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Sebastian wasn’t exactly surprised to be called into Justine’s office after the dust settled. She was no longer under his father’s influence, after all. Not that he’d ever realized it. All this time, he’d thought that she’d been with him by choice—mentoring him and handling the hard parts of his first few investigations so he could understand how everything worked. Well, he understood, all right. It had all been a sham. A ploy. A way to keep them both under his father’s thumb, all without Sebastian ever being the wiser.
How stupid was he not to have noticed? How blind had he been for years, even knowing—
Even knowing—
His head hurt.
His hands hurt.
He wanted to cry.
But if ever there was a time to put his tears aside, surely now was that time. There would be plenty of opportunity to cry after he’d listened to what she had to say, thanked her for her help, and handed in his badge. She was still in the Prosecutorial Investigation Committee after all. And someone as capable and inculpable (or was that incapable and culpable?) as him was sure going to be deemed unfit to prosecute.
So yes, he would wipe away his tears, face the consequences of his actions, and leave all the crying for when he was alone once again. He could do that much for the Goddess of the Law, or Justine, or both. He owed them that much.
Miles Edgeworth was in Justine’s office when he arrived. Sebastian hadn’t expected that, but he supposed it made sense. After all, Prosecutor Edgeworth had witnessed Sebstian’s inability first-hand. Prosecutor Edgeworth hadn't been fooled by Pops's games even for a minute. Prosecutor Edgeworth had even given up his badge, hunted down the truth, and rescued Sebastian from his own house! It was only right that Prosecutor Edgeworth would want to see through the justice that his truth had led to, wasn't it? No use waiting then; he might as well get it over with.
“What are you doing, Sebastian?”
His eyes went wide, fingers still fumbling around the back of his badge for the clasp.
“I—I’m here to turn in my badge, aren’t I?”
Justine raised an eyebrow. “Of course not. Why would you—“
She cut herself off, clearly answering her own question and thinking better of it.
“Hmm. Perhaps you should sit down.”
And so Sebastian did, in one of the client-side seats. His head still hurt, and tears were still stinging at his eyes, but he just gave a small sniffle and wiped them away with a glove. A moment later, Justine was sitting down across the desk from him, and Prosecutor Edgeworth was pulling out the chair that was beside Sebastian, moving it over until it was at the end of the desk where he could easily look at both of them. And Sebastian was left looking between them, curious and confused as he waited for them to explain what was going on.
It was Justine who spoke up once they all had settled, her usual placid smile somehow still on her face.
“Sebasitan, we understand that this past while has been… quite an ordeal for you,” Justine explained. “I wish I could say that your father’s behaviour was unprecedented, but I cannot. I can, however, attest that it was unacceptable, and should have been stopped long before it was. The fact that it was allowed to continue for now has some consequences, as you can imagine, but that is a matter regarding him and the the Prosecutorial Investigation Committee, not you. In fact, I can attest first-hand that while you certainly have room to grow as a prosecutor, you have done nothing untoward. Indeed—while your training may have let you down to a surprising degree, which shall certainly require some formal investigation down the road, I on behalf of the PIC would first and foremost like to apologize for the treatment you’ve been subjected to at your father’s hand.”
Sebasitan felt his eyes grow wide.
“W-what?”
“Just as I said,” Justine replied. “There is a lot of reparative work to be done, to be sure. And your assistance will be appreciated, assuming you’d be willing to lend your efforts to seeing it through. Your first-hand experiences would make for excellent testimony in helping us understand the extent of the damages your father has caused, along with those of your fellow prosecutors, Mr. Edgeworth included.”
Sebastian looked over at the man in question. “Is that why he’s here, then?”
“In part,” Prosecutor Edgeworth allowed. “But my being here has more to do with you than with that investigation.”
Sebastian looked back between the two of them, now thoroughly confused.
Prosecutor Edgeworth sighed. “Judge Courtney, may I?”
Justine gave a graceful bow of the head. “Please do.”
And Prosecutor Edgeworth cleared his throat and began. “Sebastian. As Judge Courtney stated, while your father’s behaviour was unacceptable, it was unfortunately not unprecedented. You may know well some of the other names to be implicated in recent scandals, most notably, Damon Gant and Manfred Von Karma a few years ago.”
Manfred Von Karma and Damon Gant. Pops had held both in some regard, though Sebastian remembered the way that he often had opinions about Prosecutor Von Karma that oscillated between admiration and contempt. Come to think about it, it had been some time since his father had last spoken of either. Was this why?
“I… know those names, yes,” Sebastian said. He’d ask the questions about what happened later. Or perhaps try and figure out how to find out for himself. Which way would be best?
He was spared from having to think about it too much more, because Prosecutor Edgeworth continued.
“I’m not sure if you would have known this part, but I was a protégé of Manfred Von Karma myself. He raised me as a son after my father’s untimely death. And when the truth came out surrounding his corruption… well, suffice to say, it took me some time to come to grips with what it meant, how to break from his mold and discover the kind of man—and prosecutor—that I wished to be. Even now, I am trying to break down some of the improper teachings I was given, and discover my own truths. It wasn’t easy, and still isn’t after a few years, though the first was by far and away the worst. Thus, I wanted you to know that if you need any advice as you navigate this first while, I will be glad to offer what I can. But even more than that, there is someone who I believe would be useful to all of our cases—a mentor for you in going through this, and an expert who may be able to assist in the overseeing of the criminal case Judge Courtney is building, should she assent to it.”
Sebasitan felt his jaw drop. He never realized that Prosecutor Edgeworth had been through that much. And that he was suggesting someone else as a mentor?
“Who?” Sebastian asked. And Prosecutor Edgeworth gave a sort of half-smile.
“My step-sister, Franziska Von Karma.”
Sebasitan resisted the urge to ask who as Justine folded her hands together, clearly pleased.
“If Prosecutor Von Karma would be willing to help us in these matters, then that would be quite ideal.
