#april is holding her bat. in case its not clear

[callmehere-iwillappear]

"Ahoy there fellas! Here's a little stress relief, also good luck! Don't worry she doesn't bite."

thank you! unfortunately they have trauma but it's the thought that counts

@tmntaucompetition

[something-tofightfor]

SO WHAT YOU DID IT WITH RYAN BRENNER

… this isn’t even a drabble anymore, it’s basically a one-shot. ** NL/JaP universe - AFTER they leave Charleston.**

Turns out I miss Ryan. Who would have thought? 

Word Count: 3,291

He felt everything - the warmth of the lights, the energy from the crowd in front of him, the gentle vibration of the guitar that he held on his lap as he strummed it - but at the same time, Ryan felt nothing. Shouldn’t be like this. Ryan took a deep breath and continued singing, his eyes opening as he scanned the crowd, taking everything in. I shouldn’t… Shaking his head slightly, Ryan focused back on the music, leaning in closer to the microphone and feeling his lip curl as he pulled the words from deep within his chest. The song ended, notes fading away, and Ryan paused, catching his breath and reaching for the bottle of water on the small table next to him. 

 “Thank you.” He cleared his throat after swallowing, gripping the neck of the instrument with one hand and running his fingers through his hair with the other. “Got one more for you, and then I’m gonna take a break.” He heard someone whistle and cracked a smile, nodding. “Then I’ll be back for the second half of my set.”  He looked over the crowd again, catching the eye of a young woman that was grinning at him, arms crossed on the table she sat at, body leaning forward as if she was trying to get closer to him without leaving her seat. He was in Arizona, and because it was the beginning of summer, it was hot - meaning that she (and the other patrons in the bar) were dressed for the weather. She doesn’t even know me. “I uh…” He frowned and looked down at the guitar - yours - allowing himself a small smile. “I wrote this one last winter.” He strummed once, nodding. “Wrote it for my girl… even though she wasn’t really mine at  the time, and I didn’t know how…” Ryan shook his head. They don’t care. “Anyway. It’s one of my favorites.” He sat up, cocking his head to the side and closing his eyes, fingers starting to move. I miss you. 

 — 

 Between his sets, Ryan made sure to secure the guitar safely in its case, tucking it in the break room before he stepped back into the crowd, mingling. He had nearly 45 minutes before he was supposed to play again, and though he was more than happy to talk with the people that were there to watch him, Ryan desperately wanted some time alone to think. I need to… He pulled his phone out of his pocket while he waited for the bartender to get him a beer, thumbing away alerts and gritted his teeth as he saw that you hadn’t messaged him. He felt a hand on his shoulder and turned to look, unsurprised to see that it was the woman from the table, her long, dark hair falling down her back and bright blue eyes shining, even in the low light of the bar area. “Buy you a drink, Ryan?” She licked her lips, nodding at the beer that the bartender had just set on the counter. “Next one, I mean?”

 Ryan picked up the glass, condensation dampening his fingers slightly as they curled around the smooth surface. “I’m actually covered here.” He took a long drink, swallowing as he thought. “I drink for free on the nights I play.” She laughed, and Ryan smiled at the sound, though he felt himself holding back a wince. It doesn’t even sound… 

 “Well then maybe when you’re done, I can get you a drink from somewhere else.” She leaned in, pressing her lips together after signaling to the bartender that she wanted a new drink, too. “You mentioned a girl, but it doesn’t look like she’s here.” Ryan felt himself inhale sharply, his grip on the drink tightening. “I-”

 “‘Preciate it.” Ryan straightened up, shaking his head. “But you’re right. She’s not here, and it wouldn’t feel right if I let you do that.” He shrugged, watching as annoyance flashed in the woman’s eyes. “Thank you for comin’ out to see me, though.” He smiled - a genuine one - and watched the woman’s eyes widen again. “I’ll be here a couple more nights before I head out, and move on…” 

 “Well.” The woman held up her own glass, bringing the small straw up to her lips. “Ryan Brenner, whoever your girl is is a lucky woman.” Is she? “Not many men would be faithful when you’re…” She gestured to him with one hand, eyes roaming his body. “Well, you.” He laughed quietly, nodding. “Worth a shot right?” Ryan agreed and without saying anything else, he turned away from the bar and headed for the back patio exit, settling down on a low brick wall as he looked out over the desert, lights extending a few miles out and then stopping, disappearing almost completely into the darkness. Though he’d been in Arizona for weeks already, he’d only been in Phoenix for a few days, and was still getting used to the area. He’d landed in Tucson, carrying nothing but your guitar and his backpack, filled with the essentials - and had made the most of his time, scouting out open mic nights and bars looking for gigs. He’d made decent money playing, and had attracted nearly 100 new Instagram followers in the short time he’d been away from Olathe - and from you - but he didn’t know why he still felt empty. It shouldn’t feel like this. 

 Ryan took a long drink of his beer, savoring the taste, and then reached into his pocket and pulled out the pack of cigarettes that he’d bought nearly a week prior - his first in months - and lit one, taking a long drag from it as he continued to look out and into the darkness, thinking. Should I call? But as he sat and smoked, Ryan’s mind wandered, phone staying tucked into his pocket. No. 

 — 

 The two of you had settled into the house in Olathe in the last week of March, most of your things staying in storage so that you could focus on the restoration of the house without anything in your way. He’d chosen it based on the pictures that he found on the Internet, talking things over with David and the realtor before he’d even brought it up to you - but you’d agreed almost immediately, pointing out that there was a lot you could do with the kitchen and some paint, that you were looking forward to staining and sanding the wooden floors… and Ryan had known that it was the right decision. 

 You’d paid for the house out of pocket without batting an eye, signing the necessary paperwork via faxes and emails, and by the time Ryan and David had finished with the second flip in the second week of March, you’d already packed up most of your Charleston house, ready to go. Both men had been surprised at how easily they’d been able to finish working on the houses, the second one being purchased on January 19th - before the first had even sold, though it had taken only six and a half weeks to finish in total. Inspired by the success of the first flip, Lauren, Ryan and David - plus the other crew members - had turned the second out out in almost record time, too. It hadn’t sold before you two had left South Carolina, but the day that the check had been wired to him in the middle of April, Ryan had signed the majority of it over to you - paying you back for the money you’d already invested in Olathe. 

 For a few weeks, the two of you had worked in tandem, Ryan focusing much of his time on getting things prepped and ready to go. He didn’t have the luxury of a team like he’d had with David, but the house didn’t need a ton of work, and so he’d been confident that even if it took him a little bit of time, he’d get things done to his satisfaction. By the beginning of May, you were focused on the final details of your show, and Ryan had hit a wall with renovations - tile and fixtures were on backorder, and there was little the two of you could do but wait and try to get other, less important projects done. He’d been too frustrated to write, too tired to record and had only played out a few times since you’d moved, and Ryan felt off. You’d noticed, though, and on a Saturday afternoon - the sun bright in the sky - you’d pulled him out onto the front steps of the house, holding his hand tightly as you spoke. 

 “Ryan.” You took a deep breath, turning to face him without letting go of his hand. “You…” He frowned, waiting. “Do you feel… stuck?” He sucked in a breath, shaking his head. “You’ve been different since we came here.” He opened his mouth to speak, but you reached over with your free hand, pressing a finger to his lips. “Let me talk, ok?” And he had, listening to you tell him what you’d noticed, what you saw, how being around him felt to you - like every second you were waiting for him to tell you that he was leaving because he needed a break. 

 “But I don’t.” He shook his head, tightening his grip on your hand. “I’m happy, I want to -”

 “You aren’t, Ryan.” You offered a smile, shaking your head. “When you play, it’s all sad. You haven’t recorded in days, you haven’t… “ You gestured toward the house. “You wanted this, but you wanted more than this, too.” Shifting closer, you reached over to take his other hand. “I don’t want you to regret this.” Regret what? “You need to go, Ryan.” His jaw dropped, head moving back and forth. “Just for a little while, go and pick somewhere, and take your guitar.” You looked down, staring at your feet. “It’s been almost a year, Ryan, and we haven’t been apart for more than a few days at a time, and I know that you …”

 “You know that I what?” He’d ducked his head down, pulling his hand from yours and using his fingers to tilt your chin up. “I don’t need to travel, to be…” But even as he spoke, Ryan felt a lightness in his chest, the idea taking hold. Maybe I do… maybe I need some time, maybe I need… 

 Over the next few days, he’d looked into different destinations, choosing to go west again, knowing that it would be warm and sunny, that there would likely be people he knew out that way - and when he’d told you that he picked Arizona, you’d nodded, turning away from your computer to look up at him. “Take as long as you need, Ryan.” He’d seen in your eyes that you were preparing for the worst, that you expected him to find something during the trip that he didn’t have by staying in one place, and yet you were still encouraging him to go. “I don’t want you to resent me, Ry.” Standing, you’d hugged him tightly, face buried in his chest. Resent you? How? “Just promise me one thing.” You’d pulled away from him, looking up into his eyes and after a pause, continued. “No hitchhiking.” 

 — 

Being back out on the road was therapeutic for Ryan, and as he stubbed out the cigarette on the brick next to him, he sighed deeply. You’d been right - something had been off for him in the weeks leading up to his departure, you dropping him off at the airport and wishing him luck, telling him you’d see him soon - but as Ryan moved from gig to gig, taking a bus between cities instead of finding a ride, he was no closer to figuring out what it was. Is it her? Do I feel this way because I’m so… or is it because I’m so far from what I thought my life would be like? Ryan didn’t know, but what he did know was that playing music was making him feel more like himself, even if there was still a hollow in his chest. 

