Means to an End [Ace Attorney; Miles and Phoenix-centric, 1/3]

[xtwilightzx]

Title: Means to an End
Fandom: Ace Attorney
Character/Pairings: Focuses on Miles and Phoenix; appearances of Kristoph, Kay, Badd, Franziska, Vera, Trucy; numerous others cameo-ing or mentioned in passing. Pre-relationship, if anything.
Word Count: 9,861 for this chapter; 24,836 in total
Warnings: PG, for some violence.
Summary: “No need to be so uptight, Edgeworth.” The hood of the cloak hides most of Wright's features from Miles' trained eye, but there is no mistaking that tone of voice, so very different from before - deadly calm with just the barest hint of dark amusement. “After all, it's an easy job. Just get the information out of the target and walk away.” [Undercover Agent AU]
Status: Completed

Chapter Links: [ Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3 | Master Post ]

Author's Notes: Written for the pw_bigbang community, with much love to my very patient artists and mixer ♥. Please do check out their works: cannedebonbon's art; nenadi's art and shychloe's fanmix.

It's raining, cold wet raindrops falling on them in an unending stream. They'd be soaked, if it hadn't been for Wright's foresight in bundling them into long waterproof cloaks.

Miles almost wants to ask Wright how he knew about the rain, or why cloaks of all things, but he holds his tongue. After all, the one predictable thing about Wright is that his actions can rarely be predicted or explained.

Besides, a part of Miles already knows the excuses Wright will give. Wright just knew about stormy weather approaching despite the cloudless blue skies gracing their day just an hour prior, and umbrellas are highly impractical in their line of work.

Miles considers that thought and concedes to the last point. Cloaks might be conspicuous, but considering what they do for a living, Miles hardly thinks that matters.

"Beautiful weather," Wright says, his voice pitched low to carry over the pouring rain. Miles lets him talk. Wright goes in and out of moods, and it seems he’s in the mood to be chatty today. "Pretty poetic for what we're doing-" Wright throws a look over his shoulder and Miles meets his gaze right on. "-don't you think, Miles?"

The invocation of his given name makes Miles want to twitch, but he masters the reflex with barely a thought and channels that annoyance into a rebuttal. "I can't comment. I'm just here to watch your back, after all."

"Fair enough." Wright smiles at him, but it's the type of grin that seems full of substance until one pulls back and looks beyond the expression, just an empty twist of the face.

Miles tucks his hands further into the folds of his cloak, pulling at it harder than he normally would. The swirling feel of fabric hampers his movements and more importantly, blocking easy reach of his two primary guns, one strapped under one arm, the other tucked at the small of his back. The entire set up forces him to rely on the slim dagger tucked up the length of his forearm, but at least he wouldn’t have to grapple with his and Wright’s umbrellas when they wore cloaks. Wright, as far as he knows, carries no weapons - in fact, Miles has never seen Wright in a combative situation, whether by luck or choice. Miles suspects the latter; Wright, after all, is the organization's pet interrogator. No one, save Gavin perhaps, has ever witnessed Wright in his element.

Wright is a wild card in the upper echelon of Kristoph Gavin's highly secretive revolutionary organization. Miles couldn't afford to trust anyone, but Wright's primary talent is prompting others to talk, to open up, to trust, and that Miles finds the most dangerous of all, perhaps even more so than Gavin.

That cliché - keep your friends close, and your enemies even closer.

Miles couldn’t decide which category Wright fell under, and so he keeps the man closest of all.

I suppose they become clichés for a reason.

Miles blows out a quiet breath, condensation feathering out before his face, and keeps his step just a barest half pace behind Wright, holding the position even as Wright ducks into the twists of the alleyways and stops at one of the dark, nondescript doors - one of their smaller bases.

"No need to be so uptight, Edgeworth." The hood of the cloak and the rain hides most of Wright's features from Miles' trained eye, but there is no mistaking that tone of voice, so very different from before - deadly calm with just the barest hint of dark amusement. "After all, it's an easy job. Just get the information out of the target and walk away."

The target. Miles can't help the single glance he makes towards the front of the building, but there are no hanging signs, no characterizing objects sitting innocently outside the door to indicate that within sat a man who had been kidnapped and brought here - the man they have come to visit, the personal assistant and secretary of one of Los Angeles' most influential politicians. He might have a significant other, a girlfriend perhaps, maybe even a child. He might enjoy tea on a Sunday morning or a simple scotch after a long day's work. He might twist truth and facts for the betterment of his employer, but as far as Miles knows, the assistant’s only real "crime" is working for a man Gavin wants dead.

The hardest part about being an undercover agent, Miles thinks, is having to become the very kind of person he hated.

“Situations like these are always so straightforward in theory,” he says aloud. “It’s a shame that reality is not quite so accommodating.” The words come out sardonic. The rain patters to the ground around them but it’s dryer under the low awning, a tiny quiet space, but it’s easy to gaze steadily at Wright. Miles could play the cold and disdainful facade well; it’s always been in his nature, after all.

A pity that protective persona didn’t quite work on Wright.

Wright throws his hood back, pausing on the doorstep. His eyes, when he looks back and catches Miles’ gaze, are laughing - whether in teasing jest or condescending amusement, Miles couldn’t tell. “Really, Edgeworth. Relax. No one’s scheduled to die tonight.”

Easy for you to say. Miles unhooks his cloak and steps forward, rapping smartly on the door. The gun under his shoulder is a familiar weight, now within clear reach. You’re not the one who pulls the trigger.

*

It’s twenty-three minutes later when Miles hears the unmistakable crack of a gunshot.

Miles is out of main room and into the corridor before the echo dies away, gun already in hand, throwing a sharp bark of an order at the other men to stand down and get out of the way. It's an impossible maze of walkways and unmarked doors, but years and years of self-imposed perfectionism and grueling practice has honed his instincts and his memory, and his previous visit three months prior allows him to sketch a mental map of the building and deduce the most likely spot for an interrogation room.

His deduction is slightly off; he swings around a corner and almost past an ajar door, but catches a glimpse of Wright, standing there calm and cool as he pleased, his distinct spiky hair barely worse for the wear for their time under the cloak’s hood. Miles ducks into the room, gun up and leading his entrance.