“I’ve already talked to her about some of it,” Prosecutor Edgeworth replied. “I’ll see if she’s free to talk tomorrow. And if so… shall I arrange for her to meet with you or Sebastian first, or both at once?”
Justine considered a moment. “Perhaps me first, so we can exchange what information we can. And then Sebastian. Assuming you’d be open to such a meeting, of course.”
There was little he could do but mutely nod. If Justine and Miles both thought that him meeting Franciska Von Karma was a good idea… well, he didn’t fully know who he could trust anymore, but between them, it must not have been the worst idea at least.
He left Justine’s office feeling less like crying, and more like the world made no sense anymore. After all, he still had his badge. The man who had been his rival mere days before was now showing him more empathy than he could remember his father ever allowing. And he was going to be introduced to someone else who had been in his shoes almost exactly.
It was all too good to believe.
Sebastian didn’t exactly know how much he could trust anything he thought he'd known before, but even he knew how to use Wikipedia. His father had had a page on there for quite some time, and Sebastian had always been proud to see every new accolade and win reflected. Now, with a banner at the top saying that the page was locked to prevent vandalism, and the formerly one-paragraph section on “controversy” now taking up over half the article, it was difficult to look at.
Damon Gant and Manfred Von Karma’s pages looked pretty much the same, though without the protective banner at the top. Apparently the controversy surrounding each of them was old enough to be safe from constant vandalism. (Though about half of the pictures claiming to be Damon Gant were actually of the KFC guy so maybe they were still getting a little vandalized anyway.) The pages outlined their careers as Sebastian had learned about them—how Damon Gant was the best at procuring evidence, and how Manfred Von Karma’s pursuit of the perfect record had led him to never take a vacation day. But they also spoke of murder and corruption, and how they had both chosen to value what they thought was right and what would further their careers over the objective truth.
He’d had to stop mid-reading several times to cry as the realization hit that he had been taught to think that way as well. And that until very recently, he’d believed it wholeheartedly.
And then he went on to see if anyone else he knew had a Wikipedia page as well.
Justine had one—short enough to have a banner declaring it a “stub”, with some information about important cases she’d presided over listed below, and linking to the PIC’s wiki page, which made sense, he thought.
Searching for Miles Edgeworth brought him to the King of Prosecutors page, and an image of Prosecutor Edgeworth not smiling at all as he received the award. (Pops had been furious to have been passed over, especially since it was the first year when Von Karma had been out of the running.)
And Franziska Von Karma? Her page wasn’t nearly as long as Pops’s, or her own father’s for that matter, but it definitely existed. The woman depicted looked familiar, though he couldn't figure out from where, and her article detailed the accomplished and international career of a prosecuting prodigy, only a few years older than himself. In short, she appeared to be everything that he’d thought himself to be until the ugly, painful truth came to light.
She had a controversy section, too, dedicated entirely to her love of whips. And oh. It was her. Sebastian felt himself shrinking into himself as he imagined the feel of the implement landing hard against him time after time after time.
What had he gotten himself into?
Sebastian had no cases assigned to him the next day, which was probably for the best: he wouldn't have been able to get much done even if he tried. He hadn't slept well all night, and when he had, he'd dreamt about whips and flames and cells and taunts. But Prosecutor Edgeworth had emailed both him and Justine to say that Franziska Von Karma would be around to see them both today. And the only thing scarier than meeting someone who was apparently him but better was the idea of facing her wrath if he didn’t. So there was nothing for it but to be ready for her.
He’d done some redecorating while he waited, taking down the trophies that suddenly felt unearned, removing all the photos of himself with his father. They made him feel sick to look at, anyway (though it may have just been the nerves talking). And while his office looked imposing and impersonal without any of them, well, maybe that was what he deserved right now. Just like how he really needed to start treating the books lining the walls like they were more than just decoration.
He pulled one down, intent on reading through at least a few of the pages, but found it impossible. His eyes would fill with tears, or he wouldn’t understand some of the words, or his eyes would glide right off the page and he’d end up feeling the anxiety bubbling up inside of him anyway, until he had no recourse but to start crying again anyway.
Pops would have called it unprofessional. He’d probably even had gotten out his lighter by now—a warning to behave. But Pops wasn’t there anymore, and Sebastian just didn’t know what to do, and….
His office phone started ringing, and Sebastian couldn’t collect himself enough to pick it up. It rang again a few minutes later, and he sobbed through it again, his book pushed out of the way so he wouldn’t get it too wet with his tears, and only the thinnest thread of dignity keeping him slouched over at his desk rather than curling up into a ball in the far corner of the office.
And, much to his mortification, that was the position he was still in when Prosecutors Miles Edgeworth and Franziska Von Karma arrived.
“What on earth—“ It was a woman’s voice, and vaguely familiar, though he couldn’t quite put a name to it, and lifting his head to see who it was felt beyond the realm of possibility.
“I’m afraid we’ve come at a bad time,” a man’s voice said. It should have been familiar, but something about it seemed different enough to knock his confidence.
“A foolish understatement,” the woman observed, and the man sighed.
“I think he’s having a panic attack. Do you mind if I—“
“You’re the one with experience with such things, little brother.”
There was a hand on his upper back a moment later, and Sebastian tried to shrink smaller, afraid that it would be followed up by an impact by a hand, or a whip, or that unbearable heat, but nothing ever came. Well, nothing except for the man’s voice speaking low and a little awkwardly, as though he was unused to being in this situation, despite the woman saying he had experience.
“It’s all right. You are safe. There’s, well, there is certainly plenty to worry about, but I’m sure that with some time and effort we’ll be able to get through it all in due course, and at any rate there is little need to suffer alone any more than absolutely necessary, is there? Your brain requires oxygen, and it is far easier to see to that need if you're not slouched and sobbing, so perhaps if we concentrate just on sitting upright and breathing…?”
