Foolish Feelings
Title: Foolish Feelings
Summary: Can't a foolish fool get some love? Franziska ponders Phoenix Wright - and Edgeworth, and perfection - while she is stuck in the Hotti Clinic.
Spoilers: through Justice For All. Set during Franziska's hospital stay in Farewell, My Turnabout.
He is, after all, nothing more than a fool. A persistently foolish fool who foolishly insists on acting in foolhardy ways that only serve to reveal how much of a fool he truly is.
…His foolhardy ways also have served to win him a series of eight straight cases since his debut last year, during which he's defeated the complete von Karma line stupendously, yes, but Franziska's still not convinced that was anything more than a fluke. Or, rather, series of flukes.
To be perfectly honest, the fact that one Mr. Phoenix Wright not only defeated her father in court, but managed to convict him of murder at the same time, does not bother Franziska all that much. Aside from their courtroom philosophies and demeanor (though personally Franziska feels that her whip has a greater effect than her father's finger-snapping, not to mention being far more personally satisfying), the two have little in common. They don't get along especially well - it was always difficult to do so, when he was such an utter genius and expected nothing less from her, even though they both knew her own abilities were no match for his. They don't exactly dislike each other, but Franziska doesn't especially care about his downfall, given that he brought it on himself so foolishly. This is only heightened by the fact that the defendant in that case was Miles Edgeworth.
As she must, Franziska follows the von Karma creed: those of von Karma blood have only one fate, perfection. To achieve perfection, the ends definitely justify the means. However, in that specific case… Miles Edgeworth is her little brother; blood doesn't matter in this instance (nor the fact that he is six years older). No, Franziska is if anything pleased that her father is locked away in jail - better he than Miles (though -Miles deserves far worse than just jail, Miles deserves to be left in her dust).
Of course, that's not to say Franziska doesn't resent Phoenix Wright horrendously for that ridiculous excuse for a trial: at that time, and during the trial immediately afterwards, he managed to break her brother's spirit. To drive him entirely away from being a prosecutor, for almost a year straight - this is unforgivable. Miles Edgeworth is and always has been a prosecutor, and it's wrong for him to be so lost. And yet - it's her chance, too, because Miles left her behind so many times, and now, his downfall could be her moment, her one and only chance to overtake him and make him pay for that. Mixed reasoning, perhaps, but it all boils down to one simple goal: she must defeat Phoenix Wright.
Naturally she arrived in Los Angeles speaking perfect English, with a perfect understanding of the different court system, and perfectly prepared for her first case against Phoenix Wright, ready to broadcast the news of his defeat over the entire world (that way, Miles would definitely hear of it). Franziska expected her revenge to be sweet.
And the trial itself was sweet, at moments. The defense's bumbling was pitiful to observe, and more than once Franziska found herself marveling that such an utter fool could ever have defeated her little brother (three times, at that), let alone her father. Yet she was careful not to underestimate him, for that very same reason. She was cautious, yet ruthless; as always, she wielded her logic like a whip, with a physical whip for added effect and self-satisfaction. She did as she always had, ever since her first trial at the supposedly tender age of thirteen. Her methods had never failed her before, and truly Franziska doesn't think they failed her that time either. Except… somehow… The verdict just ended up slipping out of her grasp. For the first time in her five-year career, Franziska failed to convict a defendant.
It was not quite the same as receiving a single penalty after twenty-five straight years of victories, but Franziska could still see why her father had felt the urge to murder the defense attorney responsible for the stain on his perfect record. More sensibly, she contented herself with whipping her opponent unconscious, then beating a swift retreat to the Prosecutor's Office to plan for their next clash (which, the fluke having passed, she firmly expected to win).
Franziska had not anticipated said next clash ending, once again in her defeat. More than that, her defeat in such a way as to make it appear that she and that insufferable fool were actually working in concert…!
Insufferable. Horrendous. Suspicious, even, the way Phoenix Wright managed these last-minute turnabouts when she could have sworn the entire trial had been going exactly as anticipated right up until that last objection.
Facing that fool in court was akin to standing on a rug, knowing that at any moment, someone was going to yank it out from under you. There was almost a sense of the inevitable fall, a horrendous reality based in his simplistic (foolishly foolish tactic only used by a fool) approach to defending his clients: he began with the assumption that they were innocent, and thus there would be some stray thread he could unravel if he only pressed the witnesses hard enough, some loose end that would reveal the lies hidden underneath.
Most irritatingly, he was right. His clients indeed proved innocent, beyond a shadow of doubt, and Franziska was left fuming, practicing her whip cracks by the thousands, gritting her teeth and glaring down at the transcripts of the last two cases, furious yet still unable to see where her technique might have faltered (it was perfect, she was perfect, so why had she lost again?).