"Edgeworth." Wright's eyes are oddly bright under the swinging lamp hanging from the ceiling, and Miles takes the barest moment to glance at their surroundings, a library room with simple wooden bookshelves and a sleek study table at the center of it - a room that felt badly at odds with the stark bareness of the rest of the building.

Miles almost has to twist his head to see the bullet hole on the wall, and follows its supposed trajectory past Wright to the unconscious body half crumpled out of the chair. At the back of his mind, behind the part of him that is hyper-alert and assessing and analyzing their surroundings, Miles wonders what this situation says about Wright, who would pick such a spot for an interrogation and yet could leave an armed man unconscious.

Miles puts the thoughts out of his mind and strides up to push the man upright, using the muzzle of his gun to flick the man's limbs aside to check for injuries. Wright chuckles lightly behind him and the sound of it rankles.

"He had a gun." Miles says, the glint of light reflecting off the tiny pistol on the floor speaking for itself, and leans back to set the barrel of his semi-automatic to the assistant’s stomach. A single non-lethal shot, and they’ll dump the body on the border of two gang’s territories, letting man bleed to death on some lonely street corner. An accidental casualty in a gang fight. Caught in the crossfire. Very tragic.

It isn’t hard, to think in terms of blood and death. Pick an end result and simply work backwards, building the story, the strategies behind the story. He’s been trained a prosecutor, and he knows how to weave a dozen scenarios from a handful of evidence. It’s not very different at all.

Miles smiles a little, morbidly amused at how adaptive humans can be, and at how the mind wanders around the subject it least wants to confront.

Still, it’s a mission. Miles looks down at the secretary’s dark head for a moment, then leans over, to use the man’s pistol instead.

"We're done here." Wright says, and Miles’ head snaps back.

His voice is surprisingly steady. "Let me expound on what I believe you just said. You actually plan to leave this man alive, even though he has seen your face.”

Wright waves a hand flippantly at him. “I told you, didn’t I? No one’s scheduled to die tonight.”

Miles narrows his eyes. It’s a little too far along their partnership for tests, but Miles won’t bet his cover for it. He presses his gun decisively against the man's temple. "Don't tempt me, Wright. My job is to clean up after your interrogations, to watch your back, and most importantly, to neutralize anyone who poses a threat to Gavin's plans. I hardly care if you think otherwise; I will not bend the rules simply because of your inexplicable flights of fancy."

“You know, one day you’ll snap like a twig - you’re always so tense.” Wright actually has the gall to lean one hip against the table, almost relaxed. "Call it a flight of logic, then. You were always a man of logic, Edgeworth. Do you believe killing him," Wright nods to the secretary, "is truly the best course of action?"

Miles steps around their victim, circling the chair, sweeping his gun up and pushing the man’s head back. The man’s skull thumps dully against the heavy wood of the chair’s back; his hazy eyes under half-opened eyelids are a dusky grey. Miles is stalling for time, but he knows a challenge when he sees it, and he hardly trusts Wright's motives enough to throw himself headlong into it. That’s one of the problems with Wright; Miles simply couldn't figure him out, and these conversations - hidden hooks within questions, verbal battles masquerading as a debates - he often has to play by ear.

It’s an exponential round of question, answer and parry. Too many possibilities and motives and only minutes to attempt to figure them out, in the very rare moments when Wright openly invites these types of conversations, deadly serious behind the teasing.

"If you're asking my expert opinion... then no, I do not believe we should kill him."

Wright's eyes flash, and the smile has a little more substance to it this time. "You think so?"

"This is a man who has the foresight and skill to carry a gun with him. And hides it well enough to conceal it from our men's search."

"There's always a chance," Wright mutters, "that our men are simply incompetent at their job."

Miles gestures to their captive’s left hand, dangling limply over the chair's handles. "He practices on a regular basis, often enough to have gun calluses. He's no simple secretary and assistant, but his public position beside Ollivier, our politician, also suggests he isn't merely an undercover bodyguard either. There are more layers to this story."

"Agreed." Wright leans on the table, leaning forward so he can study the slumped assistant. "The simple truth is often the hardest to see. Many tend to go for the most conspicuous thing and build their expectations around that. But I suppose that's how you got this far."

Miles takes the half-compliment and half-hook in silence. "And then there is the very obvious flaw inherent in disposing of this man. We'd only spook Ollivier. A murder is powerful statement. It's not the time to close the trap yet." He arches an eyebrow at Wright and speaks the last sentence with slight emphasis, a fishing question of his own. "I think so, at least with the information that’s at my disposal."

Wright chuckles, and Miles knows the round is over. It's never a question of who wins or who loses; simply how much he can extract from Wright, and how little he can reveal about his person.

“You're very good at this, aren't you, Edgeworth? We’ll need him later. That's indisputable. The men here can’t question our methods. And I’ll deal with Kristoph, if he… inquires.”

"He'll inquire."

"He will. He always does, even the simplest little thing. Kristoph pays attention to finesse and detail. They matter the most to him." Wright's smile goes a shade darker, and he pushes himself away from the table with a movement strong enough to scrap the furniture forward so it crunches against the chair's arms, caging the unconscious secretary into his seat. "But he'll listen to me. Whether he'd go with what I say, though, is another issue."

Miles nods and quietly files that thought away to piece over and dissect in the security and privacy of his room. He folds a sleeve over his fingers and goes back to pick up the tiny pistol. "Well then. I suppose I'll do the dirty work."

Wright makes a quiet sound of inquiry in his throat. "What are you planning?"

The question is so direct and free of undercurrents that Miles actually glances at Wright, just to check if Wright’s body language and expression matches the candidness of his question. "No one’s supposed to die tonight, correct? I'm not going to kill him, Wright.”

Wright nods, his eyes falling away and then drifting back to Miles’ face, his expression back into that placid neutrality, the previous intensity hidden away. “Okay.”

“The real question is what you want to do about him knowing your face."