Sebastian did raise his head at that, and realized that the hand he was feeling and voice he was hearing belonged to a man who was wearing a crimson suit and kneeling beside his chair. After blinking away a few more tears, he was able to recognize that the hand, voice, and crimson suit all belonged to none other than Miles Edgeworth. Sebastian didn’t so much resist the urge to run out of the room mortified as find that he didn't even have strength to even stand.
Prosecutor Edgeworth removed his hand from Sebastian's back, probably noticing just how raw and wrong Sebastian looked, fumbled with his hands for a moment, as though unsure of what to do with them (which made no sense—Prosecutor Edgeworth always seemed to know what he was doing!), and then gently gripped the edge of the desk. He met Sebastian's frightened gaze and spoke to him, soft and slow.
“It truly is all right, Sebastian. You are in no danger at the moment. As I said before—“
“Oh of all the foolish—“ the woman, young but grey-haired, cut off Miles Edgeworth and stormed towards the desk.
“Sebastian Debeste. You are going to match my breathing. We will continue this exercise until you have completed this foolish display. Understood?”
And, well, what choice did he have? He nodded his agreement, and resisted the urge to collapse against the desk again as she gripped the other side and began instructing and demonstrating. In. Out. In. Out.
It took a long time for Sebastian to be able to manage. For the first while, he couldn’t at all, earning rebukes for his efforts. (“Not like that. Again!”) And then, even after he started to feel his breath slowing down, he’d get halfway through one of her long, slow breaths, only to choke and cough and need to blow his nose and wipe his face and try again. (“Nearly. Once more.”) But eventually, after far too long, he felt himself able to take one breath with her, and then another, and after a few more stifled sobs, he managed a full ten in a row, which apparently was good enough for the woman on the other side of the desk to consider the exercise a success. She turned her attention to Miles Edgeworth then, who was still beside him and was, for some reason, now holding a wastepaper basket.
“I thought you were better at this.”
“Well, I know how to handle my own, thanks,” Prosecutor Edgeworth replied. “I’m not used to dealing with others’. Besides, this is hardly the location in which I generally need to worry about such things, as you are well aware….”
Sebastian looked between them, confused, as Prosecutor Edgeworth collected the rest of the soiled tissues into the basket and placed it back in its usual spot.
“Ah, but we should include him in the conversation as well, now,” Prosecutor Edgeworth stated, and he stood once more, crossing around the desk to stand beside the woman.
“I suppose we should,” Franziska agreed. “Judge Justine Courtney has filled me in on her investigation. It seems like yet another internal investigation is in order, is it not?"
“Indeed,” Prosecutor Edgeworth agreed, “It’s funny how the law is meant to preserve order, but can end up attracting the corrupt in its process. Though I'd still like to think that there are more honest men in our rank than otherwise."
Franziska raised an eyebrow. "Only men, little brother?"
"I believe the phrase is meant to be gender-neutral."
"I'd still prefer terminology that could be so easily misconstrued," Franziska decided. "However, that is out of scope of the current conversation. For now, I am to talk with Prosecutor Sebastian Debeste, am I not? You seem to think we have much in common.”
“In a way, yes,” Prosecutor Edgeworth agreed.
“Very well, then,” Franziska replied. “Then if you will excuse us, I believe we should talk. And if you have any insights to add, little brother, I will receive them from you later.”
“Very well,” Prosecutor Edgeworth replied. He took a piece of memo paper off of Sebastian’s desk and wrote a series of digits on it. “My extension. In case you need to reach me. I doubt I’ll be venturing far today, unless something unexpected arises. But otherwise, I’ll leave you to it. Prosecutor Debeste, Von Karma.”
And with that, Prosecutor Edgeworth saw himself out of the room, closing the door behind him, leaving Sebastian alone with Franziska Von Karma, who took a long, judging look at him and sighed.
“It would be in our mutual best interest for you to collect yourself,” she decided. “Go, wash your face, get us both a glass of water, and then return. I will speak with you then.”
“Y-yes,” Sebastian croaked. “Okay.”
And so he did.
Sebastian considered running away for a split second, when he was still walking down the hall with a snotty nose and tear tracks running down his cheeks. He wasn’t sure if it was hope or fear that made him stay his course, but by the time he had used the bathroom and washed his face, drying it on the luxury paper towel that the office supplied (as certain lawyers within the office would stand for no less), he knew that he was going to stay, and return to his office, and talk to Franziska Von Karma, the woman who was apparently like him but better in every conceivable way. And so, he went down to the break room, poured glasses of water for each of them, and returned to his office. Franziska had done some rearranging in his absence, moving the boxes of things he’d taken down against the wall by the door, and establishing herself and her things on the client side of Sebasitan’s desk. She took one of the glasses of water from him, and after looking around the desk, sighed and reached into one of her bags, procuring two disposable coasters bearing an airline’s logo.
“It is better not to get water rings all over your desk,” she explained, and Sebastian, blinking and bewildered, took the second one and placed his own glass of water upon it. He had never considered the impact that his actions could have upon the furniture like that before.
Franziska waited until he was seated and settled, observing him carefully as he fidgeted under her gaze before finally speaking.
“I believe we should start again,” she said. “I am Franziska Von Karma. You are Sebastian Debeste. My father was Manfred Von Karma. Yours, Blaise Debeste. We both were brought up as the protégés of our fathers, trained by them directly and expected to excel from an early age. I believe that we have much in common.”
Sebastian blinked. “How-how do you know so much about me?” It wasn’t like he had a Wikipedia page yet, unlike her. And while his father's identity was likely common knowledge, Pops's expectations had never been listed, on his Wikipedia page or otherwise.
Franziska shrugged, as if it were nothing. “Research. Talking to Judge Justine Courtney. Remembering the interactions I had with your father, and what my father would say after the VIP events that he and his colleagues were invited to.”
“You were allowed to go to the VIP events?” Sebastian wondered.
“I went to a handful, but not many,” Franziska replied. “For most I was too young to be predictably controllable, away in Europe studying, or too junior or uninvolved a lawyer to be invited on my own merit.”
