Franziska's Dream, Courtesy of the Core, Night of 01/02/2011
For the most fleeting of moments, Franziska thought she was dreaming. Yet, the smell of polished mahogany was entirely too pervasive to not be real, she decided as she took a step towards the desk. It was her father's desk; she wondered what it was doing here. Far more stranger happenings had occurred over the course of the past six months, so perhaps there was no point in even attempting to rationalize the desk's presence. After all, any questions she had about it were more than likely to go unanswered, and if there was one feeling Franziska von Karma hated more than not knowing something it was this now unfortunately familiar, overwhelming sense of futility she would be more than happy to never, ever experience ever again.
The concern regarding the desk laid to rest, however, only gave rise to her next one: what was she herself doing here? She could barely remember where she'd come from. After taking a brief moment to close her eyes and visualise the past few hours, she found her memories most unpleasant; it was pointless spending any more time bothering to recall them. Strangely enough, all that mattered right now was that she was here -
and so was he.
She blinked twice, rapidly, as if her eyesight was starting to betray her, although her doctor's check-ups had resulted in nothing but perfect ocular health. Taking another step towards the desk, she felt her hands clench into fists by her side before she realized how such a stance could be perceived as overly defensive; urgently, she tried to relax her posture, but not too much so - it was imperative that she remain appearing proud. Perfect.
Yet, now, the struggle was in finding the right words; unbidden, the wrong one gurgled from her through before she could even hope to gulp it down. “Papa?” she breathed, then immediately, but silently, berated herself for her foolishness. Could she really look upon her fath-- this man - and reconcile who she saw in front of her with the man who had raised her? Should she even try? She knew better than to avert her gaze now, no matter how desperately she wanted to do so, and instead met the man's eyes confidently, but not too directly that she ran the risk of being perceived as insolent.
Fortunately, Manfred von Karma broke the eye contact first, looking at the topmost of the papers on his desk, forehead creased as he shuffled them for a moment, speaking to them as if his words were for the pile instead for Franziska, even though it was not as though they could be for anyone else, as they were the only ones in the room. “I expected that you could make it on such short notice.”
The sound of his voice laid another blanket of familiarity over Franziska, almost as though the past three years had been some sort of bad dream. It was her father. Papa was right here. Her response was automatic; she bent her knees in a slight curtsey, eyes looking upwards to peek at him through her bangs, mouth curling into a tight, proud smile. “It was no trouble at all.”
Her father, for that was who he was - Franziska tried to ignore the growing feeling of discontent burgeoning in her stomach that was almost beginning to suggest that it should be otherwise - nodded at her appraisingly, and then waved a hand in the direction of a chair Franziska hadn't noticed when she had first entered. “Sit.”
She felt a brief flash of irritation that the sentence was phrased more as a command than a polite request, but it disappeared almost as soon as it had arrived. It was not the von Karma way to waste pleasantries on an action that would not be refused; Papa thought she would sooner sit down than leave, and he was right. When she seated herself in the chair, she continued to ensure that her posture was perfect while settling her whip on her lap and crossing her legs at the ankles.
“I've been monitoring your progress lately,” her father said, then paused to either smile or smirk - even now, Franziska could not be entirely sure when it came to telling them apart. While the pause was only brief, it gave her stomach enough time to attempt a somersault. She tried not to follow its lurch with the rest of her body. “... And I must say, it has been most pleasing.”
Her confusion must have registered on her face, because he immediately followed up his sentence with a small frown, and a question. “Do you not agree?”
It was odd, because he almost seemed to be expecting her agreement, but she had, the moment before, been almost certain he wanted to discuss those debacles surrounding Phoenix Wright; even though they had not been her fault, and she could entirely defend her actions, she knew that her father, the Manfred von Karma, would have found fault with them somehow. After a pause that was too long, she nodded. “Of course I agree. I just thought that it would be immodest of me to agree too readily,” she said hastily, knowing, of course, that he would choose to remark on that statement of hers as well. He did.
“Surprising,” he breathed with a raise of the eyebrows. “You're growing soft, Franziska. Soon you'll be blushing whenever someone pays you a compliment!”
To her horror, she did feel the beginnings of a flush suffuse her cheeks, but not only as a result of the promise of praise, but also due to her embarrassment. When had she ever been unduly concerned about appearing modest before? She wanted to duck her head so he wouldn't see, but that would be the equivalent of an admission of guilt in this case, so she smiled again, finding that it was getting easier to do so each time she did it. “No, sir. It's nothing like that, I assure you.” The confidence, she thought, she had been laying on a little too thickly, so she scrambled to redirect the conversation. “Was there anything in particular you wished to speak with me about?” He couldn't possibly know about her own meetings with Phoenix Wright, then, she decided. He certainly would have brought them up by now. Then - what did he know? It was with some horror and an underlying feeling of shame that she couldn't remember the date of his execution.
To be honest, she hadn't even wanted to know.
Either way, it was pointless dwelling upon executions and the like when the man himself was sitting in front of her, very much alive, so she tried her hardest to ignore her own disappointment and simply content herself with waiting for his answer. It did not take him very long to deliver it.
“Bah. Don't make me think you need examples of your own successes. I'm certain you know of them already. Yet - this past half year, specifically, has been a ... joy to observe.”
These past six months in Siren's Port where she had almost wanted to forget where she had come from? That's what had pleased him most? As soon as she jumped to that conclusion, she knew it was naïve. He couldn't be speaking of that, he was talking of something else, yet - wishful thinking made her wonder: if her father, if the man who had raised her could see who she had grown up to be, would he be proud?
