Chapter Text
Fulbright blinks at Blackquill slowly, mug of coffee in his gloved grasp. It’s the bitter-watered down type that would only be available in a low-budget office. Blackquill knows, because earlier in the day, Fulbright had brought him a cup. It’s been a long day of filling out paperwork, revisiting the facts of the Hamon Husk and the Jane Doe case, and reviewing the evidence.
The detective yawns, pushing up his glasses to rub at his eyes, as if the act will somehow make him not tired. A single, bothersome strand of chestnut hair hangs in between Fulbright’s half-lidded eyes. Blackquill’s fingers twitch, feeling half tempted to brush it away. He doesn’t.
Blackquill’s eyes sweep the room. Most of the homicide department has gone home for the day, and the few that haven’t appear just as drained as the detective in front of him.
The detective yawns again, and Blackquill can no longer ignore it, his brows furrowing. “I didn’t expect the detective’s unit to be so openly indolent.” He mutters. He should have more bite in his voice, but a half-baked insult is all he can manage. The heat in the precinct is suffocating. Fulbright is staring into his coffee mug, a light pout on his face, like he’s frustrated that the beverage isn’t doing its job.
Blackquill smiles slightly at his predicament. “Trouble sleeping?” He inquires. He knows the feeling all too well.
“Oh gosh, it’s that obvious, isn’t it?” Fulbright sighs, dragging a gloved hand down his face. “Ever since I moved into my apartment a couple of weeks ago… It's been nothing but nightmares.”
Blackquill’s curiosity has piqued. He wants to press him harder, try to get Fulbright to spill more what his nightmares entail, but he holds back once more. He isn’t sure how much the detective can take, especially after the panic attack a couple of days ago.
Fulbright arches an eyebrow at Blackquill’s incessant staring. “Anyway, I think I will stay here just a bit longer. Try and get ahead on the case that Prosecutor Edgeworth assigned to us.”
“Don’t bother. The case itself has slipped the hangman's noose.”
Fulbright lets out a weak chuckle. “I guess you’re right.”
Blackquill doesn’t want him to go digging. At least, not right now.
“Farewell, Fool Bright.” Blackquill stands, grabbing his coat from the back of his chair and slipping it on. “Don’t stay too late. It would do you well to get some shut-eye. I need you at your sharpest.”
“Wouldn’t dream of it!” Fulbright’s bright smile rivals that of the rising sun. “Have a good evening, sir.”
Blackquill gives him a nod, and makes his exit. Outside, the evening sun paints the city in basking glow. Fulbright wished him a good evening, but Simon knows that with an astute certainty that won’t be the case, as he is set to visit his sister at the city’s female prison. Conveniently, it’s about a twenty minute walk from the precinct.
It had been a couple of months since he last saw her, not that she requests to see him often anyhow. He did get the occasional phone call from her, and in the most recent one, she had suggested he visit her.
“Why don’t you come and see me? If I didn’t know any better, it’s almost like you are avoiding me.”
Upon arriving at the prison, he is checked in by security and relinquishes his overcoat and blade strapped at his hip over to the guard. He really shouldn’t be able to even walk inside the premises with a weapon, but being a prosecutor with his background has its perks.
As he’s waiting in the lobby, the dull surroundings and unmistakable scent of steel and misery encumber his senses. Back when he first was released from prison, he avoided seeing Aura for about a year due to the bitter memories attached to the place. It doesn’t trouble him much anymore. He would never trade his time in prison for anything if it meant protecting Athena and the psychological profile that Metis had produced.
—
“Well, well. Long time, no see, little brother. I almost thought you had forgotten me.”
Blackquill crosses his arms. Aura sits before him, behind a wall of glass, garbed in an obnoxious, yet familiar orange jumpsuit. She’s leaning back in her chair, one leg crossed over the other. The guard in the corner won’t meet his eyes, no doubt still recovering from one of Aura’s threats. The scent of cleaning solution lingers in the air, another familiarity.
“How have you been faring, Aura?”
