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Miles Edgeworth was beginning to "remember" things he shouldn't. Maybe stress stemming from the Hazakura case's implications was getting to him so much that his mind was beginning to vomit up vivid imagined cases set in other places and times — hundreds, if not thousands of them, scattered across over half a dozen other hypothetical lives. Some of these "lives" were also supposedly spent in prosecution, but there were also two where the "memories" suggested that he served as the defense, and even one set of delusions in which he presided over cases as a judge. He supposedly argued for reform not just in this life, but in many of these alleged others as well — lambasting the superstitious premises upon which trial by combat was based, pointing out that confessions obtained by torture were dubious at best, and far more. If he didn't know better than to trust any of it, he might even have entertained the notion of taking pride in it all.

Frightening as the idea of losing his mind like this might be, the phenomenon would have been less so if the concept these newfound delusions centered upon didn't have a twisted sort of logic to it in the context of his real life. What normal boy, after all, would continue to cling so fervently to a court system that betrayed justice in such an utterly personal way as it did when he was young? Why did he love it so even before he really understood what it was in full? Why had it made so much sense in his heart to consider suicide if he couldn't find a way to continue his life in the role of the job he'd supposedly only pursued to punish himself?

He knew it wasn't rational for him to retreat to an empty courtroom in this state of mind. Ideally, he should be seeking professional help; at the very least, he should be staying home rather than endangering others by venturing out while his sanity was slipping away. And yet, despite the sight of the place feeding further into his new delusions, he was more comfortable here than anywhere else. This was home, his addled mind told him. It had always been home. Perhaps it always would be...

No. That was preposterous. Ridiculous. None of it could have been real. Souls didn't exist, ergo neither could reincarnation. It was just a series of unbidden, startlingly consistent imaginings, no more real than the nightmare that had haunted him for fifteen years. He wasn't all those men; he was just Miles Edgeworth, Genius nee Demon Prosecutor.

Wasn't he?

[Prompt: reincarnated lovers.]
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