 You weren’t avoiding each other; you weren’t fighting, and there wasn’t any reason that you hadn’t been in close contact, but it seemed that you were truly giving him a chance to figure things out. He’d only spoken to you on the phone a handful of times in the weeks he’d been gone, choosing to send you messages and pictures instead, and you hadn’t pushed for things to change, but it still relieved him each time you liked one of his pictures or the dots that let him know you were typing a response appeared on his screen. He didn’t know what he was waiting for when it came to you - and no amount of staring at the ceilings of his motel rooms seemed to help. “Holy shit.” 

 Ryan paused with the beer glass at his lips, eyes widening as he turned his head toward the voice, eyes landing on the man that had spoken. “Georgie?” Blinking a few times, the smaller man stepped forward, head tilted to the side. “What are you doin’ here?” 

 “Ryan goddamn Brenner.” Georgie’s eyes swept the patio and then returned to Ryan, a smile on his lips. “It’s good to see you, it’s been -” 

 “Almost a year.” He stood, hesitantly reaching out to shake the man’s hand, and Georgie swatted Ryan’s hand away, instead pulling him in for a tight hug that Ryan returned after a few seconds of hesitation. “Georgie, I -” 

 “It’s good to see you, Ryan.” Georgie stepped back, the smile growing. “I heard you were in town, and so I checked your page and then hauled ass to get here from El Paso.” He rubbed the side of his face. “Woulda called but I didn’t know if you’d answer, and…” Georgie shrugged. “Figured you woulda had her with you here, and…” Georgie’s eyes widened again. “But she’s not here, and you are, and you’ve been in Arizona for weeks, so…” Georgie licked his lips. “I knew you’d get tired of it, need to come back out on the road. Knew you’d need to be y-”

 “Georgie.” His tone sharper than he’d hoped it would be, Ryan closed his eyes. “I’m here because I …” Why are you here, Ryan? “Look.” Ryan swallowed, taking a breath. “You were really shitty to her in New York.” Georgie stared, a confused look on his face. “And I get it, but it was still bullshit, man.” Ryan thought of the look on your face in the park, the easy way you’d brushed things off and walked away, head held high. “I love her.” He swallowed, voice growing stronger. “And I shouldn’t have to pick between the two of you, so I won’t.” 

 “But you’re -” No. 

 “I’m here now because I’m takin’ a break on the house we’re flippin’, and she suggested I go back out on the road.” Georgie mouthed the word ‘flipping’, eyes locked on Ryan’s. “Yeah, we bought a house to flip after we moved outta the one in Charleston, and we’re in Kansas now, prob’ly stay there for a while and then move again.” Ryan’s heart thumped in his chest. This is what I want. 

 “So… what, you did it?” Georgie pressed his lips together. “You… put down roots?” Ryan shook his head. No. No, we didn’t. I didn’t. Not… 

 “No. We’re flippin’ a house, and then we’ll move into the next once that one sells, and…” Ryan shrugged. “It’s steady work, and I get to do things like this, and she…” He sucked in a breath. Holy shit. That’s… “Look, Georgie.” Ryan’s heart was pounding, his hand itching to reach into his pocket. “We gotta long way to go if we’re gonna be friends again, but…” Ryan took a deep breath. “It’d be real nice to play with you again tonight, if you’ve got…” As Ryan spoke, Georgie turned slightly, using one hand to lift the strap of the backpack he wore. “Good.” Ryan pulled his phone out, pressing the button to light the screen up. “My second set starts in fifteen, so if you want…” Georgie nodded eagerly, squeezing his eyes shut. 

 “Yeah.” He paused. “That… I’d like that, Ryan.” Ryan tightened his hold on his phone, waiting. “Lemme go and make sure it’s…” Georgie kept talking and Ryan nodded, watching as the man turned and walked off of the patio and into the parking lot, where it was quieter. Plenty of time. When the man was out of sight, Ryan sat back down, scrolling through his phone until he found your contact information, pressing the call button. Please answer. 

 It rang twice and then you picked up, voice sleepy in his ear. “Hello?” Ryan felt his breath catch. Why was I even worried? He paused before he answered, deciding not to tell you the full reason that he was calling over the phone - opting to wait until he saw you in person. It’s the right call. “Ry?” You sighed. “You there? Did you mean -”

 “I love you.” He swallowed, the words coming out in a rush. “I know it’s late, but I wanted to… I know what …” He sighed. “Look.” You laughed quietly, but didn’t say anything else. “When do you have to be in San Francisco? I can’t remember what day you said you were flying out.” 

 “Middle of next week, Ryan, I’m leaving on Tuesday, I have to be there the 30th of May to start setting up and mounting frames, so I’m going a few days early.” He closed his eyes, thinking. We found each other on the 30th, I have to… “I’ll only be there until the 3rd, the opening is the second, and I wanted to come back here and start-”

 “I’m not coming home.” He licked his lips, shaking his head as he opened his eyes. “I-”

 “Oh.” It was only one word, but he heard the understanding in your voice. “Alright, I…” You paused. “I didn’t…”

 “I’ll meet you in San Francisco instead, if that’s OK.” He took a deep breath. “It’s stupid for me to fly back east and then immediately west, I’m closer to California out here.” He waited, but you didn’t respond, so he continued. “Just… bring some of my clothes with you, yeah? Somethin’ nice for me to wear to the gallery?” 

 “You’re..” He heard your voice trembling. “You’re not staying there? You want to…” He felt his chest get tight as you fought to get the words out. She thought I was going to abandon her…after all this, she thought… “It’s been weeks, Ryan, I thought you…” 

 “I wouldn’t miss it.” He sighed. “We have a lot to talk about, but…” Ryan pulled his phone away from his ear, checking the time. Shit. “God, I can’t wait to see you. It’s been too long.” 

 “Talk about?” You still sounded worried, but Ryan only laughed, shaking his head and feeling better than he had in weeks. 

 “Yeah.” He took a deep breath. “But don’t worry, I promise you’ll…” He licked his lips, tasting the dry air. “You’ll like what I’m gonna say.” Georgie stepped back onto he patio, fiddle in hand and Ryan swore. “I gotta go, though, my second set is startin’… and I’ve… got a guest.” You asked who, and as Ryan stood, picking up his beer glass, he continued. “You wouldn’t believe me if I told you, so… “ Ryan grinned. “Watch my Instagram in a few minutes.” Sounding confused, you agreed. “I gotta go, though. I love you.” 

 “Love you too, Ry.” You paused. “I miss you.” He nodded though you couldn’t see him, his eyes moving over the crowd that had gathered back near the stage. Gotta find someone to hold my phone. 

 “Yeah.” He closed his eyes. “Yeah, I miss you, too.” 

—

[thecomicsnexus]

TEENAGE MUTANT NINJA TURTLES ADVENTURES #46-50 JULY - NOVEMBER 1993 BY STEVE MURPHY, CHRIS ALLAN, RYAN BROWN, JON D’AGOSTINO, BRIAN THOMAS, JIM LAWSON, ERIC TALBOT AND BARRY GROSSMAN

SYNOPSIS (FROM COMIC VINE)

The TMNT, Ninjara and Splinter are relaxing in the lair when an intruder arrives - a fox dude that turns out to be Ninjara's brother, Naga. The young fox states that he has come because Ninjara's grandmother has been captured by a hunter. Raph demands to know how the mutant found their secret lair, and Naga states that Ninjara gave him directions. This upsets Master Splinter and the TMNT, and Ninjara apologizes, saying that she only told her brother where she was. Raph isn't appeased by her apology, but before an argument can erupt, April suddenly appears on the TV giving a report about a giant, four armed creature attacking the city. The Turtles announce that they've got to investigate, but Ninjara states that she has to leave with her brother. Raph asks Splinter if he can accompany her, and the Sensei grants him permission and tells his student that he must release his anger concerning Ninjara giving away the address to their lair.

Of course, Raph doesn't do this. The three stow aboard a plane to Japan, and Raph badgers Ninjara about telling her borther the secret. Ninjara screams at him to shut up and the two fall into angry silence, leaving Naga to awkwardly try to make peace for the duration of the long, long flight. Once the trio lands, they take a boat to an island hidden by clouds, the home of Naga and Ninjara. The children welcome the foxy ninja home, but an Elder is not happy to see her because she has left her people. Kenji, Ninjara's old boyfriend, tells our heroes that the Council of Elders has decreed that no rescue will be attempted for Ninjara's grandmother.

The next morning, Raph, Ninjara and Naga set out on their own to rescue the foxes' grandmother. No sooner have they entered the forest when Ninjara and Raphael are ensnared by a trap net. Ninjara orders Naga to cut them free, but the youth reveals that he's made a deal with the hunter - he's offered the man Raphael in trade for his grandmother. The hunter arrives and decides that he will keep both Raph and Ninjara as his trophies. Naga tries to argue, but the hunter smashes him in the head with the butt of his rifle and then shots the netted Raphael with a tranquilizer.

Raph awakes in a cage next to Ninjara in the hunter's trophy room. Naga and his Grandmother are there as well, though they are not caged. The man gloats, which sends the Elder fox into a rage and she attacks. Naga uses the distraction to open the cages, and Raphael punches him in the face for betraying them. Ninjara notes that they can settle their dispute with her brother later, right now they need to escape. A fire bursts into life and the mutants head outside, where they find themselves stranded upon a high cliff. Grandmother explains that they'll have to escape via the Underworld - a place Raph is not interested in visiting, but a huge explosion rips out of the hunter's building as his ammunition begins to ignite. The blast convinces the Turtle that they'll have to go through the Torri gate to make their escape. Just then the hunter arrives and begins firing his pistol at our heroes. Raph is able to hold him off while the Elder fox opens the gateway to the Underworld. The four mutants jump through the portal, but the hunter chases them and manages to get through the gateway before it closes.

