

"In other words..." Phoenix struck a pose. "I'm all the cool parts of you."

Edgeworth decided to ignore Phoenix's last comment entirely.

"So I'm crazy, then."

"Probably. Sounds weird enough, doesn't it?"

"But why are you here, then? What's made me lose it enough for something like this to happen?..." Edgeworth turned away from Phoenix who, contrary to a reflection should do, continued to look forward.

He had paused again. Did he even know why he was there?

"I think it's... Because you're not happy, Edgeworth."

All in that moment, Edgeworth felt like screaming. He wanted to yell out, at the height of his voice, "Nothing's wrong! I am happy!" The stress of this already horrid morning was pressing against him, the pressure of everything that, somehow, probably was causing this whole mess. Yeah... He must have just been tired, stressed out, doing too much work for his health.

But if he said that, he would've been lying. And lies, he had learned previously, were things that Phoenix Wright could easily break through.

Last edited by shiroandfubuki on Mon Jun 02, 2008 8:08 pm, edited 2 times in total.

This is really interesting O_O Although slightly confusing, it's very good. Your writing, especially at the beginning, somewhat reminded me of old 19th century style things. I'm looking forward to more.

---

Chapter II

The High Treason of Shameless Copyright Infringement



Miles Edgeworth, sceptic and pessimist, liked to pretend that the strange things that happened in his life could be attributed to coincidence. And so much of it was unusual: people he found himself meeting again and again , the clanging of chains and the shutting of locks, a long-dead soul in a long-living body, people who attracted misfortune like an open flame may attract a moth... Events that ruined lives, changed lives, saved lives.

And, he thought, seven years was a long time. Enough time for these events to mutate, spinning out of control.

A lawyer loses his badge, and the lives around him shatter.

Did he ever think that, perhaps, these things were not coincidence? That life hinged on meetings and encounters, and that he was meant to face all of the horrid adversities he had seen? Maybe, but it was long ago: before the stench of existence seeped in to his clothes. Now, Miles Edgeworth was beyond believing in such carefree things as magic and fate.

But just because you don't believe in something doesn't mean it doesn't exist, Edgeworth. That's something you still have to learn.

#

A knock at the door interrupted the silence.

Edgeworth, who had just been sitting at his desk as if nothing happened, found himself unwilling to move. In the past hour, in his desperate attempts to reinstate his fragile status-quo, Edgeworth had been rearranging the room's small desk almost obsessively, and by now had every single pen and pencil in place. As he shifted in his chair, the far left pen rolled to the right, and Edgeworth caught it and replaced it before it could roll of the table.

Phoenix looked at Edgeworth from a small hand mirror, positioned beside the pencils and just within the line of Edgeworth's vision: despite wanting so badly for this all to be one bad dream, he wanted also to keep an eye on Wright's mysterious doppleganger. Phoenix did, after all, have a habit of taking things from crime scenes.

"The doorbell rang," Phoenix said, his first words since their revelation hours ago. "Are you happy, Edgeworth...?"

Edgeworth raised his head and made his way toward the door, his magenta suit restricting his movements only as much as they always did. At least he had gotten dressed; he had to fight against the desire to crawl back in to bed several times.

He opened the door, eyes still staring in to space. Seeing nothing at first, he looked down. Damn, he thought, slapping his forehead in frustration. I had a client today.

She was a petit, simple looking sort of woman. Her thin, neatly cut hair was framed by a beret, which she fixed with her hand before asking, neither kindly nor rudely, "You're Miles Edgeworth, right?"

Edgeworth nodded, and yawned. For once, he had a client that seemed somewhat normal. He should have been grateful, kissing the earth below his feet; what with a fake Phoenix Wright suddenly invading his life, he had been worried that his next client would be more of a nut-job than how he currently saw himself.

Inviting herself in, the client fixed her beret for a second time. She looked around the temporary office, as if her eyes could swallow the furniture whole, her vision stopping briefly on Edgeworth's unmade bed.

Edgeworth closed the door behind her as she sat in the single chair opposite of his perfectly ordered desk. "And how, exactly," began Edgeworth, trying not to display his shortened temper but obviously failing, "did you find out where I was staying?"

"The Prosecutor's Office told me," she said, obviously pleased and oblivious to Edgeworth's flustered glare. "They said you where sick today, but I really, really needed to see you... You don't look sick," she added, as though merely an afterthought. She smiled broadly. "I want to hire you. I need a good freelance worker, and you're the best at what you do, I hear."

Despite her words making Edgeworth feel like some sort of lowly cattle, Edgeworth sat across from her. "Before we begin, Ms..."

