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Sometimes there’s a pain in Franziska’s shoulder.
It’s usually not that bad. On most days it’s just a dull throbbing, a phantom bullet lodged into her body, an old injury probably made worst by her own actions –
“Franziska, you are being ridiculous. I am taking you to the hospital and if you’re so worried about the trial, I can finish prosecuting – “
“So you can take this victory which is rightfully mine!?”
“Do you really think that’s what this is about? Do you really think so little of me?”
– but that’s not something Franziska likes to think about.
It hurt to be shot. Sometimes she’s astounded that such a tiny ball of metal, a single bullet can cause so much damage. Exploded shrapnel shoved into her flesh, burying itself into her muscle, cracking her bone as gunpowder hung heavy in the air – she still hates that smell – hurts. It hurt when she was shot. It hurts now. She remembers the initial shock, the sharp crack, the sudden pain, acid rising bitter in her throat as she fought to maintain control while her brother dragged her to the hospital. She hadn’t wanted to go. She had wanted to stay, wanted to fight, convinced that she could prove herself to him, you could never beat that man little brother, but I could.
Maybe she should have been honest. Maybe she should have told him.
You left me because I wasn’t good enough, but I have surpassed you.
Maybe. Maybe, maybe, maybe but she hadn’t. She had let the words hang, heavy on her tongue yet impossible to swallow, choked by the weight of all she could not tell Miles while he – brilliant but so blind to what he did to others charged on ahead; I know my path Franziska.
Yes, but what about me? Where am I on your path?
There’s no way for Miles to know this. He's too focused on the life he has chosen and Franziska cannot distract him with her own burdens. Besides, it’s impossible for Miles to understand. There’s no pain in his shoulder. He’s never been shot.
It’s another thing that distinguishes him from her.
It’s another thing that ties her to her father.
What does her brother see when he looks in the mirror? It’s something that haunts Franziska as she studies her own reflection. Years ago, she had looked up pictures of Gregory Edgeworth, some part of her wondering what kind of man he had been. She had found his picture in an old newspaper clipping, his face blurry and the pixels gray and grainy, but had still searched it desperately. She studied his eyes, the curve of his nose, the sharp cut of his jawline – the semblance was uncanny even from the blurry photograph. Franziska wonders, as she stares at herself in her bathroom mirror, pressing the pads of her fingers to the cool glass; if he sees his father in his reflection, what would he see in hers?
We are not our fathers.
We are not those that come before us.
We choose our own paths, Franziska.
Miles had told her this. He had spoken these words in earnest, Franziska, you’re not him. You’re not him, his face serious and she had almost believed him. She had almost convinced herself that he was right but then he had reached out, resting a hand on her shoulder, and there was that dull pain, that reminder. Could she ever truly escape her roots? Miles had said she could. Miles, with Gregory Edgeworth’s eyes and Gregory Edgeworth’s jawline, and Gregory Edgeworth’s smile had looked at Franziska and told her it was possible.
We are not our fathers.
But Miles was made of parts of Gregory Edgeworth. He did not have Manfred Von Karma’s silvery eyes and did not have Manfred Von Karma’s nose and did not have Manfred Von Karma’s high brow and had never been shot. Miles did not know the steady, thumping pain that sometimes woke Franziska in the middle of the night, a scar carved impossibly deep, a reminder etched into her very body, cackling nerves sparking at each pump of her heart. Miles did not know but Manfred Von Karma probably did, and it made Franziska want to scream.
Unmake me. Pluck my eyes from my sockets, smash my nose in, crush my brow, heal my shoulder so there is nothing, no pain, no scar, no tie, undo all of me that links me back – if we are not our fathers, if our flesh is not those that came before us, if our minds are not those who shaped us, then who are we?
“Us.” Miles’ voice had been kind, firm in his sincerity, “We’re just us Franziska. We are not our fathers. You are not him. You are you and you choose your own path.”
And Miles had smiled at her, his eyes clear as he spoke his truth, convinced it was her truth as well, convinced she could move on like he had while her shoulder throbbed and she had clenched a smile out, because he did not understand, because he could not understand that she could not erase herself. She cannot undo her own DNA, she cannot blast the foundations of herself, she cannot strip herself down, layer after layer peeled away until she was nothing but bones left but even then, the bullet had splintered the bone. Miles was different. He could remove his cravat and there would be nothing left of Manfred Von Karma, just Gregory Edgeworth, but she could not. No matter how she changed her hair or her clothes, no matter how she carried herself, no matter how she worked to dismantle the justice system that allowed her father to carry out countless atrocities, her eyes would meet themselves in the mirror and her shoulder would throb.
Sometimes there’s a pain in Franziska’s shoulder.
She never mentions it to Miles.