If only he would just be less picky with his clients, less utterly convinced of their right to clemency. If only Phoenix Wright wasn't so - so oddly moral and upright and straightforward when as an attorney he had no right to be! Perhaps then…
No, Franziska had no patience for 'perhaps'. She was perfection. Thus, no matter how soft, how trusting and foolishly naïve Phoenix Wright was, she ought to be able to turn those qualities back into the detriments they should have been from the start. And in fact, she would - or at least had been preparing to do so in this trial. Until she was shot in the shoulder and forced out of the running by her determined little brother.
Franziska has no inclination to indicate in any way just how little the switch actually bothered her. Yes, she was looking forward to defeating Phoenix Wright once and for all, but if this win was what Edgeworth found necessary to rejoin the prosecuting world, then… she did not especially detest handing it over to him (if she beat him at his best, it would only further prove her better). Though, the manner in which she was bundled off to the hospital like some worthless invalid over a mere bullet in the shoulder was vexing.
Her father had not been bundled off to the hospital when Miles shot him. Her father had managed to let the wound heal by itself without a single complaint. Franziska, not having committed any murder, had no reason not to remove it, but she resented the implication that she, unlike her father, could not at least bear with the pain for the (undoubtedly short) duration of the trial. Still, that decision had unfortunately been taken out of her hands, and she was thus stranded, forced to practice her whip technique with her left arm on the excellent target of a perverted psych patient.
With no other choice, Franziska listened to the trial via hidden radio transmitter, and smiled at the sarcastic putdowns Miles unleashed on that foolish fool of a defense attorney. Perhaps winning this trial would restore her little brother to his former prosecuting glory (and then she could win a perfect victory, that was her real motivation). He already seemed much improved; Franziska could tell that he was enjoying himself in his battle against Phoenix Wright. And, despite the odd desperation he was displaying this time around, she heard that same pleasure in Phoenix Wright's voice, in every tinny "Objection!" blurted from her speakers.
Alone in the Hotti Clinic with no danger of her perfect record being stained any further, Franziska found listening to Phoenix Wright's battle almost… pleasant. The man was nothing more than a fool, certainly. But he was a… an almost endearing sort of fool, the sort of fool that made Franziska smile when she had a surgery coming up in five minutes and she was secretly terrified, but that fool had just made a fool of himself and been scolded by the witness, Miles, and Judge in turn, and yet he blustered and bluffed and came back strong with evidence to prove yet another contradiction, and sounding so foolishly proud of himself for doing so, as only such an outstanding fool could be.
Perhaps… it felt odd even to consider, but with Miles not displaying a shred of resentment for his three devastating losses to this man, Franziska almost felt that it was acceptable to be less horrified by her own two failures to win. She found herself not quite believing that perhaps Phoenix Wright wasn't so terrible after all, not when Miles was so fond and she sat here nearly giggling at his courtroom antics in her hospital bed (all inhibitions naturally lowered significantly by the anesthetic the doctors had insisted upon, though she had at least managed to convince them to use a local one, the only reason any laughter other than superior mocking dared to cross her lips).
That thought nagged at Franziska all day, preposterous yet strangely appealing, but it finally erupted into actual feeling upon the moment she chased that perverted patient out into the lobby, whipping him yet again - and came face to face with her younger brother and Phoenix Wright.
The latter of which, had an awkward expression on his face and was tightly clutching a meager bouquet of tulips.
Franziska felt a sudden uplifting of emotion, smug and quietly touched at the same time. Yes, this was the problem with Phoenix Wright - he was entirely too soft.
She smirked at him. "And what are those tulips doing in your hand, Mr. Phoenix Wright?"
Immediately, he dropped them roughly on the nurse's station counter, flushing and clearly mentally berating himself for the gesture. Franziska waited a long moment to savor his humiliation, before changing the subject to her injury. He might not recognize it, but in doing so she saved him from having to ask how she was faring. Of course, there was no way her kindness extended far enough to admit to making any sort of deal with Adrian Andrews, but Phoenix Wright should have known better than to expect her to admit to such a deal, let alone care about the consequences it might have had on Ms. Andrews. She was a von Karma, after all. She must be perfect, and perfection had no time for such a weak woman as that, no matter how pitiful she seemed.
But then, he was just the sort of fool to expect more from her.
Strangely though, unlike the witness in question, Phoenix Wright managed to be so soft and foolish and pitiful without actually being a weak person. It was a contradiction in itself, one Franziska felt a rather strong urge to object against. But this was not the time nor the place, no matter how much he was irritating her with his futile emotional appeals.
