pov: you are gregory edgeworth. you’ve dedicated your life to protect those with no one on their side, exonerating the innocent. it is a thankless job, but the thanks is hardly necessary. the long and short of it is that you defend the innocent and ascertain the truth.
you have a son, and he’s every bit as wonderful as you could have hoped. you spend days and nights holding the child in your arms, wondering: how can so much good fit into one being? do you deserve a claim in his future? you’ve defended the innocent, but you don’t know how to defend a child. still, you nurture him, help him grow. your other half goes missing, you mourn her, and the house feels so alone.
(but you’re not alone, not really. you have your son.)
you watch him through the years, taking his first steps and balancing on a little red bike. you document it all, adding photo after photo into the court record. but he’s reticent, slow to speak. around others, he avoids their gazes, seldom smiles. you learn he is on the spectrum, drawing the ire of the other parents. but you never underestimate your son, for defending runs through your veins as much as the blood pumping ceaselessly through your heart. so you defend your son from their ire. defend him until everyone else sees the sheer brilliance of your son the way you do.
in a way, it should not have come as a surprise when he approaches you after dinner and asks about the law, about his father’s creed of defending those who can’t defend themselves. you initially explain your career, your beliefs haltingly in simple terms, but he always catches on quick, doesn’t he? your son asks, nay, demands access to your hefty law tomes. you start bringing him to the firm, guiding tiny hands across case files and evidence lists. you dress him up in little blazers and bowties. you insist countless times that he doesn’t have to become a lawyer just because of you, but he’ll always shake his head and return his attention to constitutional law 101. comments from teachers pour in, telling of long winded monologues on man’s duty to society and the defenseless. you see his fervor for defending the helpless, but the yearning for truth has not blossomed yet. it will, though, with time. you know this.
you worry about him, still. he takes little interest in making friends or so-called childish pursuits. he’s brilliant, yes, but he’s still so young. there is danger in growing up too fast, just as there is danger in not growing fast enough. your new assistant reminds you of this; despite his dedication to your profession being quite similar to the one burgeoning in your son, he still indulges in fairytales and cooking shows in a manner you wish you could see in your son. maybe not the same sort of interests, no, but if your son could find that one little spark, the one hobby or person that he’ll look at years down the line and feel young again, you would be over the moon.
when your son asks you for the tv remote, you don’t catch on right away. the bouncing melody of the signal samurai theme song startles you even further as a result. just when you think you’ve seen it all, your son points to a small pomeranian puppy and begs with wide eyes to keep it. you think he is somewhat shameful, or thinking perhaps you would reprimand your son for his childishness. on the contrary, your heart soars. you ask, genuinely, what brought about this sudden change.
he tells you of signal blue, how your son leapt to his defense when no one else believed in him. and of signal yellow, who joined his defense soon after even though he was almost certainly the culprit. of puppies and treats and imposing apartment buildings. of lunch money and signal yellow. of signal blue, and eyes that were like the sky and the earth. of signal blue, who declared himself your son’s friend without a second thought. of signal blue.
you offer a knowing smile and tuck in your son for the night.
you later learn that this “signal blue” character is code for one phoenix wright, who if your son is to be believed (and he almost always is) is an endlessly fascinating child. he speaks where your son does not, ventures where your son does not, shines where your son does not. but you never see this boy for yourself, until a perchance meeting at the gates of your son’s elementary school.
it is ordinary and completely pleasant, by all accounts. you can spot him immediately, clinging to your son’s side with stars in his eyes.
you look at your son, excitedly chattering about some new samurai memorabilia. and…phoenix. the boy who has captured your son’s heart, whether the two of them know it or not. nonetheless, you are gregory edgeworth, and as such you introduce yourself with your typical formality and aplomb.
you get on (w)right as rain, after phoenix overcomes that initial bout of nervousness. he is truly as bright as your son claims, with interests in everything from origami to painting to shakespeare, of all things. you part ways, satisfied that your son has someone truly special in his corner.
you see phoenix a couple times after that, at the end of long days spent playing in people park when snickerdoodle cookies pair well with best friendship and mirth. as summer turns to fall turns to winter, the change in your son is evident. the signal samurai phases out tort law at the dinner table, and your inundated with status updates on the day to day doings of phoenix wright.
that is not to say your son’s interest in law has stagnated. on the contrary, it has blossomed. phoenix, somehow, made your son more confident in himself and the brilliant child he is. you figure a reward is in order, and so you ask around on the rules for bringing a minor as co counsel to a trial.
turns out, the rules are very very lax. you clear out the 28th for a relatively low stakes civil dispute and prepare your son’s best blazer. that is, until the trial for the masters case is pushed forward.
you tell yourself that you are absolutely not going to bring your son to a murder trial, much less have him in the same courtroom as von karma. this does not go over well with your son at all. you discuss the matter with your assistant and reach a compromise: your son would stay in the gallery, leaving you to defend alone. you realize that is not much of a compromise at all, but those two combined can be very convincing.
so the 28th arrives, and the both of you stumble over christmas decorations to make it out the front door in a timely manner. the drive to the courthouse is giddy as you answer your son’s questions one by one.
the guilty verdict hurts, but it is not unexpected. you apologize profusely to your client and promise to help with an appeal, but he only nods with resigned eyes and thanks you for your services.
you walk out of the defendant lobby to your waiting son, and you’re thankful you still have this one little spark of light to defend.
the rest happens all too quickly: the elevator, the earthquake, the panic that settles over all of you like a foreboding pall. the bailiff lifts you by your lapel, your son screams, a gunshot and the world goes dead silent.
your heart burns, that is the first thing you feel. the fire spreads in a fraction of a second, engulfing everything it touches. this is the end.
it is not your life that flashes before your eyes—how can it be when you’ve given so much of it to others? no, it is instead the life of your son, the one who will carry your blood when you are gone.
the pain emanating from your heart is nothing compared to this. you witness years of absent smiles, soul wrenching guilt that pricks at the mind like an incessant vermin. you see death, lots of it, though whether it is by your son’s hands you do not know.
(but you could see for a moment, a picosecond in the expanse of spacetime, the silhouette of a man with jarringly spiky hair and a delicate smile next to your son. and around them a menagerie of people, young and old, who face them as sunflowers face the sun. your son, older and wiser, with glasses perched upon the bridge of his nose and the reflection of your very essence the very first time you laid eyes on the infant in your arms. but it fades, you want to grasp the vision and hold it with you wherever you’re going but it’s so dark and you’re so tired and you spent your life defending everyone but yourself—)
…you are gregory edgeworth, but who’s to say that is true any longer?