“I’ve been terribly bored. The best form of entertainment I’ve found is by hacking into the prison’s computer systems.” Aura shrugs. “However, turning off the lights and hot water is only so entertaining for so long. Send me a couple of books, would you?”
“Just be glad Wright-dono got you five years instead of life,” Blackquill states in monotone. “But sure, I’ll send you the ones I like. Spare me the grievances, though.”
A weighted silence settles over them. Aura’s eye contact is unnerving, and Blackquill decides the guard squirming in the corner is much more interesting.
Aura taps the glass to get his attention, a predatory glint in her eyes. “How’s the Princess ?”
Blackquill’s eyes twitch, and he can feel the dull throb of an oncoming headache. “ Athena’s fine.” He grumbles. “Metis would be proud. She still has a lot to—”
“A lot to learn? God Simon, you’re growing soft already.” Aura stifles a yawn, offering him a wolfish grin. “Anything else? Because I heard from the grapevine that a certain detective is alive and well—”
Simon’s jaw clenches, then unclenches. “How could you have possibly known?”
“Guards can be such chatterboxes. Plus, he was a popular figure around these parts,” Aura replies, leaning forward and resting her chin on folded hands. “So, don’t keep me waiting. Tell me. A real miracle that he survived that blasphemous Phantom, huh?”
Blackquill ignores her attempt at mocking his many adjectives used to describe the fiend. “Detective Fulbright has amnesia. From his point of view, we hadn’t met until approximately… a few weeks ago.”
“Detective Fulbright. How formal,” Aura coos. “So, even after all this time, you still don’t have your answers?”
“Affirmative.”
Aura closes her eyes. Blackquill notices her chewing the inside of her cheek. “I should be bitter, I should… but I’m glad for you.” Aura admits, her voice softening. “The universe gave you a second chance, not that you deserve it. I was not so lucky with Metis.”
“We got soba the other day after an investigation.” Blackquill curtly states. Aura tilts her head slightly, her sharp eyes still hungry for information. Against his better judgment he follows up with, “He had a panic attack.”
Aura looks intrigued. “Took him to Bucky’s establishment to raise his spirits, did you? That’s not a basic act of kindness, that’s a Simon privilege. The Phantom dug their claws into you deep.”
“Enough of your uneducated prattling,” Blackquill snaps. “You couldn’t possibly understand. Don’t compare him to Metis—at least she was real.”
Aura lets out a brief chuckle. “Oh my god, it’s you who doesn’t get it. For a master of psychology, you can be so fucking dense.” Aura leans closer, her breath fogging up the glass, eyes narrowed like a hawk sizing up its prey. She whispers in a biting voice, “Come on, say it. Admit that you like him, little brother.”
Blackquill figured it would come to this. Both of their blades had been drawn, each unwilling to back down.
With a sigh, Blackquill admits a silent defeat. “I can’t. The truth of the matter is that I fell for that accursed blackguard instead. I can’t force… what I feel onto a man that knows me only as a stranger.”
Aura’s eyes soften for a moment, before hardening again. “Well, you can either spend your time brooding with me in this ghastly place—not that I mind the company—or you can get back out there, and keep your mind where your feet are. How’s that for some psychology?”
A beat of silence hangs in the air, as Blackquill swallows his sister’s words.
“I should be leaving now. It was nice… talking with you, Aura,” he forces out, looking back at the guard who was now picking at his fingernails.
Aura lets out a snort, and waves a dismissive hand. “Yeah, yeah, whatever. Just don’t screw it up, Simon.”
Blackquill rises from his seat, the pulsing of his temple having ceased without notice. Aura already has her back turned to him, barking something at the quivering guard in the corner. He shouldn’t think about Aura’s words for too long. Prison changes everybody. With a huff, he turns on his heels and heads towards the lobby of the prison.