Then she realized before she could properly think that he was right in front of her, and she should just ask. “Are you proud of me? Of - of who I am?” she blurted. While she had always favored directness in her dealings, there had been too much emotion fuelling her question, and that concern was only intensified by the way her father's clouded over, but when she looked more closely, almost staring him down, she thought he looked more sad than angry.
There was an apprehensive pause before he answered. “Of course. Have I ever given you reason to think otherwise?”
Yes. Yet, that was an answer she was, for once in this entire confounding conversation, able to bite down upon. “It's just that I've been taught not to make unfounded assumptions.”
Her father looked contemplative for a moment, then, finally, he muttered, “Bright girl.” She tried not to flush at the compliment - surely she could accept such simple praise graciously!
“Thank you,” she responded, while trying to find some way to explain how his successes were all possible due to him. He was the truly brilliant one here. Again, she pushed aside that unease that reminded her that he was a criminal, that he had killed a man then arranged for the death of another to cover it up; it was morally wrong, it was illegal, yet … he'd come back after the first incident, hadn't he? He'd come back to raise her, hadn't deserted the family the way her mother had … could he be both? Both her father who she had admired so much as well as a murderer, a criminal? They were not, after all, completely mutually exclusive, they could be both- just one man, one human, fallible man, who had, at the end of the day, paid the price for his crimes. It was all so obvious she wondered why she hadn't realized before. There were traits to admire - she just had to be careful...
Her father's voice, crisp and controlled, rang through her thoughts and cut them off sharply. “I do, however, have some advice, and it do you well to listen carefully.” There was that word again, the word she had just been thinking. Instinctively, she leaned forward in her chair, fists on her knees. Surely this was a case of 'do as I say, not as I do'; she could accept that at the very least.
“I'm listening,” she assured him, raising a hand to tuck some strands of hair that had come loose from the change in posture.
“The von Karma creed is to be perfect in every way.”
Franziska nodded.
“To maximise perfection, one must keep control - yet, even complete control is meaningless if you fall in the habit of making mistakes. Do you follow, Franziska? I would not have you some of the mistakes other attorneys have made in the past.”
Although he did not specify, Franziska's mind jumped immediately to Miles Edgeworth, and she resented the both of them for it. Momentarily, she wondered if she should ask for clarification but decided against it - this conversation was going so well, surprisingly so, and she hardly wanted to do anything that would change that. It was with a pang of unidentifiable mixed feelings that she realized that it didn't really matter what Papa thought of Miles Edgeworth any more; Miles was, well, Miles was dead and if there was one thing Franziska was certain of, it was that she didn't want to end up like him. Either of them.
Another thought that required deep consideration was that the standard, perfection itself, could be awfully arbitrary at times. It was something she had had properly realized on the night of Miles's death - while kissing Sirius, her mind helpfully supplied - she didn't need to live up to her father's standards of perfection, only her own, and slowly she began to understand. If she did that, then she could still fulfil the criteria of the von Karma creed without going to the extremes her father had. That was what was most important now; with Miles gone, so was her competition - to be honest, she had almost been tiring of how stagnant it made everything - that, coupled with the fact that despite what she might be seeing in front of her in this moment, she was certain that her father was just as gone as Miles was as well made it all too clear that there was no-one else to live for but herself. No bothersome comparisons. No needless insecurities. Just focusing on what she herself wanted for her own life, instead of what other people wanted for her.
That was the truth, and it was freeing. “Nor would I,” she answered. “I will do my very utmost to live by the standards the von Karma creed outlines, of course!” But not for you, she added silently. For myself. Papa had said he was proud of her, hadn't he? That was satisfactory, because she hadn't even been expecting it. Then again, she hadn't expected to ever talk to him again at all. While it had made her feel conflicted, the more possibility of her father's approval almost enough to make her forget everything and proclaim herself a true disciple once more, it turned out that such measures were not even necessary. She could keep everything she had fought so hard to achieve - and despite everything that had happened, she could even say now, honestly and truthfully, with no trace of self-deceit, that she was proud of herself. It was a feeling that she never wanted to forget. It was in that moment she realized that what she had been doing wasn't forgetting where she had come from, but remembering where she had started and becoming better than it. She would be better. And now, it would be even easier, with no-one but herself to remember who she had been.
“Firm decisive action,” her father started than stopped, a slight sneer on his features. “I'm sure you already know what's necessary.”
She'd wasted so much time these past few days, was what she'd understood from those words. Strangely enough, she missed Miles, more than she thought she would, although for what reasons, she couldn't be entirely sure. (Another pang of disconcert - she ignored it.) Yet, that feeling alone wouldn't bring him back, and even if it could, she wasn't sure she would want to. Such foolish hope, such clinging to the past - it only prevented people from moving on. She would look forward, and that would start with making necessary preparations.
“Don't worry, Papa,” she said, feeling a lot more genuinely certain than she had in several months. “I do.” She stood from her seat.
“Leaving already?”
“There's something I need to do.”
“Hmph. Be careful.”
Her first impulse was childish; she almost wanted to stamp her foot and insist that she did not need to be told that again. Then she realized what he had been really trying to say all along. No, Papa, I will not repeat your mistakes, she thought to herself, hand fishing in her pocket to retrieve her NV -
- she woke up, lying fully dressed on her bed with her hand on her phone, where it was placed on the bedside table. She picked it up, hugged it to her chest as she spent the next while trying to make some sense of what she'd just experienced.