The aroma of dark coffee drifted through the chilled hospital room. The doctor sat beside the patient’s bed, observing the life sign readings on the trolley next to him.

It had been five years since he had been poisoned. Since then, he had been in a deep sleep. Technically, they should have turned the machines off a long time ago, but an anonymous source was continually providing them with money to keep him going. Someone must like this guy a lot.
So he slept. He was fed through a tube, and when the doctors examined his eyes they saw ragged, twisted pupils which seemed to belong to a demon. He never twitched, never moved. He breathed, gently, but only because the machine did it for him. They would need to turn the machine off in a few months anyway. According to law, they weren’t allowed to keep anyone in a state like this for more than six years. It was obvious to everyone in the hospital that he would never wake up, he was too far gone…

…too far gone…

Diego Armando’s eyes flashed open, and he surged upwards, wretching violently. The doctor who had been sitting by his bed jumped upwards, burning his legs with coffee while his eyes were wide as he watched Diego twist and turn, snapping the cables that connected to him to the life support machine. He seemed to attempt to get out of bed, but instead collapsed, breathing heavily as he lay on the bed.
By now the doctor had already called for help, and two other doctors and two nurses ran into the room, coming to the aid of the man. The nurses re-connected the cables while the doctors ran checks to see if he was breathing properly, and whether or not he was still awake.
“Where…?” Diego said, opening his eyes and then shutting them again and screaming in pain. “My… eyes…”
The three doctor’s were whispering to each other, and Diego, stunned as he was, caught snippets of their conversation. “He’s awake?” one said, his voice hushed low.
“Impossible.” Another said, “he should have been dead.
“Well, he’s obviously awake.” The third Doctor said, “so what do we do.”
“We check if he’s thinking straight.” The first said, and then made his way over to him. He opened his mouth to say something, but then was interrupted.
“Where…? Where… am I?” He said, his hands moving weakly in the air, his incredibly weak muscles providing little support for them.
“Diego Armando?” The Doctor said, asking a question that may as well have been rhetorical. “You are in hospital.”
“Hospital…?” Diego breathed, “how?”

Over the next few hours the doctors talked to Diego. They explained how he had been poisoned by Dahlia Hawthorne five years ago, and how he had fallen into a deep coma for over five years. Diego responded with a barrage of questions, and at one point asked if he could get up. He attempted to do so, with the aid of two doctors, but collapsed again. His muscles were far too weak after five years in bed.
He was left to recover in bed for the next two days. He lay, sometimes crying, sometimes thinking. He hadn’t asked about anyone he knew. He didn’t know whether Mia was okay, or where Dahlia was now. Perhaps a part of him feared the worst, anything could have happened in five years. He wondered if anyone he knew was still alive. Perhaps he could go and find them.
It was after those two days were up that the Doctors brought Diego the face mask that would become a necessity in his life. They fitted it to his face, attaching it from ear to ear. Imagine the sheer joy of being able to see again, but coming with the price of forever being burdened with something that will never be able to leave your face if you wish to see again. That was how Diego felt.
He examined his surroundings. The doctors had not been joking. This was defiantly a hospital. He flexed his arms. They were weak, but not so weak that he could not move them. Requesting that he be sat up in bed, the doctors lifted him into a sitting position, and then he began to speak.
“What is this thing?” he asked.
“It is what will help you see for the rest of your life.” The doctor said. “If you wish to be able to see, you must never take these off.”
Diego had expected as much, but it still pained him to hear it. “Will I be able to leave this hospital?” he asked.
“Yes.” The doctor said.
“Soon?”
“No.”

It was indeed several months later before Diego was allowed out of hospital.
He exited the clinic, his white hair blowing in the breeze. He smiled at the fresh air, and looked about at the sky and grass. The past few months had been spent teaching him how to use the visor, and also training his muscles back into shape. He had discovered that his house was still legally his, even if it wasn’t in great condition. That was his first port of call.

The grass outside had grown to jungle proportions. It flopped madly, covering the path that led to his house. Diego forced his way over the grass, stumbling until he finally reached the door. The doctors had kept the contents of his pockets and briefcase since the day he fell unconscious, and had returned it to him. The key twisted reluctantly in the door, five years of rust making it a monumental task, especially for Diego’s still-recovering muscles. Eventually, he forced the door open, only for a spew of letters to go flying across the hallway. Stepping inside, he shut the door behind him.
He trudged over the piles of letters, and set his briefcase down on the kitchen table. Blowing the dust away, he lifted the piles of letters and took them over to his sofa. He cleaned the sofa, then sat down, sifting through the letters for anything important.

The doctors had not been able to tell him anything about his friends and family. They had no idea who half of them were, and Diego had no real relatives to consider. His mother, father and relatives had all died long ago, and he was an only child. He doubted anyone but a few had visited him in hospital. In the clump of letters, he passed three wedding invitations and several bank statements, flicking through multiple social letters and defence requests. He had almost completely forgotten he was a Defence Attorney, and he had difficulty clicking his life and job back into place.
He noticed that the letters stopped after about a year and a half after he went into a coma. Obviously people realised that he would never respond. He found no news of any of his friends, except for the occasional friendly letter. But the last one was dated 4 and three quarter years ago. There was no news of anything else.
He threw the entire pile down, trawling over to the telephone, he picked it up to be greeted with nothing. Of course not, the electricity for the house would have been disconnected long ago. He went into the kitchen to be greeted with a god-awful stench which assaulted his nostrils violently. Multiple things had died in here, and even more things had gone rotten. He would have to attend to that later. He moved upstairs to his bedroom, and found it almost exactly the way he had left it, albeit a lot more dusty. His clothes for the day before he had been poisoned still lay in his wash basket.
No-one has been in my house since the day of my coma. Diego thought. Why? Surely the police would have been here? Or even Mia?
Mia. He had forgotten about her. His phone wasn’t working, but there used to a payphone across the street.

