There wasn’t much to think about Maya Fey at first. She was but a mere, badly dressed fly buzzing around that porcupine’s head when Franziska first sought news on her Little Brother after Papa’s seething anger grew heavy enough he shared its source without her needing to prompt.
Little Brother had lost. Not only had he left the manor, the country, her life, as he also dared to lose.
To say that it was a surprise would be an insult to herself. Franziska von Karma cannot be surprised, for she is always prepared for every possible circumstance. However, she is perfect, and perfection doesn’t admit lies; thus, she is forced to admit that past her gloating that she was right, she knew Miles Edgeworth could never truly be a von Karma, that exact fact had always made her scared for him.
He did his best, she knows. She knows no one who wasn’t seeking anything less than perfection would go so far as he did, to abandon his dreams, his previous life, endure every harsh word and keep in pace with her perfect self. Yet, some small part of her had known that his efforts would be in vain.
Only the von Karmas are perfect, and Miles Edgeworth wasn’t one. Sooner or later, he would falter. And, deeply, she feared for what would happen to him when that day came.
Thus, when that day arrived, she hadn’t relegated to Maya Fey more than brief disdain for her clothing choice while reading the news.
For months, that didn’t change – the second time Little Brother lost, Maya Fey still crept on the sidelines.
And then, towards the end of the year, she had been making preparations for the annual von Karma Christmas gala when Papa announced he had pressing matters to attend to in the States. Before she knew it, her Little Brother was a murderer. His executioner: her Papa.
Such hadn’t even had time to fully settle in her mind before the positions were inverted.
And at New Years, she sat alone in the middle of half-assembled Christmas decorations.
What was a lack of interest became anger. Maya Fey had played a pivotal role in her Little Brother’s trial; the blame for its outcome fell on her as much as on that foolish attorney. They had taken away her Papa, and they had taken away the rest of her Little Brother’s dignity, when they prevented him from gracefully accepting his fate as he so clearly intended to do.
They had taken away her Little Brother, when he fled. He fled, yes. Franziska refused to believe he would choose the unknown over her.
How cruel. She was starting to acknowledge that, as beneficial as it ultimately was, maybe her Papa’s past treatment of him hadn’t been very adequate, that even though they’d never share the same blood or surname he was her Little Brother and that entailed that she, as the Big Sister, had a supportive role to fill, and he fled.
Because of them. Phoenix Wright. And Maya Fey.
(Franziska has never been as strong as her Little Brother. Papa had made it a point to chastise her for it plenty of times. What if they came for her next?
Best that she comes to them first.)
Her sights were set on the United States. Better yet, on a particular porcupine-headed attorney and his pesky companion frolicking somewhere in the country’s west. She crossed the Atlantic for that insufferable, hot, stifling city called Los Angeles and lurked for a while, taking up the prosecution of minor crimes – perhaps turning her Little Brother’s office to the air in the search for a mere hint of where he could’ve gone – until a perfect opportunity fit for a perfect prosecutor presented itself.
Maya Fey was a murderer. Undoubtedly, Phoenix Wright would come running to her aid. Franziska would prosecute her, win, and thus, take down two birds with one stone. Phoenix Wright and Maya Fey would be swept off their ground in one single, well-played move. And her Little Brother, wherever he was, would see her take the win he couldn’t.
(And be proud?
Will Papa be proud? If she takes the win where he couldn’t?
Did he ever want to see her grow to best him?)
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The first time Franziska met Maya Fey face to face, it was framed by a concrete wall and through the foggy filter of plexiglass. Franziska prefers to meet the defendants before the trial happens – not to interrogate them, as the investigators had done so already, and she had the transcribed, revised testimony in her hands – but to see them lash out like a fly trapped in glue, watch their farce of regret or innocence melt away to reveal the true criminal underneath.
“Why are you here?” Maya Fey asks, begrudging.
“To see you, Maya Fey.”
“I know I’m pretty, but I’m sure there’s something you want out of me.”
“Why do you think so?”
“Pft. You’re a von Karma. I know your type.”
“Quiet, fool!” Her whip cracks against the glass. “You will not besmirch the von Karma name in such a way.”
Franziska was expecting this would be the catalyst. That Maya Fey would curse her, shout, become aggressive, anything to indicate towards a deeper, more vile nature. There had to be one. She had a mantle to take, the most important in her village, and only some unfathomable evil could steer her towards an action that would deprive her of her betrothed path. But she barely even flinches at the crack between them.
“I am innocent.” She proclaims, not a hint of doubt in her voice. “And Nick is going to prove it.”
Franziska scoffs. “Very well, fool. Believe what foolish lies you will.”
Maya Fey’s grin is a wry thing. Like the cat who got the canary, even when Franziska is the one heralding her downfall.
“We’ll see who’s the fool here.”
For the first time since her last visit to Papa, Franziska left the detention center more frustrated than she came in.
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There had to be a mistake.
Maya Fey could not be innocent. Somewhere along the way, someone had made a mistake, and it snowballed until becoming big enough to crush her perfect record. The blame wasn’t on her; her arguments were flawless (until they weren’t) and her investigation was perfect (until it wasn’t) and the police force had never left her hanging (until it did).
Maya Fey could not be innocent.
(But she was.
Her Little Brother, too.
Wasn’t the stand a ledge?
The role of defendant, a mark of sin?
Could perfection elude her?
A von Karma, she is.
Perfect?)
Yet, there was Maya Fey, chatting with that foolish man like she hadn’t stood the last three days with a rope around her neck. Was her spirituality to fault? Or simple familiarity? She had been in that position before; the vertex connected to Phoenix Wright on one side and a von– a prosecutor mentored by the great Manfred von Karma on the other. No matter – making her peace with death, the afterlife, or whatever came next was of little importance. The foolish girl did not seem to worry herself with the future; that, Franziska can grudgingly respect.
