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Zenaida macroura

What was the opposite of love birds?

Mourning doves.

In youth, they had thought the birds were known as morning doves. They were always the first to sing, perching on windowsills and waking up the occupants of the room. Some people found them annoying, others liked the soft cooing. It wasn't until he was older he learned they were mourning doves. They were bereaving their losses. Their songs were loud enough to wake most people, but not the dead.

Now he sobbed his feelings out on national television, wailing loud enough to disturb the entire country. He was dressed like a disaster, what an eye-searing shade of pink! And who went to court with a thick scarf knotted around their neck like a noose? A medical mask was slipping from his face. Ruffled spikes stuck out in every direction.

The profile of the true killer was shown in the corner of the screen, someone he recognized. She had nearly taken another hapless victim. Bits and pieces of the story trickled out with the people who left the courthouse. With each new tidbit of information, Miles felt a tad more uncomfortable. He did not want to think about the past, or of the case which had so nearly shamed him.

The news was shoddy at best in this awful country. Information was sensationalized and rewritten so that a person with the shortest of attention spans could pay attention. It was twisted, it was oversimplified, or it was biased. He kept telling himself these things, trying to look away from the story. It was surely nowhere near as dramatic as they made it out to be.

Yet he could not stop watching, not even as the sickly glow of the television dug into his eyes. Nor when the attorney who had nearly ruined him caught up, and began pushing away reporters. She was formidable, blocking microphones with one arm, escorting her client with the other. Not only that, she had settled her unfinished business with the Hawthorne girl.

As her piercing gaze settled on the camera, Miles couldn't help but feel as if he was next. He glared in return, until she looked away to answer a quip about medical attention. A flurry of questions was directed towards necklaces, poison, and stomach pumps. Mia Fey batted away their queries with a flippant gesture of her hand. It was practically a royal command, they backed off for a moment. Wright continued to cry something unintelligible, and would have tripped down the steps if not for her guiding arm.

A strangled, mourning sound of his own began when he put together what the necklace had to do with the case.

Or perhaps it was more of a groan.

The fool had eaten evidence- glass evidence- with trace amounts of poison!

"There will be no comment, not now, nor in the future," she sharply rebuffed.

Reporters continued to chase them down the street anyway.

Gavia immer

An insane man. Much like the bird, he was clumsy, and only ridiculous sounds seemed to come from his mouth. He was quick to speak but slow to think about what he was saying. Such poor logic. It was an eternal source of an amusement. He was honestly impressed by the man's imagination. In what world could the person they already established as unconscious be the culprit? Why would he suggest such a possibility to begin with?

The problem with illogical statements was that he could not use sensible thinking to understand their origins. There was no rationale to track, it was a stalling technique devised out of thin air. Either that or he did not know what was going on. Wright could honestly put such creativity and spontaneity into a career which didn't require common sense.

Much like the bird, he also tended to carry around children. Not necessarily on his back, but there always seemed to be a few around. It started with that Fey girl he had defended. She loyally tailed him for a bit, and had even played a vital part in his own trial. When she began to grow up, and Wright was on his own, Ema Skye had forcefully intruded in his life. For three days, she helped out, temporarily filling empty space.

Later on, he began to wonder if the description was a bit harsh. Phoenix Wright wasn't insane. Beneath the goofy exterior, he was actually quite intelligent. He had passed a bar exam which had a three percent pass rate at the time of taking it. Miles would never approve of bluffing to the extent Wright used it, but the man knew how to play his cards. He could deceive a culprit into thinking they were going to get away, just as he prepared to corner them. That skill had even earned him a title: the Turnabout Terror.

Then received a phone call in the middle of the night with the news that Wright had crossed a burning bridge, fallen into a river popular for committing suicide in, and was now hospitalized. He was forced to take back his opinion because of it.

That man was an utter loon.

Luscinia megarhynchos

The melody had haunted Miles, ever since he had listened to the remastered version of the Steel Samurai's theme. He had drummed his fingers on any surface in time with the song, and sung it when he knew for certain he could get away with it. The highest parts still escaped his grasp. Maybe if he had been a few years younger, his voice could climb to such heights. Instead he settled for broken notes which left a sour taste in his mouth. He had even fallen asleep listening to it on an endless loop. The uplifting tune then floated through his dreams, it seemed to permeate all of his thoughts when he woke up.

The usual method to forget a song was to hear the ending of it, but it was crafted in a way which beget repetition. He was left with no choice but to hum the beginning stanza. The lyrics drifted through the bathroom with the steam coming from the shower. He rubbed part of the mirror with a towel, making a visible section so that he could shave.

A neat flick, and the razor slipped across his face. Miles was startled to the point of carelessness, all due to a new singer. He dovetailed with perfect harmony. And as he stumbled over the high notes, Phoenix swooped in and reached them all with ease. He was better than the original artist.

"You alright?"

When he swore in pain, the singing stopped. Phoenix peeked around the shower curtain. It wasn't a pretty sight, to have the ivory sink dripping crimson. Grey bits of hair, water, and blood mingled together.

"Just a cut," he replied, trying to staunch the flow of blood. "You can go back to your singing."

"If you say so," he hesitated.

"I do."

He had to go into work with a thin line across his cheek. At least five people asked him whether Franziska was in town, and if so, how to avoid her displeasure like he clearly hadn't. He wanted to be annoyed, but all he could hear was the theme song with a new, haunting voice.

How could his name be Phoenix when he sung like a nightingale?

