Miles trailed behind his mentor, veteran prosecutor Manfred von Karma, fumbling with the notebook he had been writing in as the two left the courtroom. He had been writing diligently, as he had been instructed. Every argument his mentor had woven was written down in precise detail, every line showing the sequential progression of absolute victory. This was the first day he had gone with his mentor to trial, and the first time he had truly seen him prosecute. He was trying to make sure the notes were perfect, even while walking, for they would no doubt fall under harsh scrutiny as soon as his mentor had a chance to review them. As he walked along, however, he found himself less and less focused. Memories of the last case he watched his father work on kept creeping in, and part of Miles wants to walk up to Manfred and grab onto his hand like he’d always done with his father. He knows better than to do this, though. His mentor may not have been unkind to him, but he wasn’t ever outwardly affectionate either, and Miles would probably be brushed off or scolded for attempting such a thing. Outside the courthouse, a storm raged, and Miles could hear sheets of rain pelting the pavement, broken up occasionally by a crack of thunder and lightning. Manfred glanced at his pocket watch, then hastened his pace, forcing Miles to shut his notebook and hurry after him. It was probably nearing time for Franziska to be picked up from school. As they drew near to the stairwell, Manfred stopped, allowing Miles to catch up with him. He was pulling at the fabric of his jacket sleeve, a gesture that meant he was deep in thought about something. Miles felt his heart sink as the man came to a conclusion, and beckoned him over to the access to the stairs. They were going to be taking the stairs for no other reason than Miles himself being too much of a coward to take the elevator. They would be taking the stairs, which would waste their time and hurt his mentor; Miles could see him bracing himself pretty heavily with his cane already, and multiple flights of stairs were bound to make it worse. It had been four years. Four years since he had killed his father. Four years since his father had died. And for those four years he had not been able to bring himself to set foot in an elevator. Sure, he had tried, but the anxiety had always gotten the best of him, and now that anxiety was going to bring harm to someone else. Someone he cared about. He wasn’t going to let that happen. It wasn’t right. “S-sir?” “Hm?” Manfred looked back at him. “If. If we’re short on time-“ he started, hating the waver in his voice as he spoke, “we, we can take the elevator.” Manfred stopped where he was. “You really don’t have to do that.” Miles felt his stomach tie itself up in knots. He was offered an easy out, he should just take it. “I-it’ll only take a few minutes.” He almost whispered, “I’ll be ok.” His mentor eyed him carefully, then nodded. Was that a hint of pride in his expression, or was Miles imagining things? He tried to straighten up his posture as he followed Manfred to the elevator doors. Doors splattered with blood, and his father dead in the corner. He balled up his hands into fists and clenched his teeth, stepping across the threshold and into the box. He was shaking, miserably so, and he wanted to curl up on the floor as the doors, the gates of Hell, slid shut. It was only a few minutes. From their floor to the ground level would only take a minute, maybe two, and then he could go home, and everything would be ok, and- The ground lurched, and Miles gripped onto Manfred’s sleeve. Manfred looked down at him and laid a hand tightly on his shoulder. It was fine. Everything was going fine. Then the lights flickered. The looming sense of dread that was already thick in the air came crashing down, as they jolted to a stop. The ground was shaking and the air was heavy and he couldn’t breathe and his father was dead- Miles was on the floor now, his knees to his chest. He couldn’t breathe, the air was hot and thick, and his lungs burned, and- “Miles..Miles, can you hear me?.” His mentor's voice sounded faint, like he was speaking to him through a layer of water, but Miles clung to it. That voice was not there last time. It was proof, solid and strong, that it was not the same day as four years ago. There was no gun here. No one was going to die. He couldn’t breathe and he had killed his father, he killed his father he picked up the gun and threw it now his father was dead- Miles managed to open a single eye, looking up at Manfred, trying not to shake, but not managing it. His mentor had slowly eased onto the floor beside him. Father was dead and it was his fault. He let out a truly pitiful noise and seized hold of Manfred’s coat again. Manfred sighed, and pulled Miles up and onto his shoulder.