The five outworlders arrive in the Underworld and are welcomed by a demon, who tells them that they can leave via the Torri that they arrived in. The hunter makes a dash for the gate, but rather than passing though a portal to his dimension, he simply plunges through the framework and falls into the pit. The demon asks if she had forgotten to mention that it only works for the pure of heart. Grandmother decides to test if the demon is telling the truth, and walks through the Torri, vanishing. Naga is next, and he too disappears. Ninjara and Raph embrace, and then run to the Torri holding hands.

The couple pass through the Torri and arrive on Ninjara's home island, where they are greeted by Grandmother and Naga. Ninjara compliments her kin on her fighting ability and Raphael makes peace with Naga.

The alien four armed creature continues to attack the city, now accompanied by an even stranger four legged beast Mikey dubs "dino-dog." Leo, Don, Mike and Splinter attempt to stop the destruction while April and a slimey reporter named McIntyre broadcast the story. Leonardo cuts off one of the armored figure's arms, sending it into a painful retreat. The dino-dog leaps at the camera crews filimg the action and embeds itself into a news van, where it lays unconscious. The armored warrior then grabs one of the video cameras from a newsman and takes it to an abandoned alley. The Turtles discover that their adversary is blind, but in short order it attaches the camera to its head and uses it to see. Leonardo approaches the being, holding the severed arm. The Mutant Turtle apologizes for the attack and tries to give the limb back, but it suddenly springs to life and chokes him! The other Turtles implore the alien to release their brother. The creature slowly begins to assimilate the English language. After releasing Leo from its grasp, the alien explains that it is a Triast, one of a race of sentient, silicon-based lifeforms created by the Mergia.

The Mergia had created the Triasts to work for them, but after time, the Triasts desired freedom, and a war broke out. The battles lasted for years, until the Triasts themselves created the "dino-dogs" called "Battle-Beasts", which gave them the upper hand in the conflict and sealed their victory. The Triasts tried to lobby for equal rights with the Mergia, but the creator race wouldn't accept the terms (even in defeat), so they fled the planet. This Triast's master left it with a final insult, taking its eyes before he left, leaving it blind. The Triast explains that the Battle-Beast accompanying it, named Qark, is helping it track its master. The alien pair have followed their prey to Earth. The former slave was able to retrieve one of its eyes from the wreckage of the space craft. It then explains that it needs all three of its eyes before it will be able to see properly.

Mikey asks the alien of its name is Sarnath, and sure enough, it is. The Turtles take Sarnath back to their lair, where they receive a call from April, who informs the terrapins that McIntyre's TV show "Inside Affairs" is about to broadcast live footage of the captured Qark. Sarnath states that he can see what Qark sees, and the "dog" is surrounded by cameras. Donatello reattaches the symbiot's arm and then hooks up a monitor to the video camera that the alien is using to see, giving everyone a clear view of Qark's predicament.

Donatello breaks into the control room of the TV studio and destroys the circuit box, sending the theater into darkness. The Turtles free Qark, just as the lights return - leaving our heroes in the spotlight. Leo shouts "Vanish!" and our heroes make their escape, leaving the studio full of bewildered reporters. April mocks McIntyre for losing his big story, and the man suspects that she's involved with the mysterious "green men" due to her smug attitude.

Outside, Donatello explains to the disheartened Sarnath that his other two eyes were transported 100 years into the future. The other Turtles lament that the whole world has seen them, thanks to McIntyre's live broadcast. Splinter states that they'll have to maintain a low profile for quite some time and then Sarnath invites them to accompany him to Dimension X. Mikey is excited about the idea and Leo muses that they could try to fnd out what happened to Cudley the Cowlick. Splinter consents, and Mike, Don and Leo head off to the other dimension with Sarnath.

Meanwhile, Raph and Ninjara are having a picnic in Japan when Sarnath's ship arrives. Ninjara and Raph join the others, and as they head into space, Leonardo tells the pair about their unexpected TV appearance. Back in the TV studio, McIntyre studies the footage of the TMNT.

Sarnath's ship arrives in Dimension X near a Black Hole. As Don explains to everyone what a Black Hole is, their craft is suddenly attacked by Ki'Rec and his Imperial Aerwyl Fleet. Sarnath fights back and a space dogfight ensues. Everyone puts on pressurized space suits in case they need to abandon ship.

Sarnath does well dispatching the attackers, but his ship takes heavy damage and is eventually destroyed. As the Turtles and Ninjara float in space, they see the wreckage of Sarnath's ship being pulled towards the Black Hole. Mikey screams to their friend to eject, but Sarnath states that there's no time to save both Qark and himself, and he jettisons an escape pod as his ship disappears into the Hole.

The Turtles find themselves under attack from the remaining Imperials. Just as all seems lost, a strange ship arrives and destroys the attacking vessels. The pilot pulls alongside our heroes, explains that the ship belongs to the Nova Posse, and offers them a ride. Once on board, the TMNT met the rest of the Posse. The pilot is a gargoyle-like alien named Zebulon, who is accompanied by a humanoid woman named Trip, a blue woman named Luna Azul, a purple man named Rave and a four-armed bat-like woman named Exeen. Trip explains that the Black Hole they've just encountered didn't exist in that spot a mere six months ago - in fact, there wasn't even a star in that location that could have become a Black Hole. Donatello states that's impossible, and the Posse explains that not only is it possible, it's getting bigger and devouring everything in its path.

The ship then comes upon Stump Asteroid, where a huge fleet of ships is circling (among them Cudley the Cowlick). The Posse land on the asteroid, where they're greeted by Stump and Sling. Luna tells the materialistic duo that the Posse is at their service. Much to Luna's surprise, Stump and Sling are far more excited to greet the Turtles and begin planning their next wrestling match. When the Turtles explain that they're not interested and the Nova Posse has arrived to help assist them against the Imperial Forces, the wooden aliens couldn't care less.

Donatello excuses himself to go to the restroom. On his way, he encounters the Sons of Silence... and disappears.

Donatello finds himself floating in a white void, but soon discovers a "floor" and spots the Sons of Silence seated around the Turnstone. Don is puzzled, as he thought that Cherubae had wished the Turnstone and the Sons out of existence. The Turtle then ponders where he is, and what the Sons of Silence are up to - so he decides to ask them. Don walks up and taps one on the shoulder, and the group turns on him. They communicate telepathically, asking the mutant if he is afraid. Don states that he's not afraid, and one of the Sons touches his face. Don protests, but then admits that he feels much better afterwards. Donatello is then questioned if he's ever thought about his destiny, and the Turtle replies that he hasn't, as he's always believed that we were masters of our own Fate. Don then asks why the Sons are asking him this question, and they tell him that they're not. Confused, Donatello states that there's no one else there - when he's surprised by the Turnstone telling him that he's wrong.

Back on Stump Asteroid, Leonardo discovers that Don is missing. Before they can search for their brother, the Turtles are taken to a large conference room, where all of the local aliens try to decide what to do about the growing danger of the Black Hole and Emperor Mazool. Trap explains that the planets closest to the Hole must be evacuated, and how Mazool has taken advantage of the chaos the Black Hole is creating by attacking everyone with his Aerwyl Imperial Fleet in effort to take control of Dimension X. Trap tells Nova Posse that they'll have remove the threat that Mazool poses while the others rescue those in peril. The Turtles state that they want to help, and Trap tells them to assist Nova Posse. Everyone heads out to their ships.

Meanwhile, in the white void, two ships crash, interrupting Don's conversation with the Turnstone. Sarnath emerges from the wreckage of one ship, while the other houses one of the Imperial Force pilots. The Imperial pilot attempts to fire his pistol at Donatello, but it doesn't work. Donatello leaps at the Imperial, but he bounces off of a force field. The Turtle quickly surmises that the Turnstone is preventing any violent acts. The Imperial pilot is excited by the Stone and attempts to grab it for Emperor Mazool, but when he touches it, he disintegrates! Don states that he tried to warn the pilot, but Sarnath states that he heard nothing. Confused, Donatello reaches towards the Turnstone, saying that it's calling him.

The Nova Posse's ship approaches the planetary home of Emperor Mazool. The team manages to break into the Imperial Palace, but they find Mazool waiting for them with a brigade of soldiers. As Mazool explains that all of their efforts are futile, the Black Hole suddenly doubles in size, and begins to pull everything into it! Back in the void, Donatello is holding the Turnstone, his eyes are blank, but a huge grin is plastered on his face.

The battle btetween the Nova Posse and Mazool's troops intensifies. Our heroes are forced to retreat from the planetary base of their adversary and join the space combat near the Black Hole.

Donatello continues to experience cosmic awareness with the help of the Turnstone when Sarnath states that he's been contacted by his companion Qark. Sarnath attempts to draw Don's attention away from the Stone, but Donatello punches his friend and states that he has no interest in Sarnath's "dog" as he's far too occupied being "one with the universe". Sarnath pleads with Don to remember where they are and to grasp what the Turnstone is doing to him and the universe beyond.

Nova Posse's ship takes a direct hit that fries their control panel, preventing them from making contact with their allies. Since the Posse's craft is identical to those piloted by Mazool's forces, our heroes appear as enemies to their friends in the Stump armada.

