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Two years ago, Franziska von Karma vowed to become a better prosecutor and defeat Wright. Two years ago, she assumed the pain in her shoulder was a result of it still healing. Two years ago, she, like a fool, foolishly disregarded medical professionals’ advice.
She never would’ve guessed that she would be glaring at the bottle of painkillers on the kitchen counter as if that would make them dull the pain faster. Or at all. She grimaced as her shoulder screamed at her more, sending shooting pain up her shoulder and neck.
Gott, she wanted to take a knife and stab it into her shoulder. Maybe the pain of the knife would drown out the pain of her nerves. But that wouldn’t work, you can’t fight fire with fire. She settled for gripping her shoulder harshly, half-delighted when the pain of her grip rivaled the pain of damaged nerves.
Unfortunately, she was supposed to be investigating right now. That was why she was in America, after all. She hoped (foolishly) that no one would notice her absence at the crime scene. Like they wouldn’t notice that there was the lack of the sound of a whip cracking in the background.
As if on cue, her phone started buzzing and the caller ID read ‘Dick Gumshoe’. She released her shoulder and picked up her phone, “What do you want, Scruffy?” she said, trying to pretend everything was fine and normal and she wasn’t a few seconds away from screaming in frustration and pain.
“Um, jus’ wanted to check in with ya. Don’t see you at the crime scene, and it’s been an hour since the rest of us arrived. You stuck in traffic or something?” Scruffy asked hesitantly.
“Unfortunately, I won’t be able to make it,” she said sharply.
“What do you mean ‘won’t be able to make it?’”
“It means, Scruffy, that I won’t be able to make it. Am I clear?”
“Uh–,”
“The details are irrelevant. Good day, detective,”
She hung up. Immediately, her phone lit up with a call again. She put it on silent. She knew it was now only a matter of time before someone came to the apartment she rented. Scruffy likely was to tell someone like the caring fool he is. Because she has never been late before.
After all, Franziska von Karma was perfect, she was always on time and punctual no matter what.
‘Oh, how the mighty have fallen’, she mused. She had to get something done, even if she wanted nothing more than to lay on the ground until she felt better.
She spent a total of 48 minutes staring blankly at her computer before someone knocked at her door, “Franziska?” She could recognize her little brother’s voice anywhere. She stayed silent. She had never been a religious woman, but she found herself praying to God that Miles would leave her alone. She didn’t want him to see her in this state.
“Franziska, let me in,” Miles called again. She heard him sigh, “Franziska, let me in,” a beat of silence,“Please.”
She got up and walked over to the door. She took a deep breath before opening it. Standing there, as she expected, was Miles Edgeworth dressed in his prosecutor’s outfit. It looks like he just finished a case. She stepped aside to let him in and quietly closed the door behind him.
She couldn’t bear to face him any longer, so she walked back over to her desk and sat down. She heard Miles walk over to sit on the small sofa in the center of the apartment. He said nothing.
The silence quickly became too much. “Why are you here, little brother?” she says, willing her voice not to waver. It did.
“You know exactly why I’m here,” he replied gently, “Detective Gumshoe called me and said you didn’t show up. He wanted me to check on you,”
“Scruffy is a fool. Why does it matter that I didn’t show up?” She lied. She knew he wouldn’t believe her. She was a terrible liar when it came to personal matters, he knew this.
Miles huffed, “Franziska, you always show up. You showed up in court with a damn bullet in your shoulder!”
She flinched. Her hand shot to her shoulder reflexively and gripped it hard. She let out a gasp as white-hot pain flooded through it and immediately released her grip.
She tensed, waiting for him to shout at her angrily for hiding something from him.
He didn’t.
“Are you okay..?” he said gently. Far too gentle to be said to someone like her. Too gently for her to bear.
She stood up and headed towards the kitchen. “Would you like some water?” she deflected.
He sighed,“Yes, that would be nice.”
It was silent as she filled up two glasses, the silence growing as well as her dread. As she watched the water swirl in the glass as it filled up, her thoughts wandered. What if Miles hated her now? What if when he found out she wouldn’t be allowed to be a prosecutor?
No, that was foolish. To her knowledge, chronic pain wasn’t enough ground to be fired on… But those streets had enough ground that day if De Killer had any say. She could feel the phantom pain of the bullet tearing her nerves apart and rupturing veins as it entered her shoulder. It hurt. It still hurts, after all these months.
The doctors had told her that it’d take 3 months to heal. It’s been over 24 months and she doubts it healed right, if at all.
She took a deep breath to clear her thoughts. She pointedly did not look her brother in the eyes as she handed him his water and sat down next to him, silently glad that he was a human space heater.
“Would you like to tell me why you seem to be in pain?” he asked.
“Why would I be in pain?” she said, lying through her teeth.
“We aren’t going to do this,” he snapped, “I know you’re in pain! You must be a fool yourself if you think I'd believe that!”
A minute of silence passed by. Franziska counted each second.
She looked down at the water in her hands, “When I was shot, I didn’t just get a bullet in my shoulder. The doctors told me that it had torn muscle and completely severed several nerves. They tried to fix it. It doesn’t matter if they did or not. I disregarded them and went back to work as soon as I could.
Apparently not listening to medical professionals was quite the foolish move,” she let out a hollow laugh, “Something went wrong and I still get pain. It shoots through my shoulder and spreads to my neck. Some days I can’t lift my right arm above my head. Some days when I walk I swear I can still see him in the crowd holding that smoking gun. Some days I can barely prosecute because of the pain. It hurts– it hurts so much,” she says and her voice is trembling.
“Oh, Franziska,” he said and his voice catches as he wraps his arms around her in a hug.
Franziska can feel herself start to cry but she doesn’t care anymore because her brother is here and he cares.
“It hurts, I–,” her voice is wobbly and catches on a sob.
“I know. I know it hurts,” he murmurs, holding her tighter and avoiding her bad shoulder. She buries her face between his neck and shoulder and she feels safer than she has in years.
She’s reminded of the times when Papa was too hard and pushed them too far, so they went to each other for comfort. She remembers a particular time when she was 10 and hid under the stairwell because Papa yelled at her about something she doesn’t remember. Miles had found her and held her while she cried.
In her brother’s arms, she feels like maybe things will be okay and she’ll be alright. She can hear Miles’ soft breathing and it makes her infinitely grateful that he didn’t die, that he didn’t choose death. Her brother is alive and well and he cares. Both of them are here and safe. They can get through anything as long as they have each other.
After what feels like forever, she stops crying. Franziska doesn’t let go, and neither does he. Eventually, she falls asleep and the pain in her shoulder is only a whisper. In the morning, she’ll wake up and have her beloved brother there to help her. And she’ll be alright.