"I'll handle that." Wright has ducked through the door now, watching Miles through the frame. He makes a show of digging through his pockets, and Miles sighs quietly in exasperation when Wright pulls out a worn blue beanie. "He'll hardly recognize me. And if he does, they won't find me."

"You do that," Miles says dryly. “It’s your life that’s at stake.”

Wright chuckles. “And it’s your job to protect that life, my friend.”

Miles merely looks at him for a long moment and then turns his back on Wright, sliding his weapon away and taking the secretary’s pistol apart into dozens of ineffectual bits before focusing his attention to their captive. He'll do the job personally; it's the only way to ensure the grey-eyed assistant survives. Violence is what drives this group of Gavin’s underlings - if they could even be called that, since Gavin hardly considers them men. In Gavin’s eyes, they are merely goons to manipulate and throw away.

Miles knows he’s ranked substantially higher in Gavin’s eyes, and he plans to keep it that way.

“How long do you need for clean up?” Wright asks.

When Miles glances over his shoulder, Wright has the blue beanie pulled over his head, burying his hair and all. He doesn’t ask for any details, as if trusting Miles to do the job properly, to take the appropriate steps to ensure no one would come looking for a spiky-haired, blue-eyed young man for retribution. Miles wouldn’t be so trusting, if he was in Wright’s shoes. But for all his suspicions about the man, Miles does trust Wright’s word, if not his motives.

He drops the last of the unassembled hand gun onto a thin cloth, then rolls the entire thing up into a bundle he hands to Wright.

No one died tonight, after all.

“Two hours,” Miles says.

Wright buries his hands into his hoodie pocket. “The bar in two hours, then.”

Miles nods once, then turns back to the assistant. He waits for the click of the closing door before he throws his first punch.

------

Miles hadn’t recognized Wright because of that ridiculous beanie, the first time they met in Gavin’s office over a year ago.

Kristoph Gavin was a charismatic man, Miles could not deny. He dressed well, cuff links and crisp starched sleeves and collars speaking plenty, and he held himself like an aristocrat.

"Miles Edgeworth. It's a pleasure to finally meet you."

There was just a little lilt of accent in his voice and Miles recognized it - Germanic roots. Gavin smiled at him and his next words, spoken impeccable German, hammered home just how careful Miles had to be with his expressions.

"Yes, I heard you moved shortly after your father's death, learning the ways of the law under Manfred von Karma's tutelage, becoming his protégé… becoming his target and would-be victim. That was quite a twist, wasn't it?"

Miles didn't bother forcing a smile; Gavin was smiling enough for both of them, and they both knew he would be faking it. "Indeed. Germany had welcomed me, but it was time for me to return to my home country and carry out my father's legacy."

Gavin tented his fingers. "And the pursuit of that legacy led you to me? I must be mistaken - I thought your father was a defense attorney."

Miles smiled, and meant it this time. "The law, as my father's death demonstrated, does not fulfill its duty. Seven long years dragged by before the perpetrator of his murder was revealed, and that by von Karm's own actions, not the police force's efforts. I cannot fight my father's cause, but I can strike down the corrupt and power-thirsty who believe they are untouchable."

He strode daringly forward to stand before Gavin's desk, a position that left him just shy of towering over the seated man. "I hoped by coming to you, Gavin, that we could reach a mutually beneficial agreement. I do not know your agenda, but my skills are yours to deploy. And in return, I hope you would help me strike at my most desired target... once I have proven myself, of course."

Gavin tipped his head slightly and light glinted off his glasses, hiding his gaze. There was something about Gavin that made every danger sense Miles possessed flair up. It wasn't the smile, or his eyes, or even the way he stood - it was all of that together with a sharp air of danger, like killing mist encroaching and enveloping a forest in its deadly grip. Miles hadn't looked at anything else in the room the moment he stepped in, deducing immediately that Gavin was too proud and too damn self-assured to keep guards, and that was his first mistake.

Gavin made a sudden movement, his eyes flashing back into sight, but his smile was directed past Miles.

"So, this is the new asset you've been talking about."

Miles turned slowly, and there stood a man with piercing blue eyes under worn blue beanie, staring at him. He looked badly out of place in Gavin's perfect and arranged office, but his self-deprecating grin and utter air of disregard for Gavin spoke volumes.

"You were supposed to be here an hour ago," Gavin said, his words now in English and pitched to carry.

"And you were supposed to tell me who the newest candidate you’d try to foist off as my partner would be, but you didn't, and so we're all here now, in our present situation." The man wearing the beanie skulked into Gavin's office, and the grin he shot at Miles was off. "Hey, Miles. Fancy meeting you here."

The use of his given name and the intimate, knowing tone threw Miles off, badly, and he had to choke down the instinct to explode into action. All it would take was a flick and he could send the thin blade up his sleeve across the room, but-

But. He had better control than that, and shouldn’t be overreacting so much.

Miles swallowed once, then said in his calmest, coldest voice. "Do I know you?"

The man chuckled and the sound echoed oddly off the walls. He reached up and pulled off the beanie, then shook his head out, the spiked hair falling back into place.

Miles stared.

"Come on, Miles. It hasn't been that long, has it? Or perhaps it has... I haven't heard from you in years. We stopped with the letters when we got into high school, didn't we?"

"Wright," Miles bit out, his mind whirling, feeling Gavin's eyes on his back like a physical touch. His right hand twitched towards his left elbow, an old habit of anxiety from his childhood, and he turned the movement into a sidestep that allowed him to see both Gavin and Wright in his field of sight.

"What a coincidence. It seems like you two know each other." Gavin's voice went light and airy, but Wright broke off eye contact and turned his attention to the man instead. "Edgeworth and I were just talking about his... initiation into our organization. What do you think, Wright?"

Wright gave a dismissing flip of his hand, returning his gaze to Miles, and Miles stared back, trying to reconcile the memory of his nine-year-old best friend and the idealistic tone of voice in the letters Wright had continued sending him until they were in high school, when von Karma's involvement in Miles' father's death blew open. Miles hadn't written or spoken to anyone from his old life back in America since.

"I didn't think you'd be the type to end up in our line of work," Wright said conversationally.

