Chapter Text
It's easy for Miles to convince himself he doesn't see certain things - or, rather, it's necessary, especially on board von Karma's ship.
The Crown operates like a clockwork machine, consisting of forty officers, forty sets of whirling cogs and spinning wheels, all fitting together in perfect, interlocking order. Von Karma's perfection in motion. Everything serves a purpose. Everything has a place. And the pieces that don't align with the machinery are either crushed into complacency, or disappear entirely.
Miles has been at sea for a very long time, and as such, it's become absolutely necessary for him to pretend.
He pretends that he does not see young pirates being flogged to death on his own deck; he pretends that scrubbing the blood and bits of skin afterwards does not make him feel sick; he pretends that he doesn't notice the wounded officers that always seem to mysteriously die overnight, only to be quickly replaced by newer, fiercer faces; he pretends he does not wake up in a fearful sweat each night, his vision fuzzy like fungus, the echoes of a scream collapsing around the empty space where his heart should be; he pretends he does not think about the fresh-faced bright-eyed pirates he sends to the gallows; (he pretends he does not remember that day fourteen years ago; he pretends he did not fire that pistol; he pretends he did not hear that scream; he pretends he did not kill his father - )
Miles has gotten very good at pretending. And it's quite easy, therefore, for him to convince himself at first that he does not hear the siren's song.
It is not the first time that Von Karma has captured a sea creature for the purpose of selling it off; in fact, the ship has a designated room for live quarry. But today's quarry is an exceptionally special prize, a top-ticket item: a fishman. A siren, to be more specific.
Miles has only ever seen pictures of sirens, but he knows what to expect. Half-fish, half-man, notoriously flirtatious, and exceptionally deadly. Able to imitate human behaviour to an uncanny degree. Mimic skills on par with any natural predator that imitates another animal to lure in prey. Known to become erratic and dangerous when desperate.
Miles has seen desperation many times before; can almost pinpoint, in fact, the exact moment it sets in. There have been criminals and convicts and thieves alike that have tried to bribe him with pretty words and empty promises. I can give you what your heart most desires, I can make all your dreams come true, I can make you rich beyond your wildest fantasies, I can put an end to all your sorrows and grief.
Please.
Miles won't be so easily led astray; and so, when Von Karma asks him to look after the captive specimen, Miles agrees without a second thought. After a thorough probing and close examination, they relinquish the siren to the cellar, where Gumshoe, the Crown's shipwright, hastily fashions a porcelain tub of water for the creature to stay in behind the metal bars of their prison. Miles carries a tray of fish to the cellar and opens the door.
What he finds is exactly what he was expecting; a lean, handsome creature with a tail draped across the side of a makeshift porcelain tub, looking at Miles like it's entirely unsurprised to see him standing there.
"Hello," it says, in perfect Japanese, perfectly pronounced, sounding rather young. It blinks - or, more accurately, bats its eyelashes in a pathetic imitation of blinking. Just like Von Karma said it would.
"Supper for you," Miles replies coldly. He goes to unlock the cell door, then thinks better of it and slides the tray of butchered fish between the bars. "Make it quick."
The siren doesn't even bother looking at the tray of food, gaze raking over Miles instead, and Miles can't decide if it feels more salacious or predatory. Either way, it makes him uncomfortable.
"I see," the siren says finally. "So you'll be the one looking after me, then?"
"Until we reach port."
"And what happens then?"
"That doesn't concern me."
"So in other words, you don't know."
Miles narrows his eyes. "I've been ordered to take care of you until we dock. Once we've sold you to our buyers, what happens to you isn't my business."
"I understand. You take everything very seriously, don't you?"
"I take my duties seriously, as any sailor should."
"Fair enough." The siren pauses, drumming its fingers against the side of the tub, appearing as casual as possible considering it's got a three foot tail and gills for ears. "So, are you an officer here? You look way too fancy to be a boatswain."
"Just hurry and eat."
"Not one for conversation, huh?"
"Not with you."
"And here I was hoping we could make friendship bracelets and play spin the bottle."
"Eat."
The siren extends a long, pale arm and slowly drags the tray of fish closer to itself, looking at its contents with a frown. "I can't eat this," it says.
"It's salmon."
"My food has to be alive."
Something prickles in Miles' chest. "You'll have to make do with this, I'm afraid."
"I'm going to starve."
"Not my problem."
"It will be, if your captain loses his precious bounty."
Miles gives him a dismal look. "Myofibrallar, the main protein that's used to sustain a siren, is just as prevalent in dead meat as in live. It may go against your instincts, but you'll survive."
The siren looks a little surprised. "Depriving a creature of its basic natural instincts is animal cruelty, last time I checked."
"We're marine officers, not a charity."
"Right, right. I forgot being in a position of authority doesn't adhere you to a specific ethical and moral code."
Miles scoffs. "I didn't know sirens were so political."
"I didn't know marine officers were so stingy."
"Then I suppose we've both learned something new today," Miles replies without feeling. "Do you have any other pressing observations to make?"
"Not at the moment, no."
"Good." He turns on his heel. "I'll be back with breakfast tomorrow morning."
"Do you have a name?" The siren asks.
"I thought you were done talking."
"This is a different moment."
Miles' sigh has enough force to topple a building. "Edgeworth."
"Phoenix Wright, at your service."
"Charmed," Miles replies dryly. "See you tomorrow."
And with that, he closes the cellar door and walks away.
***
Miles reports to Von Karma every night after supper, and tonight, like every other, his mentor is seated at his desk, going through some papers.
"How's the fishman?" He asks Miles immediately.
Annoying. Chatty. Intrusive. "Just fine, sir."
"Did it try to talk to you at all?"
"A little."
"It begged for its pathetic life, I assume."
"No, actually," Miles replies thoughtfully. "It seemed rather - rather calm."
Von Karma looks at him pointedly, and Miles knows he has said the wrong thing. Von Karma thrives on cruelty - in the abstract, and as a spectacle. He wants to hear about helplessness, about the effects of his ruthless victory. He will want to make the fishman suffer if Miles does not change tactics fast.
"Of course," he adds hastily, "there was that look of crushing defeat in his eyes. I think he realized it would be pointless to put up a fight." That's better, from the renewed interest on Von Karma's face. "Whatever you did to him, it must have crushed his spirits enough that he accepted its own defeat."
"A wise decision," Von Karma says, leaning back in his chair. He looks pleased, and something like flattered pride rises in Miles' chest. "We sustained a few injuries trying to capture the thing. They're likely to live, but we'll speed them along quietly. If they were careless enough to be wounded by such a vile, pathetic creature, they don't deserve to be marine officers, and it's not worth the trouble and rations to jolly them along." Von Karma waves a hand. "If anything, it's a kindness."
Miles' face is a blank careful mask. "Yes, sir."
"I won't keep you any longer. You have first watch tonight, don't you?"
"Yes, sir. Thank you, sir."
Miles bows, not as low as he should, and leaves.