Roll for Initiative

Session 34

The spring sunlight streams through Edgeworth's window, rousing him from a fitful sleep. Perhaps he should be happy that sleep has come at all, but happy is certainly not what he feels at the moment.

It's a delicious bit of irony, because he's spent so much time thinking about being back here. Back in his own apartment, in his hometown, on his terms. Not beholden to anyone's expectations. Free. Even from Mr. von Karma.

Not that it had come easily. Death had seemed the obvious choice at first, really. What else could one do when everything they believed in was a lie? But eventually he had been convinced to go back...home such as it was. To exchange one set of plans for another and disappear a bit differently. It hadn't helped a lot, but it had kept him alive long enough to get in to see a doctor who was barely average, and a therapist who was...better. And then eventually all the things he supposed he should have done all those years ago. The medication, the journaling, and so on et cetera. It's a touch embarrassing, looking back, that he was so erratic about everything last year.

More embarrassing still that he was such a cynic, to believe that being able to defeat anyone in court was what made life meaningful. It wasn't the way towards meaning, certainly. But he isn't sure what is. Still.

Routine will help, he knows. That's easy enough. Curtains open, teacups out. Then he'll put the kettle on. It's been so long since he lived here that it feels like someone else's house, with odd items in every drawer. Breakfast? He looks through the cabinets, but soon realizes he hasn't exactly had the chance to get groceries. No matter really, he's not hungry, but it's just another thing to think about. Regular meals, shower, twenty minute walk. He's been clinging to these minimal viable atoms of survival like a mantra, and it's helped for the most part.

The only trouble is he can't find his damn kettle anywhere.

It's not with the pots and pans, or above the stove, or shoved in the back of the pantry with the fine china that he was gifted from some von Karma relation long ago. Each lead he thinks of (with the cleaning stuff? in the closet?) comes up empty, and despite the utter insignificance of the situation he can feel himself growing existentially despondent. He's interrupted from this downward spiral by the sound of his phone buzzing on the counter.

He extracts himself as gracefully as he can manage from underneath the bed, where he's found a long overdue parking ticket and a single sock but no kettle and glances at the screen. Who would be —

Phoenix Wright. But of course.

He wants to answer the call, but his hands don't move, remaining crossed tightly across his chest. Eventually the buzzing stops.

How could he even begin to explain things? Sure, they had made up, sort of. They could now go back to being colleagues, or something. Maybe never friends, not again. But an explanation was owed on his part. Where could he even begin? He thinks back to the one bit of contact he had with Phoenix during his impromptu vacation. A mysterious voicemail he'd left in the early morning hours some months ago.

"Oh hey— sorry. I don't know why I called, but I guess I just wanted to talk. I was wondering where things went wrong. Ok, uh, bye."

Yes, when he thinks about things in those terms: what went wrong — the whole thing is so obvious that it needs no explanation whatsoever. I simply am no good for you, Phoenix Wright. A strong argument can be made that I am no good for anyone, but at the very least, I am no good for you.

And that, of course, was his mistake. Not making that clear when Phoenix had pulled him aside so long ago. It would have saved them both a lot of trouble, probably. But here they were and if Phoenix wanted to rage at him for his mistakes, it seemed only fair.