Luckily, it was still there. He put in a few old coins, and punched in a number. He remembered the number even after five years. He supposed that was a good sign, his memory must still be top-notch. After a few seconds, the call connected, and then rang through to the answering machine.
“Hello. Thank you for calling Wright and co. Law Offices. Sorry I’m not in the office right now, but if you could leave a message detailing your name and number after the beep, I’ll try and get back to you.”
Diego hung up the phone without leaving a message. Wright and Co.? Surely Mia hadn’t sold her business? With these thoughts plaguing his mind, he trudged back to his house for a major cleanup operation.

Diego Armando sat in that man’s house, staring blankly at a television that wasn’t on.
Dark crimson tears dropped onto the floor around him.

Only a day had passed since he had returned home, and yet he had used that time to miraculous effect. He had cleaned the entire house from top to bottom, and now all that was left to do was re-connect the electricity. He hadn’t been outside since he had called Fey and Co., and he felt like he could never leave.
Trapped in his own home, he had cleaned. But then he had summoned the courage to go and find Mia. He left the home with little but some bus fare and a mobile phone. He felt awkward outside, as his visor looked ridiculous, or at least, it seemed that way to him, but he pressed on, despite the odd stares he received.

He had taken the bus from his house for the short journey to Fey and Co., he refused to admit to himself that it was called otherwise, and had arrived before noon. The office wasn’t open. It was a Sunday, Diego remembered. He cursed silently, then made to leave, but before he could go a man appeared behind him, who he bumped into.
“Ah… sorry.” Diego said, thinking that the man looked vaguely familiar. He was wearing a brown trenchcoat, with a red tie on. What looked like some sort of Police badge hung from his neck.
“Urp.” The man said, “I’m sorry.” He looked up from the paper he was carrying. “Woah! Is it Halloween or something?” Diego chose to ignore the comment. There was as short silence, before the man awkwardly moved on “You’re looking for Phoenix?”
“No…” Diego said, stretching the word. Wright and Co. he remembered.
“Weren’t you just knocking on the door to Wright and Co.?” the man asked.
“Yes. But, I’m looking for someone called Mia.” Diego said.
“Mia…” The man said, scratching his chin. “Mia… Mia Fey?”
“Yes.” Diego replied, becoming increasing irritated at this annoying man.
“Seriously? You’re looking for Mia Fey?” He asked.
“Yes.” Diego replied yet again.
“But… but Mia… Mia’s not…” The man said, his face dropping as realisation dawned on him, “Oh my god… you don’t know.”
“Know what?” Diego said sharply, with increasing anxiety.
“I’m not sure I should be the one to tell you…” the man said quietly.
“Tell me what?!” Diego shouted, his face filled with terror.
“Mia… Mia died. Two years ago.” The man said.
Diego stepped backwards, his head reeling. “D… Dead?” he whispered, his hand pulled close to his chest.
“I’m so sorry…” The man said.
Diego stepped forward, grabbing the shoulders of the man. “How…?” he breathed, then screamed, “How?!”
“Calm down!” The man shouted at Diego.
“Calm down?” Diego spat, “Calm down?! Is this some sort of sick joke?” he asked, his face turned to the Wright and Co. law offices.
“I’m sorry… but no.” The man said. “Now please, calm down.”

The man had explained everything. He was Detective Dick Gumshoe, working down at the local Police Office. He was at Wright and Co. to deliver some documents to the new owner, who Diego had learned was Phoenix Wright.

“Feeling alright?” Gumshoe asked. They had talked for over three hours now. It was about three o’clock, and all Diego had done was weep and ask questions. He had learned of Dahlia Hawthorne, the woman who had poisoned him and put him in this position. She was on death row, ready to be executed. He supposed that was punishment enough, although he still wanted to talk to her. He had also learned of the circumstances for Mia’s death, and as he did so his hatred for this Phoenix grew. He had let Mia die. He had been the only one strong enough to protect her, and he had failed. Mia was the only thing he had had, and now it was gone.

Diego knew that Gumshoe was a friend of Phoenix, and he knew inside him that Phoenix could not be a totally bad person, but his true knowledge was clouded by the fact that Phoenix had let Mia be killed for something as pathetic as a few documents, and he had even been on the defendant’s stand for murder before his name was cleared. As far as Diego was convinced, Phoenix was the worst person he had ever heard of, and he had to do something about him. Should he go and talk to him? He had thought, then dismissed the idea. Phoenix didn’t even know him, surely he would be sympathetic towards him, but not nearly enough. He had to do something else, something that he would remember. He just didn’t know what yet.

“Maya…” Diego had breathed at one point, seeming to uncover an old memory, then threw the question out into the open. “Maya Fey, Mia’s sister.” He said, “Is she still alive?.”
“Maya?” Gumshoe asked, “Yeah. She works with Phoenix at Wright and Co. She’s still very much alive.” He said, with a hint of happiness and sarcasm in his voice.
“Is she OK?” Diego asked, referring to Mia’s murder.
“She was pretty torn up after the murder. But she’s recovered.” Gumshoe answered.
“Is she safe?” Diego asked, anxiety in his voice.
“Safe? With Phoenix, you mean? Yeah, course. Why?” Gumshoe asked, with too happy a tone for the situation.
“He let Mia die…” Diego whispered.
“He did?” Gumshoe said, taken aback. “It wasn’t Phoenix’s fault. He didn’t let Mia get killed, if that’s what you mean. Besides, he and Maya are great together.”

Diego still wasn’t convinced. He now knew that all hope was not lost. He had two reasons to live.

To keep Maya Fey safe.

And to take revenge on Phoenix Wright.