“Oh,” Sebastian replied. He’d always assumed that it was because his father had been ashamed of him, and that if he’d just done well enough, he’d be invited and be fawned over by all. But of course, such thoughts felt silly now.
“And now he is gone, and I am invited to many in my own right,” Franziska continued. “In time, I’m sure you will be too.”
“I’m… not entirely sure about that,” Sebastian admitted, but Franziska gave him a dismissive wave.
“You are new. There is time. Assuming you are willing to continue down this path. Though if you are not, I am afraid that my esteem for you may fall dramatically.”
He flinched, imagining the whipping such a drop in esteem might represent. “I-I’ll stay. I’ll stay.”
“Good.” She took a sip of her water, making a face at the taste. “I always forget how metallic the water here tastes. But nonetheless, with that out of the way, let us move onto the next order of business. It is my intent to mentor you. I have been through your struggles, in much closer a way than my little brother has been through your panic attacks, apparently. And I believe that I may be of service in helping you understand and repair the damage that has been done to you as well. And who knows? Perhaps you will be able to help me understand a few more matters as well. Stranger things have certainly happened. Does that sound agreeable to you?”
“Y-yes,” Sebastian replied, “but—I have a few esquiries before I accept.”
Franziska frowned. “Esquiries?”
Darn it. He had gotten the word wrong. And he'd been trying so hard. “I, uh. I’ve got some questions.”
“Ah. Inquiries,” Franziska deduced. “Very well. What would you like to know?”
“First off, why are you agreeing to do this? I know that Prosecutor Edgeworth thought it was a good idea, but that didn’t mean you had to acquire it too.”
“I acquiesced,” she began, emphasizing the corrected word, (darn he’d done it again, and so soon!) “because I understood the truth in my little brother’s concerns. And also because I do believe that we of the second generation bear the onus to make sure that we do better.”
“Onus?” Sebastian repeated.
“Responsibility,” Franziska explained. “They failed, and we must work doubly hard not just to atone for the harm they have done, but to prove that we can flourish beyond them without continuing to that same end. And while I find that I prefer to work alone in most circumstances, it is still vital to have a network of trusted colleagues to ask for advice, compete against, and use as benchmarks for one’s own growth. I have built my own, as has my brother. And clearly we are part of each other’s, sometimes working in all three capacities at once. But you, as I understand, have none. And it is foolish that you are expected to move forward from such a place alone, so I refuse to stand for it. I would have done so even without my brother asking.”
“Oh,” Sebastian replied. “A-also, why do you call Prosecutor Edgeworth your younger brother? I thought he was older than you.”
She gave him a smile at that. “You did your own research too. Good job.” (And maybe he'd just looked at Wikipedia, but it still felt good to be praised for knowing something of his own volition.) “I was in the family longer. He joined when I was old enough to understand that he was new and I was not. And I was, at the time, far above him in my father’s training. And so younger brother he was. I do understand now that it is meant to be merely an age-order thing, but it seems foolish to change the way I speak after so long. And besides, it is sometimes nice to lord it over him, even if he does like to try to race ahead of me.”
“I see,” he said. He hadn’t realized the extent of Prosecutor Edgeworth’s interesting family history. He’d have to ask him about it sometime, should Prosecutor Edgeworth wish to talk to him anymore when all of this was over.
“Do you have any further questions?” Franziska asked, and Sebastian felt his mouth draw into a thin line as his eyes fell upon the whip coiled up beside her chair.
“A-are you going to whip me?”
Franziska looked at her whip, studied Sebastian for a long while, and then cocked her head to the side. “Only if it is absolutely necessary.”
And Sebastian wasn’t sure what that even meant, but he decided it was as close to a no as he was likely to get. (Closer than “only if you misbehave” or “if you don’t live up to my expectations” or any of the other conditions, explicitly stated or otherwise, that his father had placed upon him.) And so, he took a deep breath, and tentatively nodded his agreement.
“Y-yes,” he said, failing to keep the shake out of his voice. “I—yes. That would be agreeable, I think.”
“Very well,” Franziska replied. “We shall work together, then. And I look forward to seeing how you may grow from here. No doubt it will be in an upward direction at least.”
It was true, Sebastian thought. This was probably (hopefully, most likely) his rock bottom. If not due to the revelation of all that his father had done, then certainly due to embarrassing himself in front of Franziska and Prosecutor Edgeworth before they’d had any chance to talk at all. He just hoped that she was right, and that it would indeed be all uphill from there.
The first thing that Franziska Von Karma wanted to do was to assess his office.
“Did your father pick this space for you?” Franziska asked, and Sebastian had to admit that he didn't know.
“It was assigned to me,” he explained. “Whether or not my father had a say in it, I wasn’t told.”
“I understand,” she replied. “Where was his, in relation to this?”
“On the top floor, with all the bigwigs,” Sebastian replied.
“So not near yours.”
“Not except by the elevator, no.”
Franziska gave a quick nod, and turned to gesture to the boxes near the door. “And these. I deduced that they were most likely on their way out. Was I correct?”
“Y-yes,” Sebasitan replied. “Pops—ah, my father—he suggested most of them, and helped me decorate.”
By which he meant that his father had very carefully placed the items around the room. Sebastian had felt glad at the time—proud for his accomplishments to be displayed in a way that they could be seen at any time. Now, he wondered if they were meant to be constant reminders so that when the plug was eventually pulled, as it had been recently, Sebastian would be easy to blackmail and puppet. He couldn't find the words to explain as much aloud—he was still trying to wrap his head around how deep his father's reach had gone—but Franziska took this all as a matter of course, apparently.
“Of course he did. You wouldn’t want to know the horrid shade of green that my father picked for the carpet and rug of my first office, because it was psychologically proven to help eyes move onto other things. To help me stay focussed, he said. As if that had been a problem of mine since I turned nine. But parents do not let things go, especially when they have certain expectations of their children. And mine expected great things of me.”