…It may not be the time or place for objections, but there wasn't ever a time or place that wasn't suitable for a good lashing of the whip. Franziska was merciful with only a single crack of her weapon, before brusquely excusing herself and stalking away back to her room. Just because Phoenix Wright's foolish morality code insisted he come visit her, she had no obligation to actually receive him and engage in such foolish questioning.
Franziska aimed a quick nod at her brother as she left, and he returned the gesture before taking her place in front of the foolish defense attorney, who seemed to be exchanging foolish banter with the little girl following him around.
As soon as she was safely in her room, Franziska shook her head scornfully. Phoenix Wright was a strange person, not to mention an infuriating opponent. Most of all, though, he was the most foolishly foolish fool Franziska had ever encountered.
He was so extremely foolish that he caused other, reasonable people to actually act foolish in his proximity. His foolishness was almost infectious, and for all that today Franziska had gotten the oddest feeling that her brother was somewhat fond of the man, Phoenix Wright was irrevocably a fool above all else and forever.
…Franziska found herself not quite hating this as much as she ought.
She did appreciate the tulips (which she'd swiped from the counter as she left). She ordered a nurse to fetch her a vase and set them up at her bedside table, and stared at the bedraggled petals the next morning as she listened to that fool of all fools wildly shout foolishness in a foolish attempt to buy just a bit more time.
Franziska had a small smile on her lips, and a feeling closer approaching fondness than the mocking derision she'd expected to feel (though that was present as well, especially whenever her brother caught the man out in yet another foolish error).
Phoenix Wright was, indeed, nothing more than an utter fool.
The fact that she was starting to find herself almost admiring his foolishness, was also foolish - and as Franziska was far too perfect to indulge in foolish behaviour, she would need to break free from his foolish influence soon.
Just… she wanted to listen to the rest of the trial first. It was…
And really, the tulips themselves weren't foolish. No need to rid herself of them just because the man who bought them was nothing but a persistently foolish fool who foolishly insisted on acting in foolhardy ways (such as gifting young prosecutors with flowers) that only served to reveal how much of a fool he truly was.
Franziska's lips curled up in a slight smile, (somewhat hopelessly) amused at her own thoughts just as much as Phoenix Wright's pathetic pleas for time.
When next she saw him, she would whip him unconscious for making her have such foolish feelings.
Summary: Can't a foolish fool get some love? Franziska ponders Phoenix Wright - and Edgeworth, and perfection - while she is stuck in the Hotti Clinic.
Spoilers: through Justice For All. Set during Franziska's hospital stay in Farewell, My Turnabout.
He is, after all, nothing more than a fool. A persistently foolish fool who foolishly insists on acting in foolhardy ways that only serve to reveal how much of a fool he truly is.
…His foolhardy ways also have served to win him a series of eight straight cases since his debut last year, during which he's defeated the complete von Karma line stupendously, yes, but Franziska's still not convinced that was anything more than a fluke. Or, rather, series of flukes.
To be perfectly honest, the fact that one Mr. Phoenix Wright not only defeated her father in court, but managed to convict him of murder at the same time, does not bother Franziska all that much. Aside from their courtroom philosophies and demeanor (though personally Franziska feels that her whip has a greater effect than her father's finger-snapping, not to mention being far more personally satisfying), the two have little in common. They don't get along especially well - it was always difficult to do so, when he was such an utter genius and expected nothing less from her, even though they both knew her own abilities were no match for his. They don't exactly dislike each other, but Franziska doesn't especially care about his downfall, given that he brought it on himself so foolishly. This is only heightened by the fact that the defendant in that case was Miles Edgeworth.
As she must, Franziska follows the von Karma creed: those of von Karma blood have only one fate, perfection. To achieve perfection, the ends definitely justify the means. However, in that specific case… Miles Edgeworth is her little brother; blood doesn't matter in this instance (nor the fact that he is six years older). No, Franziska is if anything pleased that her father is locked away in jail - better he than Miles (though -Miles deserves far worse than just jail, Miles deserves to be left in her dust).
Of course, that's not to say Franziska doesn't resent Phoenix Wright horrendously for that ridiculous excuse for a trial: at that time, and during the trial immediately afterwards, he managed to break her brother's spirit. To drive him entirely away from being a prosecutor, for almost a year straight - this is unforgivable. Miles Edgeworth is and always has been a prosecutor, and it's wrong for him to be so lost. And yet - it's her chance, too, because Miles left her behind so many times, and now, his downfall could be her moment, her one and only chance to overtake him and make him pay for that. Mixed reasoning, perhaps, but it all boils down to one simple goal: she must defeat Phoenix Wright.