Outside, twilight hangs over the city, the sun’s last rays swallowed by the inky night. The regular hum of the city provides Blackquill no comfort. Heat still radiates from the asphalt and concrete surrounding him. A slight breeze caresses his locks. He walks a block to a bus stop, lit by a flickering lamp post, and waits patiently for the next bus. Blackquill glances up at the sky, stormy grey eyes trying to decipher a constellation, but failing due to the light pollution and smog.
It reminds him of nights long ago, sitting with his sister at the Cosmos Space Center. She always knew her stars and planets without fail. He had been a mere law student back then, finding a refuge from the stressors of law school.
Keep your mind where your feet are.
Easier said than done.
Eventually, the bus arrives, and he boards. A few people sit scattered throughout the bus—it's mostly empty, like the city outside. Usually Blackquill appreciates the silence, but he would rather be crammed into a lively bus than be alone with the words of his sister echoing in his mind.
Just as Simon is dozing off, a buzzing from his pocket brings him back to reality. It’s Athena. He flips it open, unsure of what to expect of the attorney at this hour.
“Simon? Oh thank god you picked up! Apollo and I were taking a walk—”
“Get to the point, Athena! Prosecutor Blackquill, we are being followed by some black van!” Apollo’s voice cuts through the receiver.
Blackquill jolts upright. “Where are you? I’m currently on the bus transit, I’m afraid I can’t be of much help if you are in immediate danger. Tell me your approximate location, and I will get a hold of Fulbright. I’m assuming that you two alerted the authorities?”
“Dispatch said they might be delayed,” Apollo answers, before muttering something unintelligible.
“We figured you might be out with Fulbright, and you guys might get here faster than the police. That is… if you two weren’t busy on a date or something.” It’s a light-hearted jab at him, but he can hear a slight waver in her voice. “We are in People’s Park. If they are still following us, they’ll have to be on foot. There's not a soul in sight over here…”
“Noted. Try to reach a more populated area. I’ll call right back.”
Simon ends the call and dials Fulbright’s number, his foot tapping the ground urgently. The ringback tone plays once.
Twice.
Thrice.
“Hello this is Detective Bobby Fulbright. I am so sorry I missed your call, please leave your—”
Blackquill slams his phone shut with a growl. His breath feels heavier in his chest as he stares at his shut flip phone. He jumps to his feet, and redials Athena’s number.
“Stop the bus! Stop the bus NOW!” His voice cuts through the humming of the engine. It wavers slightly, but desperation is just what he needs.
Blackquill clambers towards the front of the bus, using the various railings and seats as leverage.
The bus driver, albeit reluctantly, pulls off to the side. The automatic doors slide open with a hiss. Blackquill gives the driver a nod. “Good man,” he mutters, already hurrying off the bus.
Blackquill glances up at the cross street names. If he recalls his streets correctly, he should be about five blocks north of People’s Park. He starts off into a brisk run, not quite a sprint so he doesn’t tire out. Taka could get there much faster than him, and at the very least, he could buy the two attorneys some time. If only he wasn’t already roosting back at the prosecutor’s apartment.
He lifts his phone back up to his ear. “Athena. Keep talking. Keep moving. Don’t let them close the distance. I’m on my way.”
A beat of silence, then some shuffling sounds, “Simon… I can’t see them, but we aren’t alone. I can hear a distinct sound of a heart, it's…” Athena’s voice is hollow, devoid of its usual light. Blackquill quickens his pace, his lungs burning. Athena continues, and he can hear her shudder, “It’s one of the angriest voices I’ve ever heard. It’s… malevolent.”
More shuffling, a harsh blowing wind, sharp thuds. Athena’s moving. “If they catch up to us before the police get here—“
“Enough of that inane jabber! I’ll cut down anyone who dares to harm you!”
Simon’s elevated heart rate pounds in his ears. He dashes through a desolate alleyway, the shadows threatening to swallow him whole. His left hand ghosts over the katana at his hip. He may not have lived up to his name as the Twisted Samurai, but he would not hesitate to kill if it meant protecting Athena. He knew Athena and Apollo could defend themselves when it came down to it, but the fact that this person decided to follow them even though it would be a two on one was unnerving. It suggested that they were confident, perhaps even a professional.