"Neither do you," Miles snapped back, and that made Wright laugh.

"I suppose a decade-old memory can't live up to reality. So what brings you here, Miles?" Wright scrunched one hand through his hair spikes, then tipped his head to meet Miles' gaze. His eyes were very blue. "Money, revenge, or the taste for violence?"
Miles straightened. "Justice."

Gavin laughed quietly behind his seat, like a man enjoying a secret, but Wright went silent, his expression thoughtful. "Justice is such an ambiguous word. Whose brand of justice do you advocate?"

Miles breathed, once, twice, fighting an odd compulsion to say too much. "My own," the words slipped out, and then Miles bit down hard on his lip, narrowing his eyes at Wright. "Just what my definition of justice might be is none of your business. Von Karma, despite his deeds, has taught me well. I know how to manipulate evidence, how to twist truths and lies alike, and more importantly, I know how to turn that on others. And I have the physical skills to back that all up. Like you so flippantly said earlier," Miles snapped the words out like the crack of a whip, "I am an asset."

Wright held his gaze, then shook his head once, breaking the contact.

"You've changed, Miles, but that stubborn side of you hasn't." His mouth slipped back into the grin Miles would soon come to recognize as his game face. "I’ll take him on as my partner, Kristoph. I think we'll work well together."

The look of satisfaction on Gavin's face twisted, and then he's smiling, his voice gentle and silky. "Are you sure, Wright? You didn’t get a chance to hear what Edgeworth said to me earlier. Perhaps you two would like to catch up elsewhere."

"No, Kristoph. I was watching earlier, and I'm sure. We can catch up when we're on a mission. There will be plenty of time to talk then."

The undercurrents in their conversation pushed and pulled at Miles; he could ride the currents and see where they took him, or he could wrest control of the tides and fight. He slammed one hand onto Kristoph’s desk, the impact toppling over the row of snuff bottles arranged artfully on a raised tray.

"My apologies, gentlemen, for so rudely interrupting,” Miles said into the ringing silence, keeping the barest amount of deference in his tone of voice. “But I think that would be fine."

Gavin and Wright turned towards him, Wright's face going blank, Gavin's smile sharpening. Miles flicked his bangs out of his face and stared back at both of them with equal force. "A partnership would align me with your agenda far faster than if I worked alone," Miles added.

"Very well, then," Gavin said after a moment’s silence, tapping his fingers against his desk, quiet staccato noises. Gavin's nails were painted, a delicate lavender that didn’t seem the least bit feminine or ridiculous on the man. Like his glasses, Gavin wore the polish not as armor, but as a weapon."Welcome to the team, Edgeworth. Wright will show you the ropes, I'm sure. I do believe this will be a most satisfying partnership for all of us involved."

Miles inclined his head. "I'm honoured."

"Good. Now, if you'll both excuse me, I’m sure you have much to do in the fading hours of the day."

They both knew a dismissal when they heard one, and Miles followed Wright out, the door slamming shut behind them. They stood there in awkward silence in the scant privacy of the corridor, Wright’s hands in his hoodie and his hair covered once again with the beanie, and for the first time since he first threw himself into this undercover mission, Miles found himself at a loss for words.

Wright shrugged, then finally tipped him a small smile. “Nice seeing you again, Miles.”

“… I don’t know if I can say the same, Wright.” Miles went with brutal honesty, his instincts still on high alert after the undercurrent of tug-and-war in the office. He paused, considering. “But I would say this meeting is opportune.”

“That’s interesting.”

“I could say the same of you.” Miles couldn’t help shooting back.

“Why are you here?”

It’s the third time someone had asked him that question today. “It’s a means to an end.”

Wright chuckled. “I’ll see you tomorrow, Miles. Don’t be late.”

“I won’t,” Miles said.

------

Miles reaches the bar just before his promised two hours are up. He meets Wright’s eyes from across the room, Wright extricating himself from the shadowy alcoves and their informants there, and approaches the bar, falling into step beside Miles along the way.

The bartender brings him his usual red wine with nothing under its stand, and Miles relaxes slightly, rolling his shoulders once to loosen tense muscles. The people working behind the counter know nothing about his identity, but like all bars with brushings with the underworld, the staff here know to take and give secrets. To them, Miles’ tab is always picked up by someone else, and if that someone chooses to order Miles a scotch or a Cosmopolitan or whatever other drink on the menu for his next visit, they simply carry out the request and add a premium to the tab. But if there is no special order, Miles only ever takes red wine, and he knows it means that nothing is amiss back at home.

His knuckles sting, raw from repeated impact. He’ll have to wrap them later, and remember to wear gloves for next time.

Miles swirls the wine idly in his glass, breathing and clearing his mind of dark lingering thoughts, and watches as Wright asked the bartender for grape juice. The brew that comes back in a pretty crystal glass has a hue lighter than Miles’ own drink. He intercepts the glass, takes a breath, and smells only light sweetness, not the sharp bite of alcohol. Miles arches an eyebrow at Wright as he hands the drink over.

“A little too careful of yourself, aren’t you?” Miles tilts his glass towards the companion one in Wright’s hand. “You can afford to let loose, Wright. We’re partners, after all… unless you think my senses would be dulled after a single glass of wine?”

Wright stuffs one hand into the pocket of his hoodie and lifts his glass in salute with the other. “I am actually quite reassured by your skills, Miles. But I don’t really like the taste of alcohol, that’s all. Nothing more than that.”

“And yet you order grape juice, of all non-alcoholic beverages,” Miles tests, and is oddly satisfied when Wright smiles one of his empty grins instead of dodging the not-quite-question.

“People are strange when it comes to appearances. I like grape as much as any other fruit, and if it gives me the illusion of fitting in a bar, why not choose it? It’s a means to an end. Only the bartender and you would know better.”

I have you, Miles thinks, because those words, the inflection on the way Wright had said “means to an end” - they are an echo of Miles’ own response to Wright’s question, once. Wright had always worked on his own schedule and agenda, and if they happened to diverge from Gavin’s chosen one, well, so far it hasn’t gotten Wright in trouble. Miles knows he’s one of the very few to suspect so, and it’s the first time he heard such an open indication from the man himself. Wright is too good of an actor to let something like that slip unintentionally.