Gallus gallus domesticus

Miles could vaguely remember a conversation with Larry, where he had tried to persuade the fool that it made sense the three of them were roosters. They were born in the same year, 1993! Of course their zodiac was the same!

He thought along these lines in a weak attempt to distract himself from the surrounding area. There was very little he could do to mentally gather himself, he just needed to remain composed. If reminiscing about childhood friends was the best way to keep stern, then so be it.

Having nearly spent the last years of his life in one himself, he could never feel comfortable around the cells of death row. It stirred up uncomfortable feelings, that made his hair stand on end. It was why he was much better off thinking about Larry than paying attention.

"They gave us the horoscope section again Nicholas," a quiet voice scoffed, from one of the cells further on. "More lining for your cage I suppose."

Paper crinkled loudly throughout the near-empty halls. He didn't want to think of why there were so many vacancies in the cells, but it was glaringly obvious. As he and the guard walked, the prisoner's soft musings continued.

"I'm a dog, you know," he went on, airily. "You're a goat."

"And I'm a rooster," he thought to himself. "An entire barnyard within a prison."

"Now let's see. According to the news, we share the lucky colours of red and purple, as well as the unlucky colour of-" the prisoner laughed sharply. "Blue."

Whatever paper he held was shredded in half. Yet he continued to speak mockingly, reading words off the torn page.

"In relationships, dogs tend to get along the worst with roosters. Speaking of which-"

Miles angled his head up, acting as if the cell they were about to pass was another empty one. With his clemency appeal denied, it soon would be. That prisoner was not the reason for his visit, he was not here to waste time.

"How is he?"

Words were left out, yet beneath the surface of his contempt-laced question. There was a bird clutched in his less-than gentle hands. He thought the thing was taxidermy, a stuffed replica to keep him busy. Ever so slightly, it twitched. Or perhaps it was the clenching of his fist when he was ignored.

"Failed the bar, hopefully. He shouldn't know anything about alcohol after so many years of grape juice."

Nervously, the guard looked to him, asking if he should silence the prisoner. He was dismissive of the offer, acting as if he did not care. Pretending he did not speculate until knots rose from the lining of his stomach. Or that there were days when he wanted Phoenix to talk about the extent of his former "friendship" with Gavin.

Phoenix

The apocalyptic bird of fiery destruction, of rebirth, and cyclical fates. The world kept turning, planets and stars traced the paths they had always followed. Everything went through its phases, repetition was inevitable. All any of them could do was cling on and notice the signs around them.

Had he and Trucy not been taken in by men their fathers ruined?

At one point, Raymond had possessed bitterness not unlike that of a former attorney. "I should have been there to stop the murder..."

Two girls lost their sisters to corrupt men.

Phoenix too, was reborn. A gullible student, a rookie lawyer, a courtroom legend, and- for lack of a better term- a hobo. Miles stared at the rumpled grey tracksuit and told himself it was another phase in life, that it would pass on soon enough.

It was, thank god. A bird reputed for its beautiful plumage shouldn't be within miles of the thing. An hour passed before it sunk in that he really wasn't joking, and they were gone. Without clothes, Phoenix wandered around his apartment, somewhat lost and very naked. Getting dressed was apparently beyond him, he was so shocked.

Wright still owned a sweater made by his murderous ex, the accompanying scarf. From his doppelganger, he had confiscated a silk shirt, a painfully loud orange, with a bright green dragon on it. Wright still donned both, and he looked like a pumpkin wearing heavy gold chains in the latter.

It had to be done. Miles was certain he would have kept it otherwise.

"I think this gives me licence to burn your Demon Prosecutor outfit," he spoke, finally breaking out of his stupor.

"If you can get it out of the frame, you're welcome to it," Miles replied, flipping through a catalog. "I think you should go for a slightly louder blue. It will hide the lint better."

"What makes you think I want blue?" Phoenix leaned over his shoulder to look at the page as well. "Maybe I-"

"You forfeited your right to decide when the tracksuit became a second skin."

"What if we showed up to court matching? The judge would never be able to tell the difference between us!"

Why was he stalling? It was important that they organized new clothes, and got him back into the rhythm of more stable work. The smile he wore (the only thing he wore) appeared playful at first, but he was avoiding something.

"Wright, please. He's not that senile yet. Although I'm beginning to wonder if you are."

"But-"

"How do you feel about a belt?" Miles interrupted, not letting him get carried away.

"Well, since you asked, it doesn't really matter what I'm wearing because my waist won't be visible. My neck on the other hand-"

Another long-winded answer. He was trying to help, but Wright certainty wasn't making it any easier on him.

"Why don't you want to sort out your work clothes?"

"Huh?"

"If my input isn't wanted, I'd prefer that you say so."

"No," he shook his head for emphasis. "I want your help!"

"Then what is it?"

"Uh," he shrugged, but it was obvious he already knew the answer. He was attempting to make it less serious with uncertainty. "Change I guess."

"Understanding who you want to be will take some time," he comforted. "And it's not as if you haven't done so before."

He gave a long sigh. The air was expelled from his lungs, and he seemed to deflate slightly. It was as if he was collapsing in upon himself.

"Is that a phoenix joke?"

"No, it's a Wright joke," he squeezed his clammy hand. "Because I'm correct."

A ghost of a genuine smile crossed his face. It was an expression which almost belonged with a separate time of his life. But he was remembering.

"I want shoes to match the belt."

"Naturally."

Fin