“I-I’m not sure that mine did of me,” Sebastian admitted, but Franziska waved off the thought once again.
“That is unimportant now. The real question is, how would you like to see your office moving forward?”
“I don’t know,” Sebastian replied. “What—what is yours like now?”
Franziska shrugged. “I do not have a permanent office anywhere at present. It would be foolish for me to have one when I travel around so often. I have a small collection of things I travel with: a favourite convertible pen case with pens that stand up well to travel, a calendar and a planner, and a few small mementos. It makes any space less impersonal while still being easy to pack up, unlike the great pains it would take to package my little brother’s chosen personalizations. However, I have come to realize that everyone’s preferred space is quite different. Some prefer a more simple environment. Others, something so garish that it would be impossible to separate the office from them, or them from the office. I do not know which way you would prefer.”
The thing was, Sebastian didn’t either.
“Could I… start small like you?” Sebastian wondered. “Everything feels really intimating right now.”
Franziska frowned. “Intimating?”
“…Scary?”
“Intimidating,” Franziska provided. “Or imposing, I suppose.”
“Yes, that too,” Sebastian agreed.
“Well then,” Franziska decided. “I don’t see why we cannot. Let us see what we can do to make this place more suitable in the short run. And in the long run, you will contemplate how you wish to grow from there.”
And then she stood, grabbing a small purse with her, leaving Sebastian to blink up at her curiously.
“Where are you going?”
Franziska frowned down at him.
“We are going to get you a few essentials.”
And that was how Sebastian found himself going shopping with none other than Franziska Von Karma.
The first place that Franziska took him was to a stationery store, much to Sebastian’s confusion.
“But they give us office supplies for free!”
“Yes, but many of them are of poor quality,” Franziska argued. “It is foolish to rely on the free supplies alone, especially when a few good items will significantly increase your mood and feeling of professionalism.”
And so, they went looking.
Franziska suggested that they start with a tool organizer, which they could then fill with a modest number of high-quality supplies. And so Sebastian followed her over to where various organizers were displayed. He felt ridiculously out of his league, examining containers made of every possible combination of cloth, metal, plastic, wood, and even cardboard. But eventually he decided on a simple boxy one in his favourite colour, which Franziska deemed big enough to suit their present needs.
(She herself had been eyeing some rolls big enough for only one or two pens, but she’d dissuaded against him doing the same until he found utensils he loved—apparently some organizers were best for having to contain, and some were best to cherish, and he had much to learn about the distinction between the two.)
Next came looking at enough pen and pencils to make his head spin—his father had enjoyed using a specific style of ballpoint, which he’d ordered with his name emblazoned upon them. Sebastian didn't know what he wanted to do with the rest, but the idea of using them up filled him with enough dread for him to want to push them aside, even before Franziska suggested staying away from that model entirely.
“Good,” she declared. “You will find a new style better suited for your tastes. Now, do you know what kind of pen you enjoy?”
“No,” Sebastian admitted. And, come to think of it, he was hard-pressed to think of many areas where he did know what he specifically enjoyed.
“Well, you prefer wearing gloves,” Franziska noted, “so you’ll want something that is quick to dry, lest they become smudged. And you seem to enjoy burgundy, so perhaps something available in that sort of shade as well. Together, this gives us a few places to start.”
It was only after trying out a few—Franziska suggesting models and Sebastian trying them in hand, that she noticed another problem.
“You have trouble gripping small objects.”
Sebastian felt his face going red as he nodded. “I—I’m awa—I know.”
He wasn’t sure why Franziska looked at him quizzically at that, but then she simply shrugged and said. “Very well. We shall look for models designed for ease of holding, and at pen grips also.”
And so they did.
It was weird—liberating, almost—to find a pen that felt as natural to hold as the handle of his baton. And for it to look professional, and not childish like most of the thicker ones he’d seen before? He wanted to cry at the very idea.
But Franziska wasn’t done with him yet. There were pencils to look at, and highlighters that wouldn’t smudge with the ink of his chosen pen models. And erasers, date stamps, and correction tape, and even a little device meant to pick up the bits that came off his eraser when he used it.
“I believe it is too much to expect you to write the perfect first draft at this time,” Franziska explained, “and even when one may manage it, our clients may not be as perfect. As such, it is better to prepare for the necessary revisions ahead of time while maintaining a proper level of professional tidiness.”
She even had him examine paper, and suggested he buy a few samplers so that he could experience the a world beyond poor-quality notebooks and printer paper.
“It feels like it’s all going to be wasted on me, though,” Sebastian noted.
Franziska, true to her earlier word, did not whip him, though he saw her reach for the whip’s handle nonetheless.
“That is foolish nonsense,” she declared instead. “Like learning anything new, you must first understand the vocabulary. It is foolish to make decisions without that much information at least. And while learning everything at once can be overwhelming, taking a survey of what is available and then digging down on the parts that seem relevant or useful is an excellent way of moving forward.”
And that was how Sebastian ended up walking out of the store with a sampler of writing utensils of all sorts, and papers to use them on, and after some contemplation, a three-piece organizational system that built on the original one he’d picked out, which could all sit on his desk. Also a planner, because Franziska had deemed it foolish for him to try and understand the concept of time within a business setting without one.
Franziska had limited herself to two new notebooks and inks for her favourite pens, though she’d taken a second look at the pen roll she’d been eyeing before they left.
And once everything had been paid for and they were carrying their bags of goods, Franziska examined him once again, studying for a long minute before asking, “You like music, yes?”
“Well, yes,” Sebastian replied. He’d always assumed that this could be taken for granted, what with his baton and all.
“And is this, too, something that your father pushed upon you, or something that you legitimately enjoy?”
Sebastian blinked at the question. To have it put so bluntly was a little shocking. But his answer was thankfully pretty straightforward.