Miles leans back against the counter, letting the bar chair take his weigh, and allows his nonchalant mask drop just a little; he meets Wright’s gaze right on, and watches Wright stare back, steady.

“Here’s a sparkling water because I know you like that after a wine, Mr. Edgeworth,” a light, familiar voice cuts him off, and the moment shatters. Surprise flickers across Wright’s face, and Miles twists on his seat to stare into Kay Faraday’s grin. “On the house.”

Miles’ heart gives an odd, painful thump in his chest, and he’s sitting upright, adrenaline and tightly leashed tension humming under his skin because it’s Kay, little Kay just barely out of high school and standing in the one of the main rendezvous points for the underworld, and because something must have gone horribly wrong for Tyrell Badd to even think of sending Kay here.

Kay might have come anyway if she thought she could help him, authorization or approval thoroughly disregarded, but only Badd knew his current location.

“My dear.” Miles’ voice comes out odd on the rarely voiced endearment, because he couldn’t reveal her name, not in front of Wright. He has to take a subtle breath to clear the buzz at the back of his mind. “I wasn’t expecting you.”

“Of course you didn’t,” Kay agrees gamely, and there is the barest undertone of anxiety in the gaze she carefully hides from Wright with her bangs. She quirks a tiny smile at Miles, and then turns her grin on Wright, the key ornament in her hair catching in the bar lights. “Sorry to barge in on you two like that when you’re in the middle of a conversation, but I just had to talk to Mr. Edgeworth, you know? I hope you don’t mind.”

“Not, of course not.” Wright’s usual grin is back on his face. “And who is this, Miles? Not a lot of people around here would call you ‘Mr. Edgeworth.’”

Wright’s eyes are too bright again and despite being so used to the sight, this time Miles wants to grab him by the throat of his hoodie, throw him up against a wall so he can grab Kay and run, subtlety be damned. This is why Miles prefers to work alone, all the variables under his direct control but now he doesn’t know how Kay would fair against Wright, hates to admit that he doesn’t know how she would fare in a potentially lethal direct confrontation when he knows her so well, as a normal if quirky girl.

He isn’t going to try covering for Kay either, not when he lacks the details, especially when he can’t tell if Wright is asking as Gavin’s interrogator or for his own sadistic pleasure. It’ll only encourage Wright, Wright possessing a single-mindness when he locks onto a lead, anything that sparks his interest, and Miles hasn’t seen Wright with this level of curious intensity in a long time.

He catches and holds Kay’s eyes. Show no weakness. “Perhaps the lady in question would like to answer herself.”

Kay stares, seemingly caught off guard, before her expression falls, a grin hiding under the pout. “Hey, no fair! I don’t know anything about him. Who’s your friend?”

Miles edges Wright a look. “He’s my partner.” It’s as true as any other statement Miles could have made.

“… partners?” Kay tips her head one way then another, studying Wright, his too bright blue eyes under that out of place beanie, the hoodie and the half slouched posture. “Like, in a team?”

“Something like that,” Wright agrees. “And you are?”

Kay fidgets, but from the way she flips her hair over one shoulder, Miles knows it’s deliberate. He hadn’t thought about it then, but he’s glad she followed him on some his earlier practice missions, when he first returned from Germany and needed to quickly assimilate his senses and expectations to an American context. She had mimicked and observed him the entire time, and evidently picked up some of the skills she’s displaying now. The rest of it, he has to admit, is plain Faraday flair.

“Mr. Edgeworth got me out of a really… crazy kind of situation, a long time ago,” Kay says. “And he doesn’t exactly drop by that often. I hardly see him even when we’re now in the same city, and I miss him sometimes. You should know, if he’s your partner. He’s a workaholic.”

“That, he definitely can be.” But Wright’s eyes have sharpened. “But a social visit took you all the way here?”

“Yeah, kind of.”

“Not exactly the safest place for a young woman like you.” The look Wright throws Miles’ way is indecipherable.

“She goes where she wishes,” Miles says to that look. “I trust her to take care of herself.”

Kay laughs and plants one fist on her waist, self-assurance in her every move. “I can take care of myself. I don’t forget to take meals the way Mr. Edgeworth does when he’ in the middle of some important whatever.”

“I’m sure you’re very capable.” Wright slants Miles a sideway look. “But you must be important to her, Miles, for a girl to come all the way over to a bar to see you so late at night. She can’t just be a normal girl.”

Miles grimaces slightly. To anyone else, Wright’s question sounded innocuous, the jibes of a good friend prying about a lady friend they hadn’t seen before. Miles knows better.

Kay coughs, and makes a show of looking around her surroundings when Wright turns back to her. “Okay, I’ll tell you, because you’re obviously fishing,” she says, leaning conspiratorially towards Wright.” I’m a thief.”

Wright’s eyes flicker towards Miles once again, and Miles holds a hand out and shakes his head, dissolving all association with Kay’s mad-hatter ways. But he is oddly relieved that Kay chose that route, because as unbelievable as it sounds, it’s the truth.

“You’re a thief,” Wright repeats, his tone conveying the barest hint of a doubt.

“You know the Yatagarasu? They stole a forged painting two months ago. According to the news story, the painting was key evidence in a murder trial and was due to be auctioned off in a high-profile private bidding. Yatagarasu took the painting before the perpetrator could bid and win it. Now that’s a thief to look up to. Lots of thieves aspire to be her.”

“Her… I see.”

“Mmm-hmm. So a girl’s got to be careful of what she says.” Kay holds on finger lightly to her lips and winks. “If I’m not careful, the Yatagarasu could steal the words right out of my mouth!”

Miles sets his wine glass done lightly, deliberately, and the sharp clink of glass is enough pull Wright’s attention away, his eyes flicking away from Kay. “And we wouldn’t want that to happen,” Miles says, and shoots Wright a warning glare.