Naturally she arrived in Los Angeles speaking perfect English, with a perfect understanding of the different court system, and perfectly prepared for her first case against Phoenix Wright, ready to broadcast the news of his defeat over the entire world (that way, Miles would definitely hear of it). Franziska expected her revenge to be sweet.
And the trial itself was sweet, at moments. The defense's bumbling was pitiful to observe, and more than once Franziska found herself marveling that such an utter fool could ever have defeated her little brother (three times, at that), let alone her father. Yet she was careful not to underestimate him, for that very same reason. She was cautious, yet ruthless; as always, she wielded her logic like a whip, with a physical whip for added effect and self-satisfaction. She did as she always had, ever since her first trial at the supposedly tender age of thirteen. Her methods had never failed her before, and truly Franziska doesn't think they failed her that time either. Except… somehow… The verdict just ended up slipping out of her grasp. For the first time in her five-year career, Franziska failed to convict a defendant.
It was not quite the same as receiving a single penalty after twenty-five straight years of victories, but Franziska could still see why her father had felt the urge to murder the defense attorney responsible for the stain on his perfect record. More sensibly, she contented herself with whipping her opponent unconscious, then beating a swift retreat to the Prosecutor's Office to plan for their next clash (which, the fluke having passed, she firmly expected to win).
Franziska had not anticipated said next clash ending, once again in her defeat. More than that, her defeat in such a way as to make it appear that she and that insufferable fool were actually working in concert…!
Insufferable. Horrendous. Suspicious, even, the way Phoenix Wright managed these last-minute turnabouts when she could have sworn the entire trial had been going exactly as anticipated right up until that last objection.
Facing that fool in court was akin to standing on a rug, knowing that at any moment, someone was going to yank it out from under you. There was almost a sense of the inevitable fall, a horrendous reality based in his simplistic (foolishly foolish tactic only used by a fool) approach to defending his clients: he began with the assumption that they were innocent, and thus there would be some stray thread he could unravel if he only pressed the witnesses hard enough, some loose end that would reveal the lies hidden underneath.
Most irritatingly, he was right. His clients indeed proved innocent, beyond a shadow of doubt, and Franziska was left fuming, practicing her whip cracks by the thousands, gritting her teeth and glaring down at the transcripts of the last two cases, furious yet still unable to see where her technique might have faltered (it was perfect, she was perfect, so why had she lost again?).
If only he would just be less picky with his clients, less utterly convinced of their right to clemency. If only Phoenix Wright wasn't so - so oddly moral and upright and straightforward when as an attorney he had no right to be! Perhaps then…
No, Franziska had no patience for 'perhaps'. She was perfection. Thus, no matter how soft, how trusting and foolishly naïve Phoenix Wright was, she ought to be able to turn those qualities back into the detriments they should have been from the start. And in fact, she would - or at least had been preparing to do so in this trial. Until she was shot in the shoulder and forced out of the running by her determined little brother.
Franziska has no inclination to indicate in any way just how little the switch actually bothered her. Yes, she was looking forward to defeating Phoenix Wright once and for all, but if this win was what Edgeworth found necessary to rejoin the prosecuting world, then… she did not especially detest handing it over to him (if she beat him at his best, it would only further prove her better). Though, the manner in which she was bundled off to the hospital like some worthless invalid over a mere bullet in the shoulder was vexing.
Her father had not been bundled off to the hospital when Miles shot him. Her father had managed to let the wound heal by itself without a single complaint. Franziska, not having committed any murder, had no reason not to remove it, but she resented the implication that she, unlike her father, could not at least bear with the pain for the (undoubtedly short) duration of the trial. Still, that decision had unfortunately been taken out of her hands, and she was thus stranded, forced to practice her whip technique with her left arm on the excellent target of a perverted psych patient.
With no other choice, Franziska listened to the trial via hidden radio transmitter, and smiled at the sarcastic putdowns Miles unleashed on that foolish fool of a defense attorney. Perhaps winning this trial would restore her little brother to his former prosecuting glory (and then she could win a perfect victory, that was her real motivation). He already seemed much improved; Franziska could tell that he was enjoying himself in his battle against Phoenix Wright. And, despite the odd desperation he was displaying this time around, she heard that same pleasure in Phoenix Wright's voice, in every tinny "Objection!" blurted from her speakers.
Alone in the Hotti Clinic with no danger of her perfect record being stained any further, Franziska found listening to Phoenix Wright's battle almost… pleasant. The man was nothing more than a fool, certainly. But he was a… an almost endearing sort of fool, the sort of fool that made Franziska smile when she had a surgery coming up in five minutes and she was secretly terrified, but that fool had just made a fool of himself and been scolded by the witness, Miles, and Judge in turn, and yet he blustered and bluffed and came back strong with evidence to prove yet another contradiction, and sounding so foolishly proud of himself for doing so, as only such an outstanding fool could be.