Sarnath surmises that Don is in control of the Stone and attacks him, trying to gain control of the powerful object. Sarnath manages to distract Don by getting him to focus on the peril that his brothers are in, and uses the opportunity to wrest the Turnstone from the Turtle's grasp. Sarnath states that he is far better suited for the task at hand. The multi-armed alien is instantly "plugged in" to universal awareness, and he states that it's time for Don to go, using the Turnstone's powers to teleport Don to the ship that his companions are aboard. Sarnath then faces the Sons of Silence and tells them that while they would have been able to control Donatello, they won't be able to control him.

Sarnath states that "this must end" and a huge projection of the alien is seen in space, surrounding the Black Hole. Suddenly, dozens of spacecraft explode as their engines overload. Nova Posse is able to save their ship with quick action by their helmsman. Sarnath teleports the Sons of Silence away... and then the Black Hole collapses onto itself.

On the planet below, Mazool vows to hunt down and destroy the Nova Posse.

Don explains to Leo that he, Sarnath and the Sons of Silence had been in another dimension. The Stone had gotten control of Don, and without Sarnath's help, he could have destroyed the universe. Leonardo asks about the Black Hole and Don states that Sarnath collapsed the Black Hole and sealed the dimensional gateway - he won't be returning.

REVIEW

There is a back-up story for Mutanimals that takes up four pages of each issue. Not much happens in those pages, but a group of villains wants to kill the Mutanimals. No reasons at all, but the whole thing looks horrible.

The covers for these issues have always caught my attention, especially issue 49. This comic is so far from its early issues that is incredible to think it’s the same book.

As usual, the story kind of makes sense, but doesn’t hold up if you really think about it. It is unclear to me what the Sons of silence were trying to accomplish with this black hole. But where logic fails, emotions work better. The story of Karnath, finally regaining his sight one last time to sacrifice himself is kind of poetic.

Chris Allan makes very cute, yet feisty, Turtles. I think this is one of the main appeals of the series (as it was when Ken Mitchroney was around as well).

I give this story a score of 7.

[thaumaturtles]

Begin ANGELQUEST

The other day, I was doing some.......

...... studying.......

When I came across an advertisement. This isn’t at all an unusual experience; I’ve been on the internet for a decade and change and I’ve come to accept that ads are a part of the experience. This was an ad I’d seen many times before, too. I’m so accustomed to seeing it that my eyes often skip right over it. However, I’ve been reading a lot of articles about Enlightenment, lately, and I’ve been trying to put that into practice in my everyday life. I’ve been attempting, to varying degrees of success, to become more aware of myself and my environment, to probe onward into my mind’s own blind spots. In short, I’m trying to blitz my chakras. (Don’t worry, am Indian, can reclaim.)

And so, for perhaps the first time, I took a moment to truly see the ad in front of me. To stop and smell the dogshit hiding behind the roses. And, goodness, was it a sight to behold. Ladies, gentlemen, and all who fall betwixt, I present to you, THIS:

Take a moment, if necessary, to take it all in.

Have you collected yourself? Good. You’re holding up the rest of the class.

I don’t know how I’ve managed to let this pass without mental comment on more than one occasion. How did I look at this image, think “angel reading? yeah, sure, that’s a thing that exists” and then shuffle along? The only explanation I can muster is Divine intervention, which would ironically lend this product some legitimacy. I need to understand. What does Angel Reading mean? How could such a process be personalized, and, furthermore, how could it take place over the Internet? Who is this “Celeste”? What is she after? Why does she look vaguely disappointed in me? Can she see my soul? What is an “Angelic Medium”?????

Clearly, if I want answers, I’m going to have to dive in. I place my Crocodile Dundee hat on my head with no small measure of trepidation, though I must confess a moiety of excitement deep within. As I hike up my Adventurin’ Shorts and stuff a few hundred metres of rope into my backpack, I consider the long road ahead. And then, with my cosplay explorer’s outfit put on to my approval, I sit down at my computer. I’m really not sure why I felt the need to do all that when I’m just gonna be here at home.

I steel my will, and I click.

This loading screen appears, and I’d like to mention that the URL for this page is perhaps longer than any URL I’ve ever seen before in my 16 years.

Okay, let’s just take a moment to get our bearings here and-

HOLY MACKEREL, THERE’S A COUNTDOWN!

And only twenty-seven minutes left! Sakes alive, I clicked this link just in time! Imagine If I’d wasted more time farting around and dressing up like Indiana Jones!

Although, weirdly enough, whenever I refresh the page, the timer restarts, and it always restarts at 27 minutes and 50ish seconds, which is a random-enough number to seem legitimate.

Hmm. Odd.

I wonder if maybe the countdown isn’t actually real and is just there to pressure you into typing your info more quickly so you don’t notice how fishy this whole opera-

OH MY GOD ONLY 26 MINUTES!!!!!!!

OK, gotta think quickly here. Gosh, they’re asking some personal questions right off the bat, but I can’t let them know it’s me; they might recognize me from tumblr. If this sting operation’s gonna go forth I gotta lie my ass off. My name? Uh, uh.. My name is Dyl-Dy- Uhhhh, shit, okay, it’s Dylan-NO, Dylllllllll...... Delilah? Delilah. Like from the Bible. Yeah, that’s fitting, especially since I’m swindling these fools. Soon, Celeste, your hair will be mine.

They’re asking for my date of birth, which I’m hesitant to put because my 16th birthday party was kind of a big deal and Celeste might’ve heard about it, in which case she’ll know it’s me AND things will be super awkward cause I didn’t invite her to the party.

I put 4/13/1969 obviously

They’re also asking for my e-mail address, which I can’t give out because it has my full name, address, and social security number in it, so let’s just pull this ripcord real quick and parachute out of this nightmare zone, and over to a quick, free, secure e-mail client. That is, protonmail.com, which is not my usual e-mail server and will thus throw Celeste’s goons even farther off my trail

Wow, that was a surprisingly quick and painless process! I might just have to use protonmail in the future

So anyway here’s my info, sent in right under the wire, with a mere 24.3 minutes left! God that was close. Picture that classic scene in Indiana Jones where he slides under the door and then reaches back in to get his hat, only it’s an out-of-shape teen and also the door hasn’t even started closing yet.

I went with my actual country because, c’mon, there’re a lot of people in Jamaica. Statistically speaking, how likely is it they’d find me through that?

You know I didn’t. You know I fucking didn’t. Why are you asking.

Also, here’s a quick rundown of what Celeste is actually offering in case anyone was curious. It does somewhat tickle me that she claims she’ll “get to work immediately” as soon as anyone clicks the link and subscribes, as though the process isn’t completely automated. It evokes a clear image of Celeste, in full angelic garb, sitting at a computer screen and answering calls while also typing into three discrete keyboards simultaneously.

The idea that she could personally take the order of every individual who clicks this ad betrays either a complete lack of confidence in the desirability of her product, or an incredible amount of confidence in her own ability to multitask.

Who is “she”? Celeste? That doesn’t make much sense in the context here. Peter’s Guardian Angel? But earlier Celeste made it sound like all angels use he/him! Also, what does “bring her back” mean if it’s the angel? Can angels leave and later be found again? I feel like if you find your guardian angel once, that should be it forever, but apparently they can leave and you have to ensnare them again?????

Hooray! A link from an unknown source to an unknown destination! I sure can’t wait to click it all day long!

The things I do in the name of science, I swear to God Celeste.

It took a minute but here it is. Sidenote: I rather enjoy the irony of an inbox which consists of three e-mails about encryption and ways to curate a safe internet experience, and one which is an automated link from a bullshit ad for a product that doesn’t exist. There’s a subtle poetry to this image. I almost want to frame it, and then sell it for an exorbitant amount of money.

Here’s the e-mail, folx. If ever you needed proof that this was a scam, look no further.

Who on this good green earth would think beginning such a missive with, “Thank you for your trust,” would be a good way to garner MORE goodwill? When I go to my local grocer and I purchase a party-sized bag of Tostitos to eat by myself over the course of a day and a half because I’m in control of my body, goddammit, the bag doesn’t say, “Thank you for believing in us! We promise we won’t give you dysentery!

Like, what the fuck? “Thank you for your trust.” Your product should be able to stand on its own two feet and proudly proclaim, “I’m gonna give you a fucking angel reading or die trying!”

That initial line has honestly made me more scared than ever for this process. I’m confident I’m going to click that link and it’s going to auto-download a terabyte of obscure Norwegian pornography to my hard drive. I did just update my computer this morning, however, and all my data are backed up, so I feel somewhat more secure than I might otherwise.

Did I really just say “data are”? I know it’s grammatically correct and all, but it’s still jarring to hear. Messes with my mental flow. And wouldn’t the proper, descriptivist thing to do be to use “data is” to avoid confusion? Using “data are” feels clunky, is more difficult to say, and makes me look a bit snobbish. I’d delete it but that would require hitting the backspace button on my computer and I’m frankly quite lazy about that sort of thing. What was I talking about again? Oh, right. I have to click the link.

 Again with the “thank you for your trust” bullshit! Whatever, I’m going to let it pass. They’re clearly going for a friendly, approachable persona here, even if they’re doing it in the most threatening, ass-backwards way possible.

This next email took a seemingly endless eight minutes to arrive, during which time I meditated, raised a bonsai tree to adulthood, watched Marley & Me, grappled with intense feelings of loneliness, and worked on some of my homework.

Or maybe I just played games on my phone. You decide!

Okay, not quite what “hereby” means, but sure. It’s a common mistake, likely exacerbated by the presence of the word “here” within “hereby.” Sort of a “wherefore does not mean where” situation I suppose.

Anyway, I’m submitting to the mortifying ordeal of clicking the link yet again.