The man blinks, and the usual grin slips back on his face, but at least his eyes are back to being merely blue, losing their sharp intensity, and for now, Miles will take that, twisting his wrists to loosen some of the tension there, fits his hand back to the wine glass, back to nonchalance.

“My dear,” he says to Kay, “it’s all well and good that you’ve decide to reveal your line of work to my partner, but this is hardly the safest place to do so.” He taps pointedly on the bar. “Tables have ears.”

Kay twirls one of her earrings with her fingers. “Gotcha,” she says quietly, then tilts her head towards Wright. “You’re really his partner?”

“That hasn’t changed in the past fifteen minutes,” Wright says, and Miles gives Kay a tiny nod.

“Well, I’m a thief and sometimes I get to pick up some good stuff. I don’t really condone violence, but… if it will help Mr. Edgeworth and keep him safe, I can do it. I help with some of his weapons. So it’s a social visit and a delivery all rolled up together.” Kay drops under the counter and comes up with a neatly wrapped bundle in wax paper, tied together in a spider web of twine like a lunch package gone insane. “I just got it, and it couldn’t really wait. I can’t get you anything for a really long while. I’m not going to be able to see you after this.”

Miles is careful not to let their fingers brush when he takes the package from her, but Kay’s eyes are wide behind her shielding bangs as she moves from under the bright bar lights into the shadows between the spotlights. Something is shattering behind her happy façade, worry and fear clear in her almost desperate gaze before she schools her expression with a sternness that almost makes Miles wince. “I’m leaving the city,” Kay says briskly, stepping back, the lights sparkling off her hair ornaments and simple jewelry, speaking a little too loudly to cover her emotions. “For business,” she adds, glancing at Wright for the last sentence, drawing the man’s attention back to her.

Miles closes his eyes, hearing nuances in her voice, her words weighing on him like heavy, choking water. He’s painfully aware of his own heart beat in his chest, and that traitorous voice at the back of his mind wonders how long it would continue to beat, how long Miles has to live, if Kay with her eternal optimism could look like that. But the momentary panic subsides quickly, filed away to a corner of his mind to deal with later, and Miles opens his eyes, centering himself back into the conversation in time to hear Wright’s response.

“Business trips are quite a pain,” Wright agrees.

The three of them sit there in silence until Miles clears his throat pointedly. “Wright. Go away,” he says in a tone that just dares Wright to disagree. He tosses Kay’s package at Wright; Badd knew better than to put anything incriminating in there, and it’ll appease Wright’s sleuthing habits to go through it long enough for Miles to make his farewell to Kay. “Can’t you tell when a lady wishes to speak to a friend in private?”

Wright has the audacity to chuckle at him. He drains the rest of his grape juice, then waves the package. “A pleasure to meet you,” he says to Kay, and directs the rest to Miles. “I’ll be outside. Don’t take too long. We need to check in.”

Those simple words catch at Miles for a moment, threatening to untwist the fragile calm he had wrapped around himself. “Wright,” Miles says, and wonders if he had meant that to come out as Wright’s name or as an agreement.

Wright looks at him for a moment, then turns and brushes a fleet-quick kiss on Kay’s cheek, who squeaks and tips backwards, staring at Wright in surprise. “I won’t kiss and tell,” Wright tells her. “Your little secret - that stays with me.”

But he catches Miles’ gaze for the last of that sentence, and Miles feels something within him settle, lulled back to numbed steadiness. He nods once and doesn’t watch Wright’s departure.

Kay follows Wright’s movements right up to his exit out the front entrance, her face scrunched slightly in confusion, then finally notices Miles watching her. She looks uncertain for a moment, and then with a flash of what Miles recognizes as steeling determination, she vaults up and over the bar counter, landing on Wright’s vacated seat. The leftover wine in Miles’ glass swirls and there are some whistles from the corners of the bar, but Miles ignores them as Kay leans forward and curls into his chest, her hands hooking almost painfully around his neck.

“Are you all right?” Miles asks instead of the question he really wants the answer to, and Kay hears all of it and for a second her hold on his neck and shoulders almost becomes a death grip.

She pitches her voice high, for the benefit of their audience. “I’m going to miss you, that’s all.”

Miles doesn’t say anything and merely strokes at her hair. He can feel her heart thudding and wonders what kind of person he’s become, for him to be so calm and collected in face of so much that has seemed to have gone wrong.

“Please be careful,” she mutters into his shoulder, and she clings to his jacket a little too tightly. Miles simply holds her in for another moment, and then lets go. Kay slides her arms away and reaches up to straighten his tie. The little note she folds into his collar feels rough against his skin. She gives him a wobbly smile. “I… really gotta go now.”

“You should,” Miles agrees quietly - it’s been more than twenty minutes since Kay first set the glass of sparkling water in front of Miles, and that’s pushing the boundaries of what’s safe for Kay. It’s already nineteen minutes too long for Miles’ own peace of mind. “Do you have a safe way home?”

Kay’s eyes drift through the bar, as if she’s making a curious survey of the décor. “Yeah. I’m good. I’ve got an escort.”

“Good. That’s all I need to know.”

Kay’s eyes widen and she clutches hard at her shirt, as if to stop herself from clutching at Miles. She ducks her head slightly and the ponytailed top of her head quivers, but when she looks up at Miles again, her eyes are tear-free and almost angry.

“Be safe, Kay,” Miles says.

Kay brushes her fingers against his knee as she slips by. She walks with no hesitation in her step, nor does she turn back. She heads unerringly for the side exit and with a final swish of her ponytail, disappears.

She’s a mischievous little thief, after all, with all the wit and agility and luck of one.

Miles tells himself that once before leaving to meet Wright, the little note in his collar chafing painfully against his skin.

------

There’s something about the quality of light in the room always reminds Miles of the two months he spent at one of the precinct’s safe houses, waiting for the paperwork and the authorization to go through, en-route from the job he resigned from in Germany to his undercover mission.

It’s an empty room, beyond the furniture that came with it. A bed, a small bedside cabinet, a wardrobe. The wide mahogany desk that was both a present and a warning. Gavin had arranged to have the wide mahogany writing desk moved to his quarters two weeks after Miles' official acceptance into the group. Some others had looked at him in shocked jealousy; Miles only felt the hair at the back of his neck rise, his skin crawling with tension.