The sound of a wailing siren echoes off of the concrete, like the hymn of an angel. It grows to an unbearable pitch, then disappears around the block.
Just as he reaches the fourth block, flashing red and blue cut through the trees ahead, and he veers towards the scene. By the time he arrives a few minutes later, Apollo and Athena are explaining their situation to a trio of patrol officers, over-exaggerated hand movements included. One is quickly scratching down notes, the other two are keeping watch, their eyes scanning the brush scattered about in the park. Blackquill keeps his eyes peeled for any unwanted presence, but he has a feeling that whoever had been stalking the two attorneys is long gone.
One of the officers spots him, reaches for his weapon, then realises it’s him, and offers the prosecutor a friendly wave. Blackquill approaches them, once again cursing the incompetency of the police department. Athena takes notice, and she sprints to Blackquill, crushing him in an embrace.
Blackquill wraps her up in his arms. “You’re insufferable,” he mutters, but again, he can’t muster up any bite in his voice.
“Your heart says otherwise.” Athena offers him a cheeky grin. Simon scoffs, and releases her, a hand lingering on her shoulder. He can’t bring himself to remove it, not after everything that had happened.
“So… no Bobby, huh?” Athena asks, looking up at Blackquill.
“The fool didn’t answer his phone.”
Athena lets out a hum, playing absentmindedly with her earring. “That’s strange. Ever since his return, you two are always in the same room. But, I’m sure he’s fine! He’s probably back at home, watching a soap opera and bawling his eyes out.”
Blackquill looks past her, brows furrowing. It did strike him as odd, surely the detective wasn’t ignoring him on purpose. He had no reason to worry though, as Interpol does keep a close eye on the detective. His gaze shifts back to Athena. The image of Fulbright sobbing on his couch, tissue in hand brings a small smile to his face. “Perhaps. He decided to stay late. I should have been more adamant that he go home. Regardless, I’m relieved to see you two safe.”
—
It’s unnervingly quiet in the unit, Fulbright decides as he’s shaking off the grogginess from having fallen asleep at his desk. He fixes his aviators, blinking slowly, taking notice of the endless void outside of a nearby window. He purses his lips—Blackquill would chastise him on the spot if he found out he was still at the precinct. He doesn’t want to stress the man out anymore than he already does.
Prosecutor Blackquill. The only man connecting the detective to the Phantom. Fulbright knows what the Phantom has done while under the guise of his identity, he knows the pain that his own face has caused many in the legal world. There’s an uncomfortable silence in any room he enters—people shift nervously, yet their eyes never leave him. He’s a pitiful shell of who he once was, because everything he had stood for had been trampled by an imposter. Yet, he carries on as if nothing has changed, because that’s as far as he remembers.
What Fulbright doesn’t understand is why Blackquill still bothers with him. Not that he doesn’t appreciate the company, he finds himself enjoying the prosecutor more and more as the minutes pass. The hurt is evident in Blackquill’s conflicted eyes, and Fulbright so badly wishes he could remember what exactly had happened to him, if only to remove that weight from the prosecutor. More than anything, he’s glad he has the chance to make things right. To make up for everything the Phantom did in his place.
The coffee from earlier is beyond saving. The mug sits on his desk, cold to the touch with separation between the milk and coffee. Fulbright checks his phone. There is a missed call from Blackquill from about two hours ago. He stares at it dumbfoundedly—Blackquill must have known he’d end up staying later.
Before he can call the prosecutor back and explain himself, the detective picks up a set of footsteps approaching him. He doesn’t need to look to know its Gumshoe, that familiar lumbering gait gives him away everytime. A friendly hand rests on his shoulder. “Hey pal, I think some of your mail got mixed up with mine.” He hands Fulbright a small white envelope.
“Oh? Well, I’m sure it was an accident,” Fulbright replies, taking the envelope into his hands.