Christ get a load of this shit. How fitting that the Angelic stone for someone born on 4/13 would be Jade. My archangel is Megatron apparently??? His info claims he’s some sort of scribe. My major planet is Neptune, and my secondary planet is.... the sun? Is anyone going to tell Celeste what stars are or do I have to do everything myself around here? I do like that ram up in the top left though. I’m naming you Ram Elliot.

Now for the pièce de résistance. Meet Mahasiah. Mahasiah is not my guardian angel; Mahasiah is the guardian angel for anyone born between April 10th-14th. My guardian angel is Yerathel, apparently. A few things I learned while researching this: both Mahasia and Yerathel have “feminine energies” (???) and both have Fire as their associated classical element. Also, Yerathel rules over Intelligence, which is one thing I actually somewhat like about myself. This is actually kind of neat to learn about!

I mean come on. That’s pretty fuckin cool. His name means “He Who Punishes Evildoers” which is beyond epic, and his associated gem is Smoky Quartz, aka the only Steven Universe character.

You know, maybe this whole Angel Reading business isn’t a scam after all. Maybe it’s a perfectly safe process and I’ll be totally fine, what am I worrying about? At the very least, it couldn’t hurt to explore her site a bit more..... for research’s sake.

yeah baby tell me more

h-

certainly, miss celeste, anything for you

wait, aren’t I already in a relationshi-

JAZZERCISING JUNIPERS BATMAN THERE’S ONLY 28 MINUTES LEFT

holy shit! I want accurate readings!

Oh god oh no okay i’ll do whatever you want celeste please don’t leave me i need my tarots

THEY KNOW ABOUT ME ALREADY OMG

Well, okay, even in my currently addled state I can still see that “Duo-Telepathy” is complete bullshi-

OH WELL IF AMANDA GAVE THEM THREE WHOLE STARS I HAVE TO TRUST IT

Amazingly, my info was pre-filled in. Almost like this site is linked to Celeste’s in some way, or perhaps even run by the same group of scammeUPSTANDING CITIZENS IS WHAT I MEANT TO SAY

Ooh, another e-transmission from my good friend Celeste! Oh, how I’ve missed her! And apparently large and surprising discoveries have been made concerning me! She’s presenting me a Guide? I sure hope I’ll be able to open it, hassle-free, with no additional purchases/information required!

OHOHOHOHO

bro i’m shitting my drawers rn

I have no fucking clue what that means but you said FREE so i’m in!

oh my god there’s still so much left. just shut the fuck up and take my money you fools

AW TITS YEAH

....i think

Okay, I know the original thing said FREE and I should be “mad” or watever, but look at that bargain! that’s more than half off! It might as well be free! I’d be stupid NOT to buy it!

I’ve invented a lot of secondary information for Delilah. The phone number is merely (559) YOU-SUCK, as a subtle way of establishing the power dynamic at play here. I’m sure Celeste will appreciate it.

Hmmmmm.............. It would seem my method of “just input numbers randomly” won’t work here. Such a shame. Credit card fraud used to be so easy. I’ll have to put that on the backburner, though, because look what just appeared in my inbox!

You can see where this is going.

I’ll take my leave now, this post is getting long enough as is, but I do feel it’s important to note that doing a quick bit of research shows that Celeste & co. are famous for emotional manipulation, as well as getting people addicted to their products and forcing a sort of dependency upon them. It’s important to do your research, and remember basic internet safety tips like don’t click popups or check if a site is legit before downloading from them. It’s incredibly easy to get trapped down this sort of rabbit hole, where you wind up buying more and more of their products like you’re stockpiling for the Rapture. Not me, though, I’m obviously fine and can quit anytime I like. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have to go try a bunch of credit card numbers until one works.

[artificialqueens]

Perfect Places... a simple song turn to a symphony (Ninex) - Saiphl

Hello again here I go again with a new project, this time is a little present for @fandomfeministe shaped as a tribute to her Miz Crooke universe, thanks for all the hours and the inspiration for this spin off.

I also want to thank mollyroll from the discord sever, @mistressaq, @pink-grapefruit-cafe and @artificialmeggie for all the support, the love and the incredible work you all did betaing this first chapter, you all are the true best.

Hope you all enjoy the ride and let me know what you think.

========================

PERFECT PLACES... A SIMPLE SONG TURNED TO A SYMPHONY.

Adagio. The Sun and the Moon.

Meaning a slow tempo or slow speed.

Nina and Monet have known each other for a long time, longer than their seasons on Drag Race. Longer than the comings and goings of their friends and drag families. Longer than the spaced beats of their own lives  They’ve shared gigs, drinks, and more than one party night crashing on each other’s couches when the tips were bad, and the budget was low.

They were drag queens, they knew what meant to depend on a boy job to actually pay the bills and support the expenses of pursuing their art. The good part of being starving artists was that you’ll find solidarity and support wherever you go. You’ll make a friend out of shared cheap takeouts and beers in a dressing room. The bad part was when they had to say goodbye until the next time they coincided.

Monet couldn’t really recall the time he and Nina became friends, but he liked to think it was somewhere between one time they shared a futon at some queen’s place and the last time they went together on Columbus Pride. Thing was, the day he received the call for Drag Race, he didn’t even realize what he was doing until the voice on the other side of the phone belonged to a groggy Nina instead of the bubbling impatience of Bob’s.

Nina wasn’t much of a seamstress, but he always gave good advice to his friend for some of the outfits. He knew exactly what to say when the stress of almost being there was taking the best out of Monet. The last thing before Monet’s phone went silent for more than one month and a half was a reassuring voice message where Nina wished him good luck.

Time passed by and out of one of those very rare moments in life, they found each other in a city that wasn’t even Columbus or New York. They spent the whole evening catching up. Relentlessly talking about everything and nothing at the same time, sharing a small tray of fries and most of all laughing. Something easy and domestic about being around each other, as if it hasn’t been months since the last time they spoke.

Monet had a very particular way to define his friends.  There was of course Bob, the big goof with a loud mouth, a smart mind and a huge heart; his momster. Then came Cracker the quiet Jew that sparked his curiosity since the very first time they met, unable to understand how such a creative person could get that dark in the bat of a lash; his little sister. Dusty was totally different story, he was a boy that wore the fragility of his spirit on his sleeve, he usually said they were sisters, but he saw him more as a daughter.

In a whole different corner, there was Nina, who gave him the space and clarity he needed to ease the noise in his own mind. He was Monet’s White Room, the place he felt safest.

Nina, as the natural caretaker he was, was always surrounded by people. Some of them, his protégées, some of them friends for that part of the road, a few others the friends of a lifetime. Nina loved, but mostly respected Virginia, his drag mother, the one who showed the way and put him on it. Then all the other Wests, including his sisters and daughters, those who proved to have a heart as big as Nina’s and a love for the people that granted them a place. Following closer was Brooke Lynn, the giant Canadian queen who came to America looking for a dream and stumbled his way to it; there was a time when Nina was a little infatuated with the tall queen, but with time, that infatuation became an honest friendship.

On the same level, but in a different place, was Monet, the honest, chill and silly queen that never hesitated to share anything in front of him, the one that usually found a way to bring him back to earth when his mind went out of control.

The following year, Monet took Nina’s call, he was in tears, babbling nonsense about drag, three weeks and having nothing to wear. He was going to the race. They spent a good total of three and a half hours on the phone, finally cutting the call because Virginia was about to take down his door by the lack of response. Three weeks later, Monet left two voice messages, one wishing Nina good luck… the other, the one that never made it to its destination, saying “Go Big, Go West.”

They don’t speak much in the following months, the rush, the exhaustion and the elimination that tasted more as an excuse than really a reason to end his path, make Nina seclude a bit on himself. Going back to his usual life, the performances in Columbus, the new causes to fight, the people needing him were the best coping method to get back to his feet. He’s invited to host a fundraising event in New York, and without hesitation he accepts.

Monet is bored when his phone buzzes; he doesn’t really want to answer, until the name on the screen makes him react with a jolt.

They finally meet in the baggage claim area of JFK, Nina drops his bags and Monet hugs him, nothing needs to be said, just being close was enough. One of those that say “I’m happy to see you,” “I’ve missed you,” “I survived,” “I’m proud of you” in the few seconds that it lasts.

It starts really casual, some small talk, random comments about the stress of the race. Nothing that can really interfere with the signed NDA. They haven’t seen each other in a long time and all they want is to have a good time and relax. They’re sharing a tray of chicken nuggets when Monet receives the call, the one that puts him in All Stars. He says yes and then collapses on Nina’s shoulder, the anticipation and the rush taking the best of him.

Nina clears his schedule to stay with him, to help him get back on his feet and to build at least, Monet’s entrance outfit. They spend Three days together, relentlessly theorizing about everything and nothing. Playing names, challenges and even plot twists that are as ridiculous as being awake at 4 a.m., discussing why he shouldn’t wear sponges… ever again. They’re falling asleep over a table full of fabrics and sequins when first considers asking Nina to be his emergency contact.

The next months go by in a blur. All Stars 4 airs and with an unfortunate turn of events, the front runner gets eliminated. In another unexpected plot twist, the first ever tie for the title happens, giving both Trinity and Monet a crown. Nina would never admit how proud he felt when he saw Monet prancing with that crown. Monet would never accept that he forced himself to answer Bob’s call and Cracker’s toast instead of calling Nina.

Nina calls Monet the next day, after noon, apologizing in case he interrupted his sleep. Monet would never tell he was more than happy to hear him. Monet would also never tell anyone how his stomach clenched and his heart stuttered when Nina said “I knew you could do it.” They try to find a space to meet and catch up, to celebrate his victory, but Nina is already busy with the upcoming Season 11 promotion. They text and FaceTime when they feel like it, sometimes for silly things. Sometimes because Nina is spiraling down with anxiety and only Monet knows how to bring him back to earth.