Now, every time he sits at the desk, Miles remembers Gavin's eyes, sharp and piercing behind his glasses.

He didn’t have a chance to take a look at Kay’s note that night. He had removed it the moment he was alone, in a washroom in another hideout he and Wright had been called to on their way back to base, but he wouldn’t risk reading it in anywhere but the scant security of his own room.

The room is dim when he finally gets back at sunset and Miles leaves it that way, leaves the curtains drawn and letting shadows pool in the corners. The note Kay left him is a worn little thing, barely a scrap bearing a series of numerals and numbers. If anyone high up enough in Gavin’s organization to know who he is saw and noticed, Miles will reply that it’s a serial number of his own creation to mark his numerous sidearms, and he'd show them the markings he'd etch onto the shining barrels of his gun or the soft leather handles of his favorite hunting knife. They'd believe him; Miles hid an unholy amount of weapons on his body, and if anyone ever learned anything about Miles, it’s how meticulous he is about them.

He drops Kay’s package on his bed - a pair of blades with matching sheaths and a small satchel of tea leaves, carefully sealed- then opens the note. He deciphers the code a glance, the numbers and letters like a dearly beloved second language, and has to slam one hand on the desk to steady himself.

The code itself is a sparse, undetailed message, but Miles could fill in the gaps himself.

Four other agents have been discovered and killed.

Code black. The neutralization of the operation is of utmost importance. The primary mission is now to shut down the operation, or to take out the operation's head.

Lone Wolf Running. No further backup will be provided. All restrictions lifted. Use all means necessary.

Kay’s words from the night before come back in startling clarity.

He’s being cut loose.

He glances at the note just once to confirm the fifteen character long code he's already memorized, than pulls a lighter from his pocket. The strike and hiss of flint and lighter fluid is loud in the room, and the tiny flame throws long shadows into Miles' eyes. He barely has to touch the note to the flame before it lights up, the fire eating through the note in scant seconds, leaving only white ash and the acrid scent of burnt parchment in the air. Miles grounds the remnants between his fingers, and they come away with a smudge of white.

He's strangely calm, strangely... numb about it all. Maybe he's really getting into the role of it, to be so unfeeling.

Three thumps resound from his door, followed by three quick, light ones, like someone knocking with their fingers instead of their knuckles, and part of Miles resents the interruption, the denied chance of having a private moment to absorb the news, while the rest of him grows calm and collected, all business again.

Miles flicks the dead bolt on the door, the jump of the lock echoing around his room, and settles back into his chair, rubbing his fingers idly. His knuckles sting from the interrogation mission the night before. He had forgotten to wrap them when he got back.

"Miles," a voice says through the heavy barrier, and then the door swings open, eerily silent.
Miles has thought about asking Wright how he always managed to open that door so very quietly, whether it was a technique - pressure in the right places, a certain speed perhaps - or sheer luck. It always groaned just the softest when Miles opened his door. Paranoia and a healthy dose of concern for his wellbeing makes Miles wary at the traps implied in that creaking door. Is it simply an old, unoiled hinge, or a subtle alarm for someone watching his movements?

But Miles always forgets the question when the door finishes its swing to reveal Wright.

"What, another mission already?" he asks to buy himself a few moments, and makes no move towards his kit on that bedamned table.

He expects Wright to grin at him or jest about Miles holing himself away in his room instead of relaxing, but Wright is quiet, his hands buried deep in the pockets of his hoodie. Miles goes still himself, his thoughts blanking out for a moment before his mind jump-starts to quiet action, now watchful and considering.

“What is it, Wright.”

He watches Wright’s eyes. Wright doesn’t lie, but he’s visibly searching for words to bend the truth this time. What he needed to say would be ugly, no matter how much he prettified his words.

“An eradication. The entire East cell,” Wright finally says, and Miles starts.

“We’re taking out our own?” At Wright’s continued silence, Miles presses on. “That’s our entire operation out East, and they’re useful people, not-” He cuts himself off, slightly sickened at himself. Not like those goons back at the safe house, only capable of violence and kidnapping, he’d been about to say.

He, of all people, should not be the judge of a man’s right to live or die.

“There are quite a few troublemakers in that group, operators who have began moving on their own,” Wright says, leaning heavily against the door, dragging one hand through his hair. He isn’t wearing his beanie today. “Gavin wants the entire group taken care of, as well as anyone else found in the building when we begin.”

Miles clenches one hand into a loose fist, presses it close to his thigh, out of Wright’ line of sight. He can feel gritty ash between his fingers.

“Pack your essentials.” Wright pushes away from the door, face set in still wryness. “We leave in an hour.”

------

It began with a series of case profiles lying innocently on his work desk. Miles didn’t bother with them the first time he saw them. The brown folders they were sealed in looked like any other “confidential” paperwork, and Miles had more important things on his mind.

It took Lana Skye’s gentle reminder - “Miles, these files have been on your desk for a while; you should really clear them before the week’s out” - before Miles noticed the folders again, and then only because they offered him the perfect excuse to escape when Skye’s partner came looking for her. Miles had grabbed the folders as Young swooped Skye down on one arm for a kiss, and fled for the peaceful gardens outside the headquarters of the joint American-German special law enforcement task force, nestled on the outskirts of their embassy.

He spent slightly over an hour going through the cases: a poker player killed in a Russian-themed bar, blunt-force trauma to the head; a string of poison victims, with no clues on how the poison was introduced into the body. No surviving witnesses in any of the cases. Miles had closed the folder on the last report and stared up into the speckled sunlight streaming through the dense foliage of the tree he sat under and wondered why someone would leave the details of such faraway deaths on his desk in Germany.

Over the next few weeks, those brown folders continued to appear, with more diverse contents - captured camera footage, newspaper clippings of dead politicians, a series of photos on the remnants of an arson case that burned a string of warehouses down, onlooker testimonials - but never any accounts of direct eyewitnesses. It was “lucky” he didn’t have a partner that would meddle through his documents and encroach on his personal space, Miles mused, and spent an afternoon removing the lock and clearing out the top drawer under his desk for his mysterious folder-leaver.

