A/N: In celebration of Dual Destinies finally getting an official release date, I decided to write this little story. It's AJ-era and takes place during the second case, Turnabout Corner. I'm planning on about two or three chapters if people like this little blurb enough for me to continue.

-Wright Talent Agency-

Apollo's head was spinning. Somehow his relatively easy morning of job-hunting had turned into a trip to the hospital and a hunt for a missing noodle wagon. Well, they had found the wagon.

...And the body attached to it.

At least he had a job now.

Not to mention that this had all happened too close to Mr. Wright's car accident to be just a coincidence.

But what did that have to do with the panty thief? Nothing was adding up...

Aaaaaagh!

This case was proving to be more frustrating than it was worth.

Apollo looked around the messy room. Was this place really once an office? 'Was' being the operative word. Stacks of magic equipment were cluttered in every available floor space- the hats and bunnies kind of magic, not the creepy stuff, much to Apollo's relief. He really would have been reconsidering his options, then. A grand piano had miraculously managed to wedge itself along the back wall, though it was obviously unused if the piles of hoops and playing cards scattered across the top were anything to go by.

Pianist my ass.

Apollo had the sneaking suspicion that the trick box in the corner- the kind people usually got magically sawn in half in, he noted with some concern- was currently being repurposed as a closet. This mess was all evidence of Trucy's aspiring career as an amateur magician, a path her father didn't seem to discourage. Speaking of Trucy, had he just agreed to work for a fifteen year old? Apollo didn't know if he should try to get out now or if it was already too late.

Either way, they were wasting time. They should be out investigating or consulting Mr. Wright with their findings, but Trucy had insisted they come back to the Agency for something 'really important'.

Apollo was afraid to take a seat on either of the sofas, so instead he shuffled awkwardly in the doorway and waited for Trucy to come back from wherever she had disappeared to.

The phone started ringing.

"Polly! Can you get that?" Trucy called from another room.

"Ah, no? It's your phone!" he yelled back. Where even was the phone in this mess?

And stop calling me 'Polly'! I'm not a bird!

"Just answer it!" Trucy called again, not coming out.

Fine!

Apollo moved further into the room and scrambled to find the phone. The receiver was nowhere to be found and the phone was already on the third ring.

How can they find anything in this mess?

The phone stopped ringing before Apollo could find it. He froze, hands hovering over a pile of scattered playing cards, not sure what to do. Trucy was probably going to be mad at him for missing the call.

A moment later the phone started ringing again.

P-Persistent!

"Polly!"

"I can't find it!"

Hoop. Wand. Glove. Hat. Spaghe-ew!

He wiped his hand on some unsuspecting boxes. What Mr. Wright didn't know wouldn't hurt Apollo.

"Look on the couch!" Trucy said, her voiced sounded fainter this time. She must have moved further back into the building.

Which one?

Apollo scooted his way around the coffee table. The couches were probably the only uncluttered surfaces in the room. Apollo pulled up the cushions.

Gotcha!

Nabbing the phone, Apollo hit the receive button automatically before he missed the call again.

Um... what should I say?

"...Wright Talent Agency!" he practically shouted into the speaker.

Real smooth, Justice.

The other line was silent. Apollo pulled the phone away from his ear long enough to check that yes, he had picked up the call. The area code and number were completely unfamiliar, though.

Well of course they are; it's not your phone!

When the silence persisted, Apollo tried again, this time, less nervous and, well, loud. "...Can I help you?"

"Who is this? Who is speaking?" A voice asked- demanded-from the other line. It was deep and clearly male. Male and very unfriendly.

Hey, isn't that my line? And why is this guy so hostile?

Not expecting to be yelled at so suddenly, Apollo started blurting out answers, anyways. "Um... Apollo Justice speaking! I'm... new."

There was a pause from the other end. "Ah, yes, Wright mentioned you. You're the new attorney."

"Uh, yeah, I guess?" Now Apollo was less put off by the guy's tone and more suspicious of his knowledge. He had only just joined the Agency this morning, and it had been more of a fluke than anything. How did this guy know so much?

"Is Wright there?" The man continued before Apollo could ask any questions of his own. "I'm having trouble reaching him on his cellphone..."

Wait, this guy was trying to get a hold of Mr. Wright? But Mr. Wright was...

"Oh," Apollo said. "Then I guess you haven't heard about the accident?"

Apollo heard the man take a sharp breath.

"...Accident?"