It’s the middle of April when their schedules coincide again at an event somewhere in Boston. Nina is performing and Monet goes to the show, finding the surprise endearing. They leave the venue together, going to a 24-hour diner. They laugh, they cry, they start talking again and then share a tray of cheap fries and grilled cheese. When the food is gone and time has passed, they walk together, pulling Nina’s carry on and still talking. When they finally stop in front of the hotel doors, it's the first time they fall silent that night. Nina smiles, and Monet looks at him like he hung the moon in the sky and single-handedly placed each star in its place.

That’s the first time it happens.

Nina wants to hug him, just for the sake of making sure that night was real.

Monet gets closer, the contact with Nina's body fills him with relief.

Nina wants to thank him for everything, but something’s changed, and he can feel it, he can feel him breathing.

Monet leans to kiss him, as if it is the most natural thing, as if they have done that a million times.

The first kiss is brief, soft, barely a tender brush of their lips.

Nina breaks the contact and they awkwardly look at each other, then avert their gazes.

Monet says good night, he’s trying to turn around to leave, but now is Nina who kisses him.

This time the kiss lasts longer, is equally tender, and most of all magical.

That’s a night of firsts, their first kiss, their first time holding hands. The first time Nina went back to his room with a friend instead of trade. The first time Monet felt his heart skip a beat when the lift dinged on the right floor. The first time they feel brave enough to make a move, but too shy to be the first to look at the other when they get naked.

The sounds of the city and the sunlight wake them up. Their tangled bodies one of the most inspiring things Nina have ever seen. Groggy and husky morning voices the sound that Monet would always cherish. They’re sore, tired, sated, and still too confused to define what they feel when they step out of the bed.

Once again time plays against them, and Nina has to rush to the airport. He barely has time to catch his flight to Columbus. Monet wants to talk to him about that night. His curiosity piquing  and the itch to keep touching Nina digging deep into his mind. When their Uber reaches the airport, Nina looks Monet in the eye. He wishes he could say something… anything. Monet cradles his cheek, already feeling longing in the way he leans into his hand They share one final kiss. It’s neither sweet nor bitter; it tastes a bit like regret, and a lot like longing.

Nina boards his flight, with the taste of Monet’s lips lingering on his mouth.

Monet watches him go, with the feeling of a hole growing in his chest.

May comes to an end, so does season eleven. They all are gathered in the dressing rooms of the theater in downtown. It’s been a month and a half since the last time they spoke. Nina knows deep inside he misses Monet, but wouldn’t know where to start if he sees him face to face. Monet knows they’ll meet at one point, knows for a fact that he will talk to him… in front of at least four cameras and hundreds of people watching them.

Nina is cooling his face with a fan, the infamous heat of the City of Angels antagonizing with his freshly made face. He’s moving behind Vanjie while he films “Can I Assssssk You a Question?”, going back and forth in only his tights, pads and breast contour. Vanjie moves away from Brooke Lynn, and Nina stays behind with his friend. He knows they’re not alright, he knows Brooke probably will never be alright again. They whisper brief words, coded just for them to understand. That’s the moment when Aquaria and Monet arrive.

Monet’s loud and infectious laugh fills the place, sending shivers down Nina’s spine. Aquaria keeps talking, missing the moment when their eyes met. Nina smiles nervously, Monet looks at him as if he was trying to memorize his face. They could swear it lasted hours, especially when Nina got lost on Monet’s plump lips; but it wasn’t more than an instant that’s gone once they avert their gazes once more.

The New York girls gather together, and it’s like a party. Nina looks at Monet from her mirror, no one would blame him for looking at a reflection in the mirror. Monet laughs again, pulling Shuga into a hug, then looks straight to the mirror, the same mirror where Nina is looking at him. They lock gazes, the laugh filling the place leaves his eyes, a shadow of doubt clouding Monet’s eyes. Nina nods almost imperceptibly and Monet gravitates towards him. They greet, they banter… they stay too long and yet so short in a hug that says just a tiny part of what they need to say.  

Nina gets dressed.

Monet starts doing his face.

Nina smiles shyly when Monet looks at his cleavage.

Monet hides his blush with contour and foundation when Nina winks at him.

They don’t talk more, at least not about what have happened before.

Brooke Lynn notices his friend’s expression, poking once, twice, thrice. Nina doesn’t give an inch and they have to officially arrive to the theater’s pink carpet. Nina would never say how grateful he was for the PA calling for him.

Aquaria notices Monet looking through the mirror when their season eleven sisters leave. Monet would say that Brooke Lynn’s ass looked perfect in that white gown, and Aquaria would buy the lie just to make his friend feel nothing had changed. Monet would never admit that Nina’s printed see through ass just made him thirsty for the real one hidden under the fabric and padding.

When RuPaul announces Monet and her task of revealing who was the new Miss Congeniality, Nina’s hands started sweating. He also could feel his heart skip a beat when that stunning man appeared on the stage, wearing nothing but a pussycat black wig, and that gown that fitted him like a glove. The experience of hearing his name falling so effortless from his painted lips was surreal to a point he never expected.

They hug, and it’s brief. A hug that tastes like nervousness, longing, and being unable to move. Monet hands him the golden RuPaul; Nina takes it still wondering if this isn’t a joke. The warmth in his hazel eyes says it isn’t. Monet wishes the moment could last longer, he wishes for it to be just them and kiss all the hesitations away from him.

Two weeks later, destiny puts them together once more. The crowning party, the rush of Yvie winning, the magic of one night in San Francisco.

Nina is having a drink at the bar.

Monet spots him like a target.

Nina feels that well known electricity running on his body.

Monet smiles like a predator finding his prey.

They finally look at each other, and for the first time in forever, no one is looking at them, no one is pulling them apart.

Monet leans to his ear, whispering sweet nonsense.

Nina blushes  feeling as alive as a teenager.

Monet reaches for his hand to kiss it.

Nina just pulls him away from the party.

They barely make it to Monet’s hotel room.

Early in the morning, they wake up absolutely conscious of being together. Nina smiles to him, tracing lines over the dark skin with a finger. Monet closes his eyes, feeling inebriated with the sensation. They both needed that, the little moment of reassurance, and the realisation that no matter what had happened in Boston, or just the night before, they will be fine. They don’t feel the need to talk, as they get dressed and go somewhere close to find some breakfast.

Nina leaves San Francisco two days later, when his contract requires for him to be in LA for the last rehearsals of the tour. There are no promises, no longing or regret, just two friends saying goodbye and see you soon.

Monet stays there until Nina goes through security check. They keep waving at each other like excited kids on Christmas morning; they wave until Monet can’t see Nina anymore. That’s the moment when Monet understands he is in love… with Nina.

[toujoursfleurea]

✉ ➟ @opiaism​ // JAMES said:

∟   dear diary...

 a c c e p t i n g  ✓ ✓ ✓  send in " dear diary... " to my inbox for my muse to describe your muse in their diary!

15th September 1976

             I know that I’ve written this somewhere among these pages before, but the universe is a funny, funny creature! In fact, I’m almost certain that it takes particular joy in plaguing me with the punchline of its many jokes. You see, today I learned the proper identity of my mysterious letter writing Slayer. Surprised as we both were, we agreed to be civil and sat down for a cuppa. Dare I say that I didn’t mind the taste as much as I thought I would? It really is a pity he wasn’t someone else - anyone else. I will miss our talks.

1st November 1976

             The entirety of the world has gone mad, myself included! That missing girl, Mathilde Grishawk, has finally been found. Although, I suppose it more apt to say that her dead and naked body, levitating through the merry revelers of the Halloween masque, found all of us instead. I’ve never seen such eyes. Of course, all pandemonium let loose and we Prefects were left to clear the mess of students! Some of them crying. Many of them angry and quick to point a blaming finger at one another. If Dumbledore is as great a wizard as everyone claims, he certainly doesn’t show it in moments of peril. He just looms over everything and leaves it for the children to handle. Thank Circe for McGonagall! I often feel as if she’s the only capable adult in this castle.

             My sisters were both missing through the entire ordeal. I cannot begin to understand what I’m supposed to make of that! They are both of them making themselves scarce these days and for very different reasons, I suspect. Oh, I know that they can both handle themselves, but...acknowledgment would be nice! I don’t think it’s too much to ask for. I shouldn’t worry, I know I shouldn’t worry, but I do! It plagues me to the point where I cannot think of anything else and the only person that seems to understand is - 

             Well, suffice to say that I was very lucky to have found him beneath the mask of my dance partner tonight. He is as surprisingly capable of controlling a chaotic crowd as he is maneuvering his way around a dancefloor! I suppose that I can admit here, at least, that I was thoroughly impressed with him.

15th November 1976

             At this moment, I couldn’t rightly tell you who is the bigger idiot! I gave him my trust and he betrayed it! Of course, I understand the reasons. I do. Everyone wants answers to what happened to that poor girl; everyone wants to keep it from happening again. We Slytherins are the most obvious suspects and he is a brash, reckless, unmitigated ass on even his best of days! I’ve been telling myself that I should know better, that the letters ought to stop and my thoughts shouldn’t be nearly so free...but --

             I am writing this with him asleep on my bed. Which isn’t to say that anything happened! I am not, in fact, that mad quite yet! We just...fell asleep after talking through the night. Oh, there is something wrong with me and I cannot begin to fathom what it is! I should have turned him in! I should have sent him out the door with that stupid cloak of his! In any case, I need to wake him up. I should wake him up before Alecto returns from wherever she spent her night. He’s really quite beautiful when he’s not preening about it.