Gumshoe checks his watch, and lets out a low whistle. “It’s nearly ten o’clock. I don’t want Blackquill on my case for letting you stay late, you best get outta here while my head is still attached to my body.”
“Yeah, I would hate to see that, sir. Don’t worry, I was just packing up my things—you should be able to keep your head a bit longer, that is unless Mr. Edgeworth has anything to say about it,” Fulbright laughs brightly, and offers his boss a mock salute, “Have a goodnight.”
“Take care, Bobby.” Gumshoe returns the mock salute with a lopsided grin, and lumbers back into his office. And if Gumshoe notices that Fulbright forced his cheery exposition a little too much, nothing is said.
Fulbright turns his attention back to the envelope. It was addressed to him, but there was no sender information. No stamp. The detective’s brow furrows, the uneasy tension settling like a weight in his chest. It was thin. Too thin. He rips through the top, finding nothing. With a sigh, he sets it down on the desk, and it lands with a subtle clicking noise.
Fulbright’s breath hitches. The weight in his chest feels heavier. He lifts up the envelope again, and tips it upside down, holding out his hand to catch whatever object was present in the envelope.
A singular tooth lands faintly in the palm of his hand. A molar, with specks of rust-like dried blood near the root. Fulbright exhales sharply, hands trembling as he gently sets the tooth down.
“W-What kind of sick joke is this?” He stammers, but he is unable to pull his eyes away. It must mean something. He thinks back to Blackquill’s missed call. What if the prosecutor had been warning him about this very moment? Cold sweat begins to collect on his forehead. His thoughts continue to spiral, before a memory punches through the fog.
An inky darkness. He’s blindfolded.
The damp scent of mildew.
Every breath had felt like fire, his chest spasming in an attempt to keep him alive. A few broken ribs, maybe?
Long stretches of silence, occasionally broken by a monotone, empty voice echoing, a sudden pressure gripping his jaw, prying his mouth open. Fulbright remembers thrashing against his restraints, but the throbbing of his ribs became too much to endure, and his body goes slack. A cold intrusion forces its way into his mouth, before a sickening pop is heard, and an agonizing pain blooms from his jaw, rippling throughout his head. The metallic zing of blood coats his tongue.
Tears dampen the fabric around his eyes.
Fulbright blinks once, twice, until he’s back at his desk in the empty precinct. The detective’s unit is silent, save for a soft ticking from a clock mounted on the wall. His eyes land on the tooth. It couldn’t really belong to him, could it? He hasn’t had a clear memory in months. Yet, if he closes his eyes again, he can almost feel a dull yet pulsing pain in his jaw.
The detective pushes himself out from his desk, and scrambles to the bathroom, nearly knocking over a water cooler in the process.
He stops in front of the mirror, heart pounding. He slicks his hair back in a reassuring motion, before opening his mouth, and sticking a prodding finger into it, searching for an answer. He starts with the top row of teeth, and finds nothing out of the ordinary, just calcified bone.
He traces his finger to his lower jaw, stopping in a moment of hesitation. He sucks in a shallow breath, and continues the search.
And when sliding his finger across his bottom row of teeth, he finds confirmation in a missing gap between his first and third molar on the right side of his jaw.
Fulbright doesn’t need a DNA test to know that the tooth is his. And he doesn’t need to have seen to know who took it from him. Yet, who sent it to him was a complete mystery. He should call Edgeworth, and get in touch with Interpol to report it and take it in as evidence. The envelope itself could contain traces of evidence. But if he did report it, Interpol would take him back into custody. Fulbright shudders at the thought.
He reaches for his phone with a noticeable slowness. His fingers tap to Blackquill’s caller ID with practiced ease. He closes his eyes with a wince, and puts his phone back in his pocket. He chews on his lower lip. He can’t have Blackquill concerned over another detail. And if Interpol can’t know, then neither should Blackquill.
He slips the tooth back into the envelope, and opens the bottom most drawer of his desk. He places the envelope inside, slams it shut, and locks it hastily.
Fulbright releases a breath. This was for the best.