“I—well, I legitimately enjoy it. It was the first hobby I found for myself that Pops actually approved of. And I was never the best with any one particulate instrument—“
“Particular instrument.”
“Particular instrument,” Sebasitan echoed. “But I understood and enjoyed the musicality.”
“And thus conducting,” Franziska concluded, and Sebasitan nodded. “Well then. Perhaps that is the next area we should concentrate on. What kind of music is it that you prefer?”
“Classical,” Sebastian replied. “Pops preferred rock music, but it always felt too…” He gestured, almost spilling his bag of stationery as he tried to figure out how to explain his feelings in small words, since he was less likely to mess them up. “Loud. Scary. Over— ah. Not overboard, I don’t think, but something that sounds like it?”
“Overbearing,” Franziska suggested, and Sebastian nodded his agreement. “Classical can be overbearing too, though. Sturm und Drang, for example, or modern and atonal arrangements.”
“Well, yes,” Sebastian allowed, “but Sturm und Drang feels more emotional than overwhelming compared to the modern sort of drum and bass that you can feel as much as hear. And most orchestras visit the atonal stuff pretty infracturel—ah—not very often. And for every Berg or Schoenberg, there’s a hundred Williamses or Mussorskys.”
“Mussorgskys, you say?” Franziska repeated. “I don’t think I’m familiar with that one. You will tell me about him while we head to a music store.”
And so Sebastian did, explaining about his Pictures at an Exhibition, after which they debated the merits of movie and video game music as examples of classical composition, versus modern pieces created to be standalone art pieces.
Sebastian had assumed that Franziska had meant that they’d visit a record shop—after all, that was what his father had generally meant when talking of music stores. But instead, she’d directed them to a store that sold instruments of all sorts, leaving Sebastian wide-eyed as he looked inside.
“Why are we here, Franziska?”
“It is not obvious?” She asked. “You require more than stationery to decorate your office. And this store is the most likely to have paraphernalia that will suit your tastes.”
“Oh,” Sebastian replied, eyes wide as he contemplated it. Music paraphernalia in place of photographs and articles. Things that had proven the test of time in place of things which had crumbled upon the revelation of his father’s deeds. “That sounds… great.”
“I assumed it would,” Franziska agreed. “Now, let us see what we can find.”
Of course, one of the issues of instrument stores was that they generally catered to rock musicians as well as classical musicians. A great proportion of the paraphernalia on sale reflected this fact, since guitar and drum brands tended to be more intent on selling themselves to their fans than classical instrument makers. (Though on the other hand, he would have been very confused to see a Stradivarius wall sign in the same way he was seeing the ones for Fender or Gibson.) There were, however, some large brass music notes, and wrapping paper that was pretty enough to frame to add a splash of colour, and also a bookend set resembling treble and bass clefs, and another for alto and tenor clefs, and a thousand little ornaments and things with piano keys in a never ending roll.
He decided on the bookends for the time being, as well as a pack of the wrapping paper, and Franziska nodded and declared it a good start.
“That will be enough for today,” she declared. “Go home. Bring everything to your office tomorrow, and we shall set it up and talk then.”
“Are you sure?” Sebasitan asked.
“Of course,” she replied. “This has been plenty for one day, and the workday is nearly over anyway. No doubt you will want to do a purge at home too, but I will suggest you do not start on that immediately. There will be time for that later on. Right now, you need to take time to deal with yourself and to work in small bursts. It is infuriating and unfair that we cannot get everything done and over with quickly, but such is the way of dealing with highly emotional situations. So do as I suggest: go home and rest, and you will be better for it.”
“O-okay,” Sebastian replied. “I will see you tomorrow then.”
“You will,” Franziska replied. “Goodbye, Sebastian Debeste. I will look forward to speaking to you then.”
Sebastian didn’t know how “looking forward” could be the right term for Franziska to use when talking to him, but she seemed more confident in her English than he was despite the foreign accent lilting her words, so he would have to accept it as truth. Perhaps she really was anticipating their next meeting. And, even if she was still a little intimidating to be around, he thought he was too.
Sebastian didn’t manage to rest the whole evening, despite Franziska’s orders. There was some mail that came in, and some of it was bills and paperwork that Sebastian hadn’t figured out how to deal with yet in his father’s absence, and that led him to his second major breakdown of the day. He made himself a frozen dinner after he'd calmed himself down—it was easier than cooking or takeout, and less likely for him to accidentally mess up and leave him with something inedible or hard to finish. He tried to watch a movie after dinner, but found that he couldn't pay attention, his mind intent on contemplating his past, present, and future all at once. And eventually he slept, hoping that the next day would, at least, make a little more sense than this one had, for all its highs and lows.
Sebastian was terrified when he arrived at his office to find the lights on and the door already unlocked. Had the PIC changed their mind? Were they going to kick them out after all?
But no, it was just Franziska already inside, sitting primly on the client’s side of the desk. She must have heard his footsteps because she turned towards him with her trademark no-nonsense air.
“Sebastian Debeste. Good morning. Did you bring your purchases?”
“Yes,” he replied, holding up the bags from the stationary and music stores. He'd almost left the music one at home, but it turned out that fear was as good a motivator in making sure he had everything on him. (Would forgetting a bag necessitate a whipping? He didn't want to find out.)
“Good,” she declared, standing and taking the stationery one from his hands. “Then let us set up this office together.”
Sebsatian took to setting up the music paraphernalia, setting up each book end on a different shelf so that they were in the correct arrangement for sheet music. It took some shifting of the books to get all four book ends facing in the correct direction for their shape, but it was worth it to see them aligned, turning his whole room into something akin to a musical score. Meanwhile, Franziska set up the stationery, putting all the writing and erasing utensils into the boxy stand they had initially picked up, and the papers within one of the two supplementary pieces. She left the third empty for the time being “for the paperwork that will inevitably come in,” and supplemented their proffered items with a things provided by the office: a stapler, clips of various sorts, and a couple of the free pens “in case you are foolish enough to prefer them after all. I will not disrespect bad taste so long as it has been thoroughly deduced and not accepted by default.” She even helped him hold up the wrapping paper in various places, to see if and where it might best be used in the office. (It adds a pop of colour,” she agreed, “but it most certainly needs framing.”)