21st December 1976

             Today, my fiance was not Lucius but a heroic slayer of poor, unfortunate house elves. I do hope the poor creature didn’t have a heart attack! It was incredibly reckless, regardless. It was also very fun; I needed the saving. Andromeda told me to expect fireworks. She said nothing about tidal waves or the taste of cinnamon. I wish I could talk to her about it. I wish I understood anything at all anymore. Mostly, I wish that we were back at the castle. I didn’t realize how much I’d missed having someone to talk to.

             I’ve also thought of an idea for a new concoction. A cologne this time, I think.

14th February 1977

             I truly wish that he would stop wasting his time on someone so...so abominably undeserving! Anyone would be lucky to have him in their lives; to have him love them in any capacity. He remembers things, you know. Small things. Inconsequential things. He remembered my favorite flowers. Of course, I didn’t mean to be so obvious about my joy in receiving them. I should care more about the whispers that they’ve started, but how can I? They’re so vibrant in comparison to the ones Lucius gave me! They cannot help but be the focal point of the room. They’re very like him in that regard and I’m almost certain that he knows it.

             He certainly knows how to get under my skin. It’s not fair to look at me that way when he’s spent the better part of an evening chasing after another flower in the garden. It’s not fair to make Lucius’ name sound so bitter in the same breath. No one else would ever dare speak to me the way that he does. No one would - no one would...

             I really wanted to kiss him again. I think, maybe, there was a part of him that wanted to kiss me too. No one has ever stared at me like that before. I told him that he could call me Cissy instead.

28th February 1977

             It’s frustrating watching whatever it is that’s blossoming between Andy and Lupin. There’s no one that I can talk to it about either. No one has even batted an eye at the thought of them. I don’t understand how it’s so impossibly simple for the two of them to be together in the halls or out in the quad. I mean, there is grumbling. There will always be grumbling, but -

             I’m grateful for our stolen hours together. I just want to know what it would be like to be like them.

7th March 1977

             I haven’t slept since I woke up in the hospital ward. I haven’t eaten anything either. I don’t feel anything that I know I should and it worries me. I’m numb to most things and when I’m not I’ve got this anxious feeling bubbling in the pit of my stomach. It’s like there’s a scream in the back of my throat that wants to claw its way out but I won’t allow it. I can’t allow it. I can’t even write down the words that might help me make more sense of it all. How do you admit that your idol, your own blood, your sister...Bella, what have you done?

            I pretend not to remember, but I do. I do. I remember everything and there’s only one person that I can share that with. He’s here, right now. He’s stretched across my bed with my cat curled into his side. I know that he’s cautious. I know that he’s worried. I know that he keeps glancing over here at me to make certain that I’m really here and awake. He’s stopped asking, but his every action is to make certain that I’m alright. I know that I could tell him the truth of it all and he’d hold me. I could cry and he’d drown right along with me. It’s not even that I’m afraid to be weak around him. I trust him more than anyone now. I just - I don’t know if I could stop once I started. Haven’t I scared him enough already?

             It’s enough for me that he’s here.

2 April 1977

             I love James Potter. I am in love with James Potter. It is as simple and yet so very complicated as that! Of course, the true revelation in all of this is that he loves me too! It’s incredibly juvenile and stupid, but I keep making him repeat it. I just love the way that it sounds. I love to hear him say it. These past few days have been some of the happiest I’ve had in such a long time, I’m not ready to leave them behind. Oh, but there’s so much to do! I’ve never been so certain of anything - of anyone.  

             I think it’s high time I returned Lucius’ ring.

[redrobinfection]

I’ll Be There

JayTim | Established Relationship | Angst | Emotional Hurt/Comfort | Fluff | Angst and Fluff | Discussions of Death | 9.9K (below read more link) | Read on Ao3

AN: A gift for @chibinightowl in (belated) celebration of her birthday. Hope this is all you hoped it would be, more even (and not too over the top, at that! =_=;) ❤ Happy Birthday!

WARNING: This is hard-core emotional hurt/comfort. This gets really dark, really introspective, and really, really psychologically unhealthy in places. There is a lot of self-blame being tossed around; there are some panic attacks and near panic attacks; there is a lot of discussion of past canon character death(s), claustrophobia, and mortality on the whole. I had to go to a very deep, dark place inside myself to write sections of this. So, if any of that sounds like it might upset you or set off your own emotional spiral, turn around RIGHT NOW and go read something fluffier. I've written plenty of physical hurt/comfort with fluffy fluff at the end, not to mention the tons of pure fluff, so take your pick and stay safe, my friends.

---

Jason's laughter over Dick's latest exploits - teaching Damian to make rice crispy treats - dims faster than Tim was expecting and he stiffens slightly beside him on the couch. Tim looks up from his tablet. "What's up?"

Jason's fingers are frozen over the pull-down menu on his phone and he is staring intensely at the screen. Tim leans in and quickly reads over the message Damian sent, but what he finds isn't alarming enough to warrant the grim cast of Jason's expression and the tension Tim can feel radiating off of him in waves.

"It's almost April," is all Jason replies, tone curiously flat.

Tim glances down at the date. Saturday, 27 March. "Yeah, wha-" he begins then cuts off abruptly as it hits him; the 27th... April… April 27th, the day Jason died just over ten years ago. He sobers instantly and reaches out to grip Jason's forearm lightly, but firmly.

Last year's anniversary had been rough on him, Tim had learned, after the fact, in bits and pieces that Jason had shared with forced offhandedness. Just remembering it made Tim wince. He had learned more about it from the other family members who - as Bats, had never had enough sense or decency to keep out of other people's business - had kept tabs on Jason throughout the day. According to them, 'rough' was an understatement.

"The 27th," Tim murmurs softly, squeezing Jason's forearm gently. It wasn't question, but Jason replies anyway, his gaze going distant and somewhat pained as memories of years before and years back alike clearly flash before him.

"Yeah..."

Last year had been the first April they'd been officially 'together', but Tim hadn't been around for last April 27th. He wasn't there for Jason and for no good reason at all. Only because he hadn't thought about it, because Jason had never said anything about it, because… it doesn't matter why now, all that matters is that he feels awful about it.

He just went about his business as usual, going out to the Titans for the weekend, coming back a few days later. He didn't worry too much when Jason went quieter than usual right before he left. Didn't think too much about it when Jason didn't call him even once over that weekend.

Some boyfriend he was turning out to be…

"I'll be there," Tim promises solemnly, gripping his arm tightly.

Jason relaxes, eyes blinking as he comes back to himself, and nods jerkily, corners of his mouth twitching into the ghost of his normal, snarky grin. "I… yeah. Please."

~*~

Tim clicks vigorously at the blocks on his Wayne Enterprises schedule on his computer screen and sends them back to his secretary with notes on who to call and when to reschedule them. He leans back in his office chair and considers the day he's just emptied out. Tuesday, April 27th.

He's known about this day for years. It didn't take long after he became Robin for him to learn the exact circumstances of Jason's death. 'Let it serve as a warning' and all that. Grim case files aside, it is hard to forget all the times he had to pull Bruce out of dark reveries right around the same time at the end of April every year. Too many anniversaries he had to pull Batman off of muggers he had beaten just this side of 'too hard'.

So, it's not like Tim could ever forget that date or its significance. He didn't forget it last year, either, to be honest. He'd just never seen or thought about how Jason would spend that day... the day he had died. What are you supposed to do, how are you supposed to feel on a day like that? Mournful? Angry? Contemplative? All of the above?

Tim leans forward and exits the hourly view with a sharp keystroke. He left clicks it in the week view and blocks it out entirely. Better safe than sorry. He sighs and leans back into his seat once more, staring pensively out of the massive windows of his corner office at the bleak, misty day outside.

He had always assumed that Jason liked to spend the day alone, working through what ever he was feeling on his own, because that was apparently what he'd done every single year since he'd come back. Furthermore, whenever anyone would offer to come over, have him over, or take him somewhere, Jason would always brush them off, and if anyone got any ideas about snooping around uninvited, he would always them chase away, often angrily, sometimes violently. So, Tim figured he needed that time to himself.

Now Tim knows that the only reason Jason never lets anyone get close to him on that date is because he never feels it's safe enough to be around anyone else. During his most vulnerable times, Jason - like Tim - curls in on himself and pushes away the people he should hold close, being too afraid to show weakness, too afraid too reveal his inner workings, out of fear that others will push him away, or worse, attack him while he's down.

Jason admitted this to Tim sometime in February of last year. He described the masks, literal and figurative, that he wears around everyone - different masks for each of them, each taking a different toll on him - and how much energy it takes, sometimes, just to exist in the same space as other people. He also admitted that, for the first time in his life, he feels as if he's found someone he doesn't have to try so hard around, someone who he trusts to see him without any masks. Someone he would trust to be there when he's at his lowest.

He had looked Tim in the eye as he said this and made it perfectly clear he was looking right at that 'someone'.

Tim's face burns at the memory, in shame as well as a blend of embarrassment and affection. He whirls around in the desk chair and punches the keys on his keyboard, backing the calendar out to the month view. He left clicks the date and hovers over the options, eyes growing distant.

Jason had said that to him, and he - the 'World's Second Greatest Detective' - couldn't even take a hint! Couldn't connect the dots until Jason had made a comment in passing some time after Tim had returned, something about how he was glad that Tim had had his own stuff going on at the end of April, and gotten coverage in Gotham, because he, Jason, had had a pretty rough week and wouldn't have been up for their usual patrols. It had taken Tim a hot second - had had to catch himself right before he was about to ask why it had been such a hard week - but then, all of a sudden, it had all clicked together, guilt striking him with all the force and pain of a batarang to the chest.