Franziska would have her revenge. Fine, she might’ve failed this once. But it doesn’t matter how many times she fails, everything she has to do is fail less than anyone else.
That means she has a certain attorney’s perfect record to break.
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Not guilty, yet again. Yet again, she fails, and Maya Fey bounds happily out the courtroom through one side while Franziska stalks furiously out the other.
She is being sabotaged. She’s sure of it, now. Scruffy was never that bright; someone told him what to do. And she will find out who if that’s the last thing she does.
Fortunately, Scruffy is daft enough not to put a password on his cellphone. She picks it up when the detective leaves his post for a cup of coffee she knows will devolve into loitering along other lazy officials, searching the call log for anything strange. Right at the top is all the information she wants. An international number.
It’s saved on her own cellphone. Immediately upon arriving at her provisory office, she hits the call button.
“Hello. Who is this?” An entirely too familiar voice answers.
Franziska hangs up the second after.
It had to be. Of course. It had to be that foolishly foolish fool, against her as he’d always been.
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Her shoulder hurts. Nevertheless, she picks up that bottle, and runs as fast as her legs can take her.
Bullet wounds have never stopped perfection.
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The next time she hears of Maya Fey, it’s from a faint line across the ocean.
“Franziska von Karma speaking.”
“... Hello.”
“...”
“...”
“What do you want, Maya Fey?”
“To hear your pretty voice.” Franziska feels her cheeks heat up in the German cold. “I’m kidding. Actually, no, you do have a pretty voice. Actually- argh, I’m making an ass of myself, aren’t I.”
“... Yes. But proceed.”
“Yay! You didn’t hang up. I’ll take the wins I can. Anyway, I guess I just wanted to ask how you’re doing.” She pauses, here. Franziska, intrigued, hums a prompt for her to continue. “I mean, you did get shot in the shoulder, and despite that you still managed to get that bottle to the courtroom in time. I owe it to you to be… here… as much as I do Nick and Edgeworth.”
“And Scruffy.” She huffs.
The attempt at a joke is worth it, because a chuckle answers from the other side. “Yep. Gumshoe too.”
Silence stretches, pulled taut on their immense distance. Still, it’s not wholly uncomfortable. But she can tell there is something unspoken still threading on it.
“... You didn’t answer me.”
“Ach.” The wound in her shoulder has yet to stop hurting. It’s only been a month, after all, and the von Karma name doesn’t have the best history with shoulder bullet wounds. “I’m…” Perfect, she meant to say. “Decent.”
“Damn. You’re in a bad spot, aren’t you.”
“Goodbye, Maya Fey.” Franziska scoffs, and hangs up in the middle of her protests.
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Then, she was rushing to her Little Brother’s aid. He can deny the von Karma surname as much as he wants, he’ll always be her Little Brother who needs her help for committing infractions, be those hiding his childish tokusatsu obsession where it couldn’t be found or committing a crime that could warrant disbarment.
Whatever. Disbar her, for all she cares. She doesn’t intend on prosecuting in the States anymore, either way.
Arriving there, the scenario is bleak. Phoenix Wright is in a bad condition. Nothing too drastic could happen to him; her Little Brother would be inconsolable, and Franziska does not wish to deal with such. Far more important than Miles Edgeworth’s little affections, however, is Maya Fey’s safety.
Inside a freezing stone coffin, somewhere deep inside the mountain, she’s trapped alone. The nun offers to help; Franziska doesn’t trust her. Past her position as the defendant there is something about that meek, shy woman that rings all her alarm bells. Maybe it’s the amplitude between her reactions when that foolish attorney’s name was uttered – at times a wince, at times a chilling grin. Maybe it’s those secrets she so clearly keeps at the detriment of a family member. Nevertheless, Franziska couldn’t even relish being right, because the woman’s untrustworthiness entailed more locks spawning overnight, separating Maya Fey from them even further.
Franziska considered dropping the case. Let the nun meet her fate; all that matters is that Maya Fey is rescued and taken somewhere safe and secure. But, after that. What? What would come for Maya Fey? Bullheaded like that foolish attorney and her Little Brother, she wouldn’t settle just for safety. She hadn’t settled just for safety, in the past. She would only settle for the truth.
No. She will keep the case. She will keep the case so Maya Fey can rest easy, here or, and her heart twists to consider the thought, in the afterlife.
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The trial wasn’t perfect. In fact, it might’ve been one of the most imperfect trials she had ever witnessed. The truth revealed was raw, ugly in all its facets, sharper than a sword, more misshapen than shattered glass, acidic like venom yet clearer than a children’s picture book.
After the trial, she watched from the doorway while Phoenix Wright, Maya Fey and Pearl Fey crushed each other in a tight embrace. In the middle of that mass of limbs, she was certain she’d seen the glint of tears.
Words and laughter were shared, flowing with that foolish attorney’s river of tears. Her Little Brother sneaked in at some point, and was awkwardly caught in a hug by the two girls.
Satisfied with the conclusion, she resolved to return to her hotel. Tomorrow, she could fly back to Europe with a clear mind and the knowledge she had yet again proven herself indispensable. That they would be alright.
“Franziska!” Maya called. She halted in place.
“Hey,” The girl bounded closer, too energetic for someone in her situation. Franziska could respect her for that. “Where do you think you’re going, sneaking off like that? Let’s all get some lámen! Nick’s treat.”
Of course. She was the only thing lacking to make this satisfying conclusion a perfect one.