"Skater," the client supplied. "Anne Skater."

"Yes. Anne Skater." He submitted the name to memory, but hoped that he would be allowed to forget it soon. "Before we begin, I must explain that I no longer accept homicide cases. If you wish to prosecute someone on any account of murder, accidental or premeditated, please go to the Prosecutor's Office and request a district-assigned lawyer."

He said with grace, apathy, and an unblinking stare; Edgeworth had said those same rehearsed words many times before.

"Yeah, yeah," replied Anne. "I know all about you, Miles Edgeworth: you're known all over the world as the 'Demon Prosecutor,' famous for being the most brilliant prosecutor to stand in a courtroom for the last two decades, but you won't touch any sort of homicide with a ten foot pole." That naive grin was still plastered on her young face, despite how apparently uncomfortable her words were making Edgeworth feel.

"You haven't been taking murder trials?" asked Phoenix, shocked and, his voice betrayed, curious.

"...Not anymore," said Edgeworth, but one could not tell whether he was replying to Anne or to Phoenix, to the corporeal or to the invisible.

Anne, of course, was isolated from the conversation entirely; she put on a naive smile. "Don't worry, then. I'm not here to frame a murder on anybody."

That's one way to put it, I guess, thought Edgeworth.

"I'm here," she continued, "to hire you for something a little less dirty."

With that, she placed a neatly paper-clipped packet on the table, a fairly thick stack of white paper and black, courier text. Edgeworth picked up the packet and gazed at the title of the manuscript, Phoenix looking up at is from the mirror.

"...The Voice in the Bushes?" asked Edgeworth, drawing a complete blank as to how this even remotely related to law in any shape or form.

"It's the only story I've ever been able to sell," replied Anne, prideful but also dejected. "'The Voice in the Bushes' has sold millions of copies worldwide, and been in twelve different novella compilations. But, recently..."

Her voice rose. "Those jerks made a movie of it! My story! Without my permission!!" She rose in her chair, enraged.

"Ms. Skater! Please sit down!" She obeyed, adjusting her beret for the umpteenth time and crossing her arms over her chest, like a small child kept from having a tantrum. "If you would be so kind as to explain your predicament in detail..."

"Fine, then," she sighed. "I got a video in the mail a few weeks ago: a production copy of the movie version of 'The Voice in the Bushes.' I called the producer to discuss it," (something Edgeworth imagined involved a lot of screaming), "but he insists that they had permission to make the movie! I refuse to believe it! I sure didn't tell them they could! I mean, if they would have just asked, then I probably would have been fine with it! But now..."

She stood up again. What a frivolous lifestyle, thought Edgeworth. "Thus, I want to sue the 'Cinematographers Refining Alternate Productions' Institute with copyright infringement! The trial date's already set, but I want Miles Edgeworth's help to win!"

Apparently, Phoenix thought the acronym was hilarious.

Edgeworth did his best to ignore him, taking ever grain of his focus and raking them away from Phoenix's grip, and accepted his client's offer for the next-day trial. After jumping around like a giddy schoolgirl, she left with a grin plastered to her face, but not before leaving the manuscript and video behind.

"Why'd she leave those?" asked Phoenix.

Edgeworth, somehow, managed to smile. "This," he said, "Is how I research my cases."

He grabbed the tape and slid it in to the single, small television in his room, and proceeded to watch the movie that would essentially waste the next three hours of his life. The novella, he would decide even later as he read it, was barely any better.

The story of "The Voice in the Bushes" goes like this: This girl gets run over by a truck, brutally so, and nobody knows who was driving. Upon investigating the crime scene, the detective in charge of the case hears a voice in the bushes (hey, really?), and ends up falling down a concealed hole to an underground cave. There, he meets the ghost of the girl who was killed at the beginning of the story, who recounts to the detective the story of her day as well as the identity of her murderer. The detective tries continuously to escape from the ditch, and when he finally gets out, leaving the girl (who refuses to budge) behind, he finds out that none of his subordinates can see or hear him, and he had died when he fell down the ditch. The crime goes on unsolved. The end.

Phoenix fell asleep halfway through the movie, which Edgeworth decided not to question, and agreed that sleep was probably exactly what he needed right now. Maybe when he woke up, Anne Skater, "The Voice in the Bushes," and Phoenix Wright would no longer exist.



---(6/1/08) Thanks for the review, MercuryKitten! Yes, this story is supposed to be wierd and confusing. :P That's what I'm going for. ^_^ but I'll try to make the next chapter more understandable.