Even without the papers framed and installed, however, it was amazing how much the office looked different, just with the little changes that they’d made.
“It… really feels like it’s mine,” Sebastian exclaimed, tears welling in his eyes as he sat at his desk and took in the sight. And Franziska gave a curt nod of approval as she took her own seat once more.
“Precisely. That is why I keep a small but essential collection of things to travel with me: with them, any desk in any office can be mine.”
“Yes,” Sebastian replied. “I get it now.”
Franziska gave a curt nod of approval. "Good. So now that we have made this space more hospitable, I believe it is the time we start to take on some less hospitable topics. Your father, specifically.”
“My father, specifically,” Sebastian repeated, feeling all the joy suddenly fade away once more.
"I'm afraid so," Franziska agreed. “You are by far the number one person to understand his out-of-office dealings. There will most certainly be police questioning also, however, Judge Justine Courtney suggested that we speak first, and discern the extent of matters. No doubt you will want a lawyer to be with you when you go and speak to police as a witness as well—I expect that I will suffice in this matter, however if I believe it will be beneficial to understand the case more fully before agreeing. Also, I may end up the prosecutor for the state on this matter—it is important that I know whether my expertise would make me especially well- or ill-suited to the matter at hand.”
“Ah,” Sebastian replied. “Is it likely to all be one trial? Even if it’s… several different sorts of offences?”
“That’s yet to be decided,” Franziska explained. “Why do you ask?”
“B-because…” Sebastian replied, stumbling over his words. “I have the… indication? That there should be.”
“Indication?” Franziska frowned. “I am not sure if that was the perfect word. But I believe it will do. We are aware of multiple forms of corruption: his want to control resulted in multiple murders, false incarceration, and several counts of blackmail. There is the matter of the illegal auctioning of evidence as well. Is it on one of those matters that you would speak?”
Sebastian took a deep breath. “I could speak on many of those, I think, though not in great detail.”
“I understand,” Franziska replied. And, reaching into her bag, she retrieved one of the notebooks that she’d picked up yesterday, as well as the pen roll she’d been eyeing.
“You went back for it,” Sebastian noted, and Franziska smiled.
“Good. You’ve got some observational skills. I am happy to see it.”
There were two pens within; the one she selected was the same colour as her brooch and earrings, though the ink that emerged from it was jet black.
“Perhaps we should start with an understanding of what a normal day or week was like with your father.”
And so he told her. About what it was like when his father was home, and what it was like when it wasn’t. The times that he was likely to be gone, and how he’d always say he was off to see to business, but normally didn’t expand on what he meant except to say it would be beyond Sebastian’s comprehension and that his work never stopped—making it sound far more important than whatever Sebastian was doing at the time, be it working on the the latest assignment for Themis, or conducting a piece with the school’s chamber orchestra.
She asked him which names he recognized from a long list, and he had to admit that most of them were unknown to him. This took Franziska by surprise, but then Pops had never confided much in him unless he was angry enough, or he was sharing his opinion of whomever was on the news.
“I knew every name on my father’s list,” she explained. “Though then again, I passed the bar at age thirteen.”
It wasn’t a brag, mainly a statement of truth, and yet Sebastian found himself feeling a little sick to his stomach.
“Have they—will there be an investigation into whether I truly passed the bar?”
Franziska hesitated. “It would be correct to do so,” she allowed. “However, there are a world of resources available for you here—both material and human. And both my little brother and Judge Justine Courtney are likely to want to see to your reinstatement, should you be found wanting. At the very least, they should be able to ensure that any withdrawal of power is done without any additional prejudice or penalty. But I would not worry about that yet. Right now, your worry should be seeing your father’s case through, and deciding how you wish to proceed, also. Whether you wish to stay here and follow in your father’s footsteps, or move somewhere less associated with him, or leave the profession altogether. My brother foolishly considered the third, though his decision to remain a prosecutor was objectively the correct one.”
Sebastian was unsure if any decision on career could ever be objective, but he didn’t particularly want to argue the fact. Especially when, after considering the matter a lot the night before, the answer didn't really change much.
“I… think I want to stay a prosecutor too,” Sebastian replied. “I know it’s early, and I know that there is a lot for me to learn, and learn right this time, but I—if my father did this much harm, then I want to try and undo it. And do better. Even if it takes my whole life.”
“Good,” Franziska replied, and she sounded pleased. “I feel much the same, as does my little brother. Together, we will work to create a more just version of law and justice, by discovering, learning, and fully understanding the truth of each cse. My father’s near-perfect record will likely never be broken, and that is likely a good thing, for perfection at the cost of truth is not true perfection at all. This has been a hard lesson for me to learn, though I believe I am better for it.”
Sebastian nodded. "I want people to trust me because I'll understand them and work hard, not because something bad might happen to them if they don't."
“That is correct,” Franziska agreed, and she turned to a new page in her notebook. “Now, from what you said before—about multiple trials for multiple offences. We talked about several of the cases already, and what you knew or, in many cases, specifically did not. Did that cover all you were thinking of?”
Sebastian shook his head, no, as a shiver ran down his spine. No, that was most certainly not all.
“Well then,” she replied. “What else is there that should be investigated?”
Sebastian bit his lip. “I. Um. Where do I start?”
“At the beginning,” Franziska stated, and Sebastian shook his head.
“N-no, I mean there’s multiple… uh….”
He frowned, and hesitated for a moment, and then sighed. “You’re right. For talking, it’s easier to start as far back as I can remember. But for explanation, it might be easier if I….”