This was a sorry sight. He was supposed to be better than this. After how much work his mentor had poured into him, he was still stuck being so pathetic. But they were going to die they were both going to die like father “I-I can’t..I can’t..there’s no air.” He wheezed lamely into Manfred’s neck. “Miles. It’s a power outage, not an earthquake. It’s just a result of the storm. We’ll be moving in minutes.” That should have made him feel better. It didn’t. It didn’t mean a thing. He should have known it was storming, he shouldn’t have brought them on here. “It’s my fault. It’s my fault we’re going to die andit’smyfaultit’sallmyfaultand-“ The words tumbled out of his mouth in a mess of sounds that ended in a choked sob. He was crying, on the floor, crying. He was ruining the lace on his mentor’s jabot. That was his fault too. “We’re not going to die. The building hasn’t collapsed, there’s still plenty of airflow.” “Father’s dead and it’s my fault.” “Oh.” Miles felt his mentor go rigid, then relax. “Your fault? Miles, no, how could it have been your fault?” He leaned close, his voice directly in Miles’ ear. “It’s not like you picked up that gun and shot him, did you?” Miles’ heart lurched. He doesn’t know, he doesn’t know, his mentor didn’t know that it was his fault. “The state decided that it was that bailiff, didn’t it? Pity he went free, but that's why we need more prosecutors capable of holding the mantle of perfection…” “T-there isn’t any air.” Miles whimpered again, pressing his head tightly against Manfred’s neck, feeling the man’s pulse. Steady. Present. He’s not dead. He was here, and he wasn’t dead. The arm around his shoulders was warm, and the air- The air was thin and hot and running out The air was cool and there was plenty of it. If he could just slow down his breathing, it would be alright. “Miles.” Manfred suddenly pushed him away, looking at him thoughtfully. “ What is the minimum sentence for grand larceny?” Miles stared back at him, befuddled. Why was his mentor asking him that at a time like this? “It’s not that difficult a question, boy. Minimum sentence. Grand larceny. Now.” “T-twelve months, sir.” “Forty-five seconds for an answer, you’re better than that. Next question, maximum sentence, same charge.” “Ninety months," he stammered. "How was this a good occasion for a quiz? He could hardly be faulted for slow answers, his stomach was still in knots and- “Twenty seconds. Better. Not perfect, but better. A man breaks into a jewelry store and steals nine hundred dollars worth of jewelry. What charge does he receive?’ “P-petty larceny. Grand larceny starts at a value of a thousand.” “Wrong. Try again. Now.” Wrong? Then what was it? Miles tried to think past his trembling hands and rapid breathing. "Is it burglary?” “Wrong again. Petty larceny for stealing the product, burglary for unlawful entry into the store.” “But I said-” “Failure to identify all correct charges is failure. You will accept no less than perfect convictions on all charges, so you must understand each charge.” “Yes sir.” Miles bit his lip. His breathing was evening out as his mind began to accept the distraction. He didn’t want to disappoint. He could do this. “Maximum sentence for identity theft. Now.’ “Fifteen years.” The answer came quickly, as did the next, and suddenly the minutes ticking by were a little less agonizing. His hands never quite stopped shaking, and he cried out one last time as the floor jolted again, but he was breathing ok. He was alive, he was ok. They were both ok. The lights had flicked back on now, and they started moving again, and Miles was finally able to climb to his feet. Manfred followed, slowly, wincing a bit as he did. The doors opened, and both were able to finally free themselves from their imprisonment. “Your luck is catastrophically bad, boy.” Miles looked up at his mentor. “Hm?” “I’ve never had a single issue with that elevator in years, and yet the first time you set foot in it we get stopped. Almost like it happened on purpose.” He pawed at the fabric of his coat mindlessly, “Like someone meant to do it.” Miles tilted his head quizzically, “You think someone cut the power on purpose? Sir…if you’ll forgive me for saying it, that's ridiculous. Who would be that cruel?’ “Ah, who indeed.” He glanced away from Miles, “You’re most likely quite right. Just a sinister coincidence no doubt.” He took out his pocket watch again, flicked it open to read the time, and rested it back in his pocket. “Now, I’m afraid our little misadventure cost us more time than the stairs would’ve, we’ll have to be moving at twice the pace.” “Yes sir.”.