"Yeah, Mr. Wright was hit by a car. He's in the hospital."

"Nnnngh..."

Ah! What is with this guy?

"But he's okay!" Apollo quickly added, trying to calm the man down. Or at least get him to stop making strange noises. "He just-"

"What hospital?" The man cut him of tersely.

"Um, the clinic. Hickfield Clinic."

The call disconnected with a click.

Well that had been a... quick conversation.

And a rude one.

Who even was that guy?

Apollo wondered if he should call up the hospital and inform Mr. Wright that some angry guy was looking for him, but thought better of it. It would serve the ex-attorney right to get an unexpected call from the rude man himself. Maybe Apollo had just a little too much spite left over from that fiasco of defending Phoenix Wright himself. He'd lost his job and his personal credibility that day.

Yeah, no, he would not be calling Mr. Wright.

When Trucy came back into the room, Apollo was still holding the phone to his ear, not sure what to do with himself. Or where to put the phone. Not back under the cushions, that was for sure.

"Who was that, Polly?" Trucy asked, her hands clasped behind her back curiously. Apollo realized he'd never had the chance to ask the man's name.

"I'm not sure. They didn't say," he admitted.

"Oh, okay. Hey, Polly?"

"Yes?"

"Pick a card." Trucy held out a deck of old Pink Princess themed playing cards.

"That's what we came here for!?"

-High Prosecutor's Office, Somewhere in Germany-

Edgeworth still had his hand clenched around the phone he had just slammed into the receiver.

Accident? Hospital?

He knew something had been wrong when Wright had failed to return his calls for the past several hours. Phoenix always called to wish him good luck the night before a trial, a sappy, sentimental gesture that only that man would be capable of thinking up. None the less, it had worried Edgeworth when seven o'clock came around and no call had come. Despite the time zone difference, Wright was always mindful of Edgeworth's schedule, even when Miles didn't explicitly say he would be in the office late. On those nights, Phoenix would tell him not to work too hard and when Miles would demand to know how on Earth the other man knew that he was still working, Wright would just respond with an easy "Because I know you, Miles," and Edgeworth would hear that big, crooked smile in his voice.

But none of that nauseatingly heart-warming stuff mattered right now because Phoenix had still not called him when eight o' clock had passed. It was then that Edgeworth had first called Wright's cellphone, worried that he may have passed out at the Borscht Bowl Club again. Honestly, drinking on the job was not one of Phoenix's healthier habits. No matter how much he insisted to his daughter that it was just grape juice, Miles knew exactly what Phoenix had taken to drinking. Edgeworth prepared himself for a brief conversation with one of the waitresses or other employees who were all used to fishing out Wright's cellphone to save themselves from finding him transport. He'd also have to call up either Gumshoe or Larry- or anyone else in the area willing to drag Phoenix's drunken ass home. But when Edgeworth dialed the number, he didn't even get a dial tone. Upon being directed straight to voicemail, Miles had hung up and dialed again. And again. And again. Each time he had, predictably, gotten the same result.

He had dialed the number for the Borscht Bowl Club.

Phoenix had not come into work last night. In fact, he had called in briefly this morning asking for sick leave.

Sick leave?

More worried than ever, Miles had resorted to calling the Wright and C- no, what was it called these days? The Wright Talent Agency? Something ridiculous like that, but how could anyone say no to such a sweet little girl? Wright certainly had trouble with her. And Miles...

Trucy... Where is your damn father?

Miles dialed the number for what used to be the Wright and Co. Law Offices. The clock in his office was now pushing past nine, so it should only be around noon back in California. When Edgeworth had got a dial tone he felt a little better than when he had received a direct voicemail, but it was short lived as the phone was left to ring out.

Phoenix Wright where are you?

Briefly considering the logical reasons why no one would be answering the phone, Edgeworth had dialed again. It was still Monday in the States. Trucy should be in school at this hour, though Edgeworth dreaded to wonder what her attendance record looked like. It was only natural that she wouldn't be home to answer the phone...

Someone had picked up.

It was only after a very brief and revealing conversation with one Apollo Justice that Edgeworth had all the facts.

His desk was still cluttered with mismatched files pulled from tomorrow's court record. Evidence and facts that Edgeworth had previously been trying to piece logically together into a perfect case were now forgotten and instead he found himself staring at the number to the Hickfield Clinic on his computer monitor. His hand moved absently again for the phone, prepared to dial, but then he stopped. He needed a moment to think.