He bit his lip, considering exactly how to go about showing the most obvious extent of his father’s wrath, wondering what her reaction would be. But then, she worked with INTERPOL. She had prosecuted high-profile cases before, including gruesome murders, despite only being a few years her senior. And knowing that, it was likely that Franziska had seen far worse things than this before. And so, there was really little else to do but to pull the gloves off his hands and let her see the damage for himself.
She gasped and reached to grab something—she assumed it was the whip and he cowered away, but then it was her phone, and she was looking at him once again.
“Your hands,” she said, her voice low and steady. “Show them to me again.”
“Why do you have your phone?” He asked, and she looked at him as though the answer was obvious.
“To take photographs,” she explained. “If this was your father’s doing, as the circumstances of you taking your gloves off are suggesting, then this is clear evidence, as everything else. And I will want to study and document them both.”
“O-oh,” Sebastian replied. He held his hands out again, and she took photograph after photograph of the burn scars on his palms, and on the back of his hands. Of the way that his left pinkie finger was just a little crooked and the way that the damage stopped just before his wrists, easily covered by gloves.
“I always assumed it was a mere preference,” Franziska said as she worked. “I have always found my leather gloves to be practical, both for not contaminating evidence and for maintaining personal cleanliness, among other matters. I never thought to consider that yours were any different.”
“A-ah,” Sebasitan replied. “Most people don’t. There’s no real reason to, especially when it’s… easy and societally amenable to cover them up.”
“Socially acceptable,” Franziska noted, “though you managed to choose two synonyms this time.”
“A-ah,” Sebastian replied. “S-sorry.”
“No, no, it was, if anything, an improvement. Though I must ask—why your hands? Why not somewhere more easily covered?”
Sebastian shrugged. “I—he never told me why. Just to give him my hands. And then—then he’d get out his lighter, and—”
He sniffed, and Franziska nodded.
“I understand. How often did he do this? I do not believe this was all at one go.”
“It wasn’t,” Sebastian agreed. “As for how often… It depends? If he was angry at me… all the time. If he wasn’t… maybe once or twice a month? Whenever I did something really wrong, and he wanted the lesson to sink in.”
“I see.” She jotted down a few notes, and then looked back up at him.
“This is why you have problems gripping too, is it not?”
“It is,” Sebastian agreed. “It’s not—I can still do most things, but my circulation—everything’s a little off with my hands, now. The gloves also help keep them regulated, because things can be really hot or cold or—“
“I think that will be enough explanation for now,” Franziska decided. “Anyway, as to what you wanted to discuss, was this the lot of it? Or is there a story to further tell?”
“There’s more,” Sebastian replied. He replaced his gloves—it was easier not to have to see them or worry about them getting too cold—and then began to tell about growing up with his father. About how Pops would use praise and punishment in tandem to make Sebastian do whatever he wanted. About how he didn’t know how far back his teachers had been bribed because he was now doubting thing after thing and he didn’t even know where to begin in finding out what was right. About how his mother—
About his mother. And when she disappeared. And how he’d always wondered, but never questioned what happened to her until his father had thought to make her fate, too, a threat.
Franziska’s face darkened at that one. “She wasn’t on our list.”
“W-well, she wasn’t involved in legal affairs,” Sebastian pointed out.
“True,” she agreed. “It will certainly require a more thorough investigation. And you are unsure of what happened to her.”
“I am,” Sebastian replied. “Though I’d be… not happy to help with the investigation—I’ll feel guilty and horrible—but I will want to.”
“Of course,” she replied. “I’ll be sure to pass on that information as well.”
She wrote down a few more notes, then closed her notebook and turned her attention back to him.
“I am proud of you, Sebastian Debeste.”
Sebastian blinked. “W-what?”
That made no sense at all. She was strong, accomplished, and sure of herself. She was a true prodigy, where he was probably a scam. And she had her life seemingly put together so well, while his was falling apart. Where, in all that, was there any room for pride in him?
“You are able and willing to stand up to your father,” she stated. “I saw you do so, and with the questions you ask, the actions you have taken, and the testimony that you’ve given and continue to give, it is clear that you plan to continue to do so, even when you do not know how to do it best. None of that is anything that I had the chance to do, nor was I ready to face the truth of my father’s actions very quickly once they came to light. So in some ways, I am also envious, I suppose. However, it cannot be understated that it takes a great deal of courage to do what it is that you are doing, whether or not it feels like it at the moment. And from what you have said, there may not be many people in your life presently to tell you as much. Thus, I wish to make my thoughts and feelings clear because it is something that you should know is possible as a matter of fact.”
Sebastian had burst into tears after that speech, to the point that Franziska had called her brother to help figure out how to deal with this foolish display of emotion once again. But who could blame him—he couldn’t remember the last time anyone had said something so complementary about him. Perhaps nobody ever had.
“You know, you could almost be another little brother of mine." Franzika said.
“Could I?” Sebastian wondered. He was an only child, after all—if she said in her expert opinion that their relationship was at all sibling-like, he would have to take her word on it.
“You are also certainly much better at being a little brother in need of catching up than my more legal little brother,” she added, chuckling a little to herself. “Perhaps I should unofficially adopt you. Would you be amenable to that?”
Would he? Well, first he would have to understand what it meant, he supposed.
“What would that envelop?”
“Entail,” she corrected. “And it would entail being part of each other’s network, mainly. Continuing to mentor you, I suppose. And calling you by more familiar terms outside of work settings.
And oh. Was that all it was? Was that all it needed to be? If that was true, then he would embrace it happily.
“Yes,” he replied. “Please.”
“Good,” she said, and reached out a hand.
It felt silly shaking on an agreement to be something like siblings, but he didn’t know what else to do, so he went along with the gesture, letting her grip his gloved hand firmly even if he could not return the action with the same intensity.
There would be much still to go through with her—investigations and trials, and several panic attacks more than likely. But it would be nice to know that he wasn’t alone through the lot of them. And that in time, he might be able to develop a life that was his own, with a family of his own choosing, that would care for him by choice and not by duty or blackmail.
And that… well, that sounded like a dream come true.