The last folder he received was the profile of a living man, and that discrepancy had Miles flipping through the inch-thick folder within seconds of spotting it. Miles had been at his desk on a Saturday night, tea steaming away in a little pot, his jacket tossed over one stray chair from when he had taken it off after getting back from a mission. The moon was just shy of being full and his favorite pen was running out of ink, fading in and out as Miles attempted to pen some notes on the folder’s contents. He remembered the moment clearly, when he had turned a page over and came upon the photo of the bespectacled blonde, his smile eerily serene as he glanced over one shoulder at the photographer.

There was something about defense attorney Kristoph Gavin’s profile that set off all of Miles’ danger instincts. His profile - too scrupulously clean. His clients - always so perfectly innocent, victims of the famed “wrong place at the wrong time” syndrome. His connections - a delicate mesh of ties across the board, crossing no boundaries, supporting no fractions, just a perfectly centered presence that knew all but touched no one. No one involved in the law could be a saint, but for all intents and purposes, Gavin appeared one.

Skye had remarked the next day that Miles practically lived at his office, he always came in so early. Miles had only nodded and settled for yet another cup of tea, feeling worn and tired despite the spare clothing he’d changed into a few hours shy of dawn. He hadn’t gotten more than a few minutes of sleep, but he had the beginnings of an elaborate flowchart set up, the cases of every folder that had appeared on his desk mapped out, with Gavin’s folder at the nucleus of the web.

“What’s this, a new case?” Skye said, running one hand idly across the folders, although the agents’ unspoken etiquette kept her from flipping through the contents.

Miles curled his fingers around his teacup for warmth, and thought about the white on black card depicting a three-legged raven he had found tucked into the end of Gavin’s file, a jaunty calling card uncharacteristic of the defense attorney’s profile. A message to Miles himself, then, from his folder-leaver.

“A pet project,” Miles said.

*

It was a bright sunny day in Los Angeles, and Miles sat on a park bench under a shady tree. It was still distracting, the sound of English around him, the weather warmer for this time of the year. He received stares for the suit he’s wearing, the cravat, or maybe it’s the man sitting next to him and his tattered, hole-riddled trench coat, calmly licking at a lollipop.

Not quite what Miles expected of an FBI agent, but then again, the special law enforcement task force headquarters in Germany didn’t breed stereotypic agents, either. Even Skye, the person they always pushed forward when they needed someone to play a normal civilian, never took off the dangerously long scarf she wore wrapped around her neck, a suicidal piece of clothing if Miles ever saw one.

“Edgeworth, huh?” Badd said. “Still a name to be reckoned with around these parts.”

“… pardon?”

“And when you hear the name Edgeworth, you naturally think of von Karma. And here you are, both an Edgeworth and a von Karma protégé. Interesting how that works out.”

Miles stared at him openly now, his mild headache from the jetlag forgotten. He was used to people reminiscing about his father, or sympathizing about his situation with von Karma, his father’s killer taking in the son and trying to kill him years later, but not like this. Nothing sympathetic or condescending or a fish for inside gossip within those words - just facts, pure and simple.

It was amazingly refreshing.

“You’ve sent me quite a bit of mail,” Miles said. “I have an entire drawer dedicated to cases in Los Angeles, now.”

Badd popped the lollipop back into his mouth, speaking around the sweet. “Interested in seeing where those case files come from?”

“Yes.” That’s what he travelled all the way back for, after all.

Badd reached inside his battered trench coat and laid three items down on the empty space between them. A slim leather holder that reveals a polished agent’s badge when Miles lifts the cover with a finger, a black notepad, the top most pages listing addresses and meeting points - insider’s information, Gavin’s business card slotted between two pages - and the last, a single bullet.

“And the crow in your backyard?” Miles asked, thinking of the three-legged crow on its calling card. The Yatagarasu had quite a reputation, the bureaus not quite on a manhunt for the entity because of how popular the “noble thief” was with the public. But Miles haddone his research, digging into classified files of his own, and there were two distinct personalities to the Yatagarasu in the cases the thief pursued.

He was speaking to the one that flew after death and danger, not the one that hunted for truth.

Badd didn't ever smile - he simply stared at Miles over the top of his lollipop.

“Strictly a side job. But sometimes, when the law cannot do fulfill its job, that’s when we come in. To help achieve justice by any means. I found you through that side job, of course.”

Miles nodded, reached over to take the black notepad, leaving the badge and the bullet behind. He wouldn’t carry the badge where he’s going though he’ll have the position and title, and he had weapons of his own, the only ones he'd work with. There was additional information in that notepad, gleaned by the Yatagarasu’s efforts, and Miles suspected he would be working in that capacity, a formal undercover mission with information supplied and gleaned through less than legal means.

Badd stood, his trench coat flaring out behind him. At full height, he made an intimidating figure, but he pulled out the lollipop and held it in one hand, like a cigarette, and that marred the image, just slightly.

“You do realize that this is a highly unconventional mission, going in as yourself.”

Miles flipped through the notepad, came up with Gavin’s business card, advertising his services as a defense attorney. Gavin would notice and regard someone with pedigree, von Karma’s protégé and Gregory Edgeworth’s son both, someone who could keep up with his level of thinking.

“No,” Miles said softly. “It’s still an undercover mission. The Miles Edgeworth who will be seeking Gavin, disillusioned with the law and jaded over an attempt on his life by his mentor, will play right into Gavin’s inner circle. But I’m not that person.”

He didn’t carry any badges with him, not a prosecutor’s emblem or his special agent’s insignia; just the guns tucked under his jacket to prove his convictions. He thought of Gavin’s careful, silken smile and the webs of deaths and simply wanted to obliterate that, whether as an agent or an attorney or an assassin. Any means to take out this lethal man and his operation, and clear Los Angeles from his deadly touch.

Badd didn’t smile, but the brisk way he took back the badge and the bullet was almost satisfied. “Eager, aren’t you. To the safe house, then. We’ll have the rest of the discussion there.”

next part

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