Wright was in an accident... What if he hasn't called me because he can't? What if he's severely... no. I would have been contacted. By the hospital. By Trucy. By Larry, for crying out loud. Calm down, Edgeworth. Phoenix has probably just done something stupid again.

And Phoenix was prone to bone-headed moves. For all the genius he was in the court, sometimes Phoenix was a complete idiot. A complete idiot who had the audacity to call into work sick from the hospital, but not inform Edgeworth as such. And to rack up Edgeworth's phone bill with all the international calls in the process.

A complete idiot who got himself hit by a car.

Miles fumbled with the phone again, but paused before dialing. When he had reached over for the phone, something jingled loosely in his pocket. The sound gave him a pause. With his free hand, Miles reached down and withdrew a handful of small trinkets from his pocket. He laid them out on the desk. Amongst the loose change, two items stood out.

The first one was his prosecutor's badge. Miles didn't really have a good reason why he kept it stored away. Wearing it probably would have helped him in quite a few situations, Miles had to agree, but he simply preferred to keep it in his pocket. Thinking about it now, he couldn't remember if maybe it was a habit he had tried to emulate from von Karma, or if it had been simply easier to accept the fact that he was now the opposite of father-a punisher instead of a protector-by keeping the evidence hidden away. Miles absently rolled the badge between his fingers. Maybe he kept it there because he didn't want the world to know he was a prosecutor and judge him for it. Phoenix had certainly had his share of being called an 'ambulance chaser' over the years due to his occupation. Though, with the way Wright shoved his badge at anyone who would listen, he probably deserved it. Miles decided he would have to see if Franziska wore hers the next time she visited. That would settle the matter. He put his badge back on the desk.

The second item was even more of an uncommon thing to find in one's pocket. Miles picked up the simple gold band and slipped it onto his ring finger. It felt unnatural there, bare before the world. He almost never wore it, Miles realized with a start. It was the kind of thing a person would be expected to wear if they owned one. Phoenix wore his, or at least he did when Miles visited, but Miles never felt quite right with it on his finger. It was a private thing, a thing other people didn't need to see. Wearing it would just invite them to pry. So Miles kept the ring in his pocket, next to his badge. They were kind of silly things to be put together, one representing his job and the other his private life, but it all made an odd sort of sense to him. After all, if it weren't for his occupation he would have never crossed paths with Phoenix again. As Miles stopped rolling the ring absently around his finger to pick up the phone again it felt heavier somehow.

Phoenix... why does it seem that all I can do for you these days is give you a phone call?

Miles placed the phone back in the receiver and instead found himself looking at airfares. He would have to fly into New York and exchange again in Dallas, but he could get to California in a little over twenty hours on such short notice. He booked a ticket.

Next, he hastily rolled his chair back from his desk so he could open the bottom drawer. Out of one of the neatly labeled files he pulled a form he rarely used, if ever. He would need to request a substitute prosecutor for tomorrow's trial. The ring still on his finger glinted under his dim reading light. Under his reason for the reassignment he simply wrote "Family Emergency".

Miles printed the plane tickets.

There was an emergency suitcase that Miles always kept packed in the trunk of his car after the last disaster when Phoenix had fallen off that bridge. The bridge that was on fire at the time, no less. Phoenix never did things half-way. The suitcase wasn't always used for emergencies, of course. Sometimes Miles would find himself free of a new case for a few days and would debate whether or not he had enough time to fly all the way out to California and back before his work began to pile up. Of course, these opportunities were so infrequent that Miles couldn't really consider what he and Phoenix had anything more than "extremely long distance".

Thinking again, Miles looked up directions from the LAX to Hickfield Clinic. It wasn't far from the old defense offices, so Edgeworth figured he wouldn't get too lost. He printed the directions, anyways. Miles Edgeworth was always perfectly prepared, unlike a certain other ex-attorney he knew.

Given how close the clinic Wright had been transferred to was to the Wright Talent Agency, Miles was more than slightly concerned that Phoenix's run-in with the car was no simple accident. Nothing was ever simple with that man, except for maybe his brains.

...And his heart.

Miles grabbed his finalized plane tickets and driving directions off the printer, along with the case reassignment form, and shoved them in with the papers he hurriedly stacked and put back into the court record. He left his office in a hurry to head home for what promised to be a sleepless night, even if Wright's new rookie had claimed Phoenix was perfectly fine. Perfectly fine people didn't end up in hospitals.

He would leave first-thing tomorrow morning.