Characters--Franziska von Karma, Miles Edgeworth, a random, unnamed criminal
Rating/Warnings--PG-13. A swear word as well as some fighting.
Summary--"The fool will never understand when to keep his foolish nose out of my affairs." //Superhero!AU, because obviously we need more Franziskas running around here. For perverbially.//
It was an unusually cold October night in Los Angeles, a fact that Franziska cursed as she sprinted down a dark, badly maintained sidewalk. Despite having run nearly three and a half blocks in a black sweater, pants and ski mask she still felt her exposed skin prick up in goosebumps. Even the leather-gloved hand in which she held her whip was starting to freeze up, much to the prosecutor’s displeasure.
“Foolish criminals, performing their foolish criminal acts on the most foolishly cold night of the year,” Franziska muttered to herself as she rounded the corner of a decaying brick building into a poorly lit, deserted alleyway. In truth, she was also angry at herself for not dressing warmer, despite looking at a weather forecast prior to going out on patrol in the shady industrial neighborhood, but the prosecutor tried to focus most of the blame for the night on the person she was chasing.
Luckily for her, as soon as she turned the corner she saw her target, a short, wiry man, run under a dim streetlight further down the alley. Franziska pushed herself even harder, determined to catch up to him. Her body strongly protested the extra strain—her legs and arms grew heavier and burned more with every step while her breaths became painful, inadequate huffs—but as she saw the man trip on a trash can and slam onto the concrete she knew it was worth it. The blue-haired woman was twenty meters away by the time he was up and running again, and before he had skidded around another corner she was only ten meters behind him.
It was a matter of seconds before Franziska dashed around the corner. As soon as she did, though, a blur of leather and human leapt out of nowhere and tackled her. She felt her body hit the ground before she knew it had happened. All she processed at the moment of impact was a sharp pain in her head and back, her only weapon flying out of her hand, and a grungy looking man pinning her to the ground.
“Gotcha, bitch,” he sneered, pulling his arm back to punch the prosecutor. Before he could attack, though, Franziska jerked her knee upwards towards his groin. It missed its intended target but still caused the man to falter in pain long enough for the prosecutor to push him off of her. He landed on the ground with a hard enough thud to make her think he would be down for a while, but unfortunately he was clambering to his feet by the time she was standing.
“No one calls me a bitch, you fool,” Franziska spat out before socking the man in the face. He stumbled backwards a few steps, but didn’t fall again, as she had hoped. Instead, her attacker charged at her, seemingly angrier than before. The prosecutor managed to dodge the attack, though she inadvertently threw herself off balance in doing so and as a result the only thing she could do when she saw his fist flying at her was to throw her own arm up. To her surprise, the block worked, though her surprise quickly turned into agony after his fist smashed into her left forearm.
Hissing in pain and fighting the urge to cradle her throbbing arm, Franziska staggered back towards the alley’s brick wall. The man dove at her again, and this time she barely managed to duck out of the way. After dodging, the injured woman looked around for her whip, but couldn’t see anything in the dim lights around her. Unfortunately, before she could take a good look around she had to duck again to avoid another attack.
When she straightened up, Franziska saw that the man had moved back from her a couple of meters. She was relieved at the newfound distance until she saw the glistening of a knife in his hands and a murderous look on his face. Before she could fully process the new weapon he lunged.
Instinct took over.
Franziska found herself in an entirely different position in less than a second: she had her left arm pulled back, the palm flat and facing her attacker. A flood of energy rushed to concentrate in the center of her hand for an instant before her arm shot forward, releasing a glowing, crackling bolt of energy. The bolt surged forward towards the man, who cringed out of the way right before it hit him. His flinch caused the lightning to miss him by a few centimeters and instead strike a trash can behind him, which flew up into the air, knocked out one of the alley’s lights and crashed back down to the ground, sparking with energy the entire way. The cowering criminal recovered a few moments after the trash can hit the concrete.
“What—that—t-the goddamn—what the hell did you just shoot at me?” The man held his knife out defensively as he backed away from the prosecutor. “Was that a—a lightning bolt?”
His terrified questions floated over to Franziska, who was trying to focus on her target and not on the excruciating pain in her left arm. She wasn’t entirely succeeding, but her pride refused to let any of it show to her attacker.
“Franziska, why do you have a bruise on your arm?”
The new, questioning tone Miles Edgeworth’s voice had taken on pulled Franziska’s attention away from the case forms she was studying. She looked up to find the man staring at her arm, where a quick glance revealed that her left shirt cuff had shifted up enough to show part of a dark, ugly bruise. Scoffing, she casually pulled her cuff back up over the bruise, twitching only slightly at the protesting ache her muscles gave at the action.
“I wasn’t aware I needed to debrief you on every injury I received, Miles Edgeworth.”
“You don’t bruise easily.” Miles fixed Franziska with a suspicious look, which Franziska rebuffed with a glare. “And it looked like part of a much larger bruise.”
“I suppose that I need to remind you, being the foolishly intrusive fool you are, that what happens to my arm is none of your concern.”
Miles held Franziska’s irritated eyes for a moment longer before sighing and placing the manila folder he had come to deliver on her desk.
“The Chief Prosecutor would like these forms back before the afternoon is over,” he informed her, nothing but professionalism in his voice. Franziska nodded curtly, intending the gesture to be a dismissal as well as an acknowledgement, but Miles stayed standing in front of her desk.
“I suggest you leave, Miles Edgeworth. I am sure you have much work to do.” The statement was curt to the point where it bordered on rudeness, but still he stood in front of her. Sighing exasperatedly, Franziska looked up at Miles and scowled. He looked back at her for a moment, face devoid of emotion, before uttering two troubling sentences.
“I’m afraid that as long as you keep showing up to work exhausted and injured, Franziska, I have no choice but to ask why. It would be in your best interest to just tell me rather than make me investigate for myself.”
With that Miles turned and left, Franziska’s glower on his back the entire way out.
“The fool will never understand when to keep his foolish nose out of my affairs,” she muttered angrily. Sighing, the prosecutor made a mental reminder to do a half an hour of training before going out on patrol that night and returned to perusing her forms, Miles’s implied threat looming in the back of her mind for the rest of the day.