Perhaps… it felt odd even to consider, but with Miles not displaying a shred of resentment for his three devastating losses to this man, Franziska almost felt that it was acceptable to be less horrified by her own two failures to win. She found herself not quite believing that perhaps Phoenix Wright wasn't so terrible after all, not when Miles was so fond and she sat here nearly giggling at his courtroom antics in her hospital bed (all inhibitions naturally lowered significantly by the anesthetic the doctors had insisted upon, though she had at least managed to convince them to use a local one, the only reason any laughter other than superior mocking dared to cross her lips).
That thought nagged at Franziska all day, preposterous yet strangely appealing, but it finally erupted into actual feeling upon the moment she chased that perverted patient out into the lobby, whipping him yet again - and came face to face with her younger brother and Phoenix Wright.
The latter of which, had an awkward expression on his face and was tightly clutching a meager bouquet of tulips.
Franziska felt a sudden uplifting of emotion, smug and quietly touched at the same time. Yes, this was the problem with Phoenix Wright - he was entirely too soft.
She smirked at him. "And what are those tulips doing in your hand, Mr. Phoenix Wright?"
Immediately, he dropped them roughly on the nurse's station counter, flushing and clearly mentally berating himself for the gesture. Franziska waited a long moment to savor his humiliation, before changing the subject to her injury. He might not recognize it, but in doing so she saved him from having to ask how she was faring. Of course, there was no way her kindness extended far enough to admit to making any sort of deal with Adrian Andrews, but Phoenix Wright should have known better than to expect her to admit to such a deal, let alone care about the consequences it might have had on Ms. Andrews. She was a von Karma, after all. She must be perfect, and perfection had no time for such a weak woman as that, no matter how pitiful she seemed.
But then, he was just the sort of fool to expect more from her.
Strangely though, unlike the witness in question, Phoenix Wright managed to be so soft and foolish and pitiful without actually being a weak person. It was a contradiction in itself, one Franziska felt a rather strong urge to object against. But this was not the time nor the place, no matter how much he was irritating her with his futile emotional appeals.
…It may not be the time or place for objections, but there wasn't ever a time or place that wasn't suitable for a good lashing of the whip. Franziska was merciful with only a single crack of her weapon, before brusquely excusing herself and stalking away back to her room. Just because Phoenix Wright's foolish morality code insisted he come visit her, she had no obligation to actually receive him and engage in such foolish questioning.
Franziska aimed a quick nod at her brother as she left, and he returned the gesture before taking her place in front of the foolish defense attorney, who seemed to be exchanging foolish banter with the little girl following him around.
As soon as she was safely in her room, Franziska shook her head scornfully. Phoenix Wright was a strange person, not to mention an infuriating opponent. Most of all, though, he was the most foolishly foolish fool Franziska had ever encountered.
He was so extremely foolish that he caused other, reasonable people to actually act foolish in his proximity. His foolishness was almost infectious, and for all that today Franziska had gotten the oddest feeling that her brother was somewhat fond of the man, Phoenix Wright was irrevocably a fool above all else and forever.
…Franziska found herself not quite hating this as much as she ought.
She did appreciate the tulips (which she'd swiped from the counter as she left). She ordered a nurse to fetch her a vase and set them up at her bedside table, and stared at the bedraggled petals the next morning as she listened to that fool of all fools wildly shout foolishness in a foolish attempt to buy just a bit more time.
Franziska had a small smile on her lips, and a feeling closer approaching fondness than the mocking derision she'd expected to feel (though that was present as well, especially whenever her brother caught the man out in yet another foolish error).
Phoenix Wright was, indeed, nothing more than an utter fool.
The fact that she was starting to find herself almost admiring his foolishness, was also foolish - and as Franziska was far too perfect to indulge in foolish behaviour, she would need to break free from his foolish influence soon.
Just… she wanted to listen to the rest of the trial first. It was…
And really, the tulips themselves weren't foolish. No need to rid herself of them just because the man who bought them was nothing but a persistently foolish fool who foolishly insisted on acting in foolhardy ways (such as gifting young prosecutors with flowers) that only served to reveal how much of a fool he truly was.
Franziska's lips curled up in a slight smile, (somewhat hopelessly) amused at her own thoughts just as much as Phoenix Wright's pathetic pleas for time.
When next she saw him, she would whip him unconscious for making her have such foolish feelings.