Tim comes back to himself and clicks the option to block out the date completely, for every year in the foreseeable future, with no exceptions. He sighs, and leans back in the chair one final time, steepling his fingers. He rests his chin against them as he frowns at the screen.

He messed up last year. No question. He wasn't where he needed to be, wasn't where he should have been. This year he won't mess up. He made a promise. He'll be there.

~*~

"Hey, Babs, sorry to bother you after a long night, but I need to ask for a favor."

"Hey, Tim. It's been a while since you've called my secure number instead of calling over the comms. What's up?"

Tim sighed and stretched out in his wheelie chair. He was sitting at the console for his own personal 'Batcomputer' in the Perch, typing up the night's reports. "Yeah, well, it's the kind of family sensitive thing I didn't want to float across the comm lines, secure or not."

"Ah" Barbara responds succinctly, the single word speaking volumes to her understanding. Tim hears a few quiet clicks and then Babs confirms, "This line is now 100% secure. No prying ears, Bats or otherwise, will hear this conversation, on my end, at least. So what's up?"

Tim feels a tension leech out of his shoulders that he didn't even realize he'd been carrying. "Two Tuesdays from now could you quietly bring in one of the Birds of Prey to cover my, and maybe Jason's, patrol routes?"

"Well, Jason already asked for coverage that day - for the whole week actually - and Cass is coming back but why would-- oh." The line goes quiet for a few seconds before Barbara continues in a subdued tone. "He asked you to stay with him that night?"

"Yeah, I'm taking the whole day off," Tim responds, absently spinning a Birdarang on the desk to give his fidgety fingers something to do. "I…wow. I didn't realize Jason was taking the whole week."

"Yeah, he always takes that entire week - the day before and several days after, so he's not tempted to tear up the town while he's still in his usual funk - it's no secret. So why with all the 'hush-hush' from you?"

"I…" The Birdarang falters in midspin and he quickly sets the disc aside and sits up in his chair. "I didn't want to make a big deal out of it. This is the first time Jason is letting anyone stay with him and I thought that if the family found out or if Jay heard me making the request over the comms…"

"That he'd be upset that you were attracting attention to the whole thing," Barbara finishes. She sighs. "Yeah, it's probably wise to keep it on the down low, but to be honest, I think this is the one thing Bruce and Dick would leave alone no matter what." She chuckles. "After years of repeated failures, they've 'wisely' taken my advice and are waiting for him to feel ready to open up before they force their way in."

"That's… surprising, but good to hear," Tim admits with a small smile.

"In any case, I'll find someone to cover your routes that night. Is there anything else you needed while I have you on the line?"

"Actually," Tim speaks slowly, weighing his options, "Do you think you could make it the entire week? Now that I know Jay will be down that whole time…"

"Uh. Sure," Babs replies in mild surprise, the sound of keys clicking rapidly in the background. "Done. But can you really afford to be away that long?"

Tim's expression turns grim. "I'll have to. I wasn't there last year, Babs. I have to be there for him this year."

She hums thoughtfully then trails off. The line is silent for so long that for a moment Tim thinks she's hung up on him. Then… "Tim, you know that Jason doesn't blame you for not being around last year, right? You guys had only just gotten together, so he probably didn't feel completely ready to have you there until now anyway."

Tim exhales slowly through his nose, consciously working to dispel the tension that had crept back into his shoulders as Babs spoke. "It doesn't matter. I still feel awful for not even thinking to ask if he wanted me to stay. So I have to be there. I will be there."

"Okay..."

~*~

Everything is set. It's the Thursday before the anniversary and Tim is feeling good about the preparations he's made.

He's cleared his WE work schedule, not only for the day of the anniversary, but also for the day before and the day after. He's arranged for patrol coverage for the entire week and even finished off most of his current caseload, passing off the last of it to Steph and Damian. He spoke briefly and discreetly with both Dick and Bruce to let them know where he'll be and why, and, to his surprise - and appreciation - they not only accepted his explanations without argument, they also completely agreed to give him and Jason space - without even being asked! He even called the Titans to let them know he wouldn't be out there this weekend, or the next, and, to their credit, they had tripped over themselves telling him to take as much time as he and Jason needed.

Which is why, of course, Kon is on the phone with him right this second, begging Tim to come help the Titans.

"Rob, dude, we're barely holding it together as it is. We need you out here, like, yesterday," Conner tells him over the emergency line. Tim rubs the bridge of his nose to ward away the headache building between his eyes. "I wouldn't call you out here if it wasn't a matter of life or death. We've already called in the Justice League, but with half their members off-world and most of the leadership tied up elsewhere we're really struggling here. We need you."

Tim tells Kon that he'll call him back. Jason was in the room when the phone rang and heard everything. The minute Tim lowers the phone, Jason tells him to go. For the first time since they got together over a year ago, they argue for real.

"You know it's okay, right? You can go. Go help the Titans. I'll be fine."

"Jason, I'm not going to do that to you. I took this weekend off for a reason-"

"I didn't ask you to do that."

"You asked me to be here."

"Yeah, for the anniversary. Tim, it's on Tuesday. Today's Thursday."

"Yeah, but just in case..."

"I'm not a dainty fucking princess, dammit! The mere thought that day, days away from now, isn't going to send me into fits. I kind of expected you to be gone for the weekend, anyway, off with the Titans like you always are."

"Jason, it's not just for the weekend! If I go out there now, there's no guarantee I'll make it back in time. I don't want to risk it."

"It's fine."

"It's really not."

"Tim, just go help the Titans, already. I'll be fine. I promise."

In the end, Tim is reduced to the point of begging. "Jason, please… please don't ask me to leave you here alone when I promised I would be here, that I would be here for you no matter what," he pleads. He's practically vibrating with anxiety, his body tense with poorly-suppressed fear. Jason seems legitimately shocked at the force of his reaction, face frozen in a look halfway between frustration and alarm. "If I can't make it back… if you need someone…"

Jason's expression gentles and he pulls Tim close, tucking his head under his own and rubbing one hand across his back soothingly. "I've been on my own for years. I'll be fine. Go do you what you need to do, Babybird. Go save the world; it needs you more right now than I do."

Tim pulls away slowly, looking up at Jason with an expression torn between concern and desperation. "You'll call me if things get bad?"

Jason nods. "I will."

"Promise?"

"Promise."

~*~

Jason calls, just like he promised, but Tim isn't there to accept the call.

To be fair, things were legitimately awful out in California. Between the early season wildfires that had been tearing through the countryside for weeks, the massive earthquake that ripped up the fault lines of SoCal more recently, and the major assaults launched by not one but two of the Titan's biggest foes - H.I.V.E. and Brother Blood - to take advantage opening created by the back-to-back natural disasters, the Teen Titans and those of the Justice League who could be spared to respond to the triple disaster were stretched to their utmost limits.

Tim spent day after day, hour after hour coordinating round-the-clock ops against HIVE and the Church of Blood while also working non-stop with emergency services and the remaining heroes to coordinate rescue efforts. Between handling all comms, assigning rescue missions, coordinating strike teams, troubleshooting EMS communications and the phone grid, repairing power grids, and participating in search and rescue in the final stretch, Tim hadn't slept more than five hours since he'd touched down, and rarely in segments of more than five or ten minutes at a time. Time always ceased to mean much while they were on the go non-stop and eventually the days blurred together until it was difficult to tell how many had passed since it had all begun.

Tim's heart nearly stops the first chance he gets to check his personal cell, not just for the three missed calls and one new voicemail from 'J. Todd', but for also the date and time that glow innocently up at him on his homescreen.

08:47, 27 April, 20xx.

"K-kon! I need you!"

Kon comes flying to his side from halfway across the state expecting a fight or to carry an injured - possibly dying - Tim to safety, but after he calms down, Tim eventually convinces the confused and weary Super that it is imperative that he make it back to Gotham in the next hour.

"Jeez, I thought you were in trouble, dude. Don't scare me like that," Kon chastises as he lifts him and they speed off toward the rising sun.

"I am in trouble, Kon. I promised Jay I'd be there today. I should have been back last night! I knew this would happen if I came out here!"

"Chill, dude. I'm sure Jason's fine. You make it sound like he's going into labor or dying or something."

"This is the day that he died twelve years ago, Kon, and every year he goes through hell reliving it all alone, so, yeah, he is kind of dying!" Tim yells over the rushing wind. He squints toward the horizon. "Can't you fly any faster?!"

Superboy rolls his eyes, wraps a bubble of TTK around them - the tug and roar of the wind around them abruptly ceases - then picks up speed, easily breaking the sound barrier. "No need to shout, dude," Kon placates him in calming tones. "You're lucky I can protect us from the wind, otherwise we wouldn't be able to make the trip at mach 1. Is that fast enough for you?"

"What are you talking about?! You peak at mach 2.1 on a bad day! Why are you going so slow?!"

Tim is still shouting despite the bubble of quiet. Kon winces and shakes his head. He opens his mouth to respond, but Tim babbles on over him, bitching and moaning bitterly.

"I knew this would happen! I knew it! It's all because you had to drag me out to San Fran! Why'd I even pick up the phone? I can't believe I let this happen! I can't believe I let you and Jason talk me into thinking this would work out. I knew this would happen!"

Kon jostles Tim a bit, which, thankfully, shuts him up for a moment. He readjusts his TTK grip, pulls Tim closer, and lights up his metaphorical afterburners. "You know what? You're lucky you're getting a lift from me at all. You wanna see top speed? Fine! Shut up and hang on to your capes, kiddies, but don't complain to me when you're puking up coffee all over your roof in about fifteen minutes."

~*~

Jason isn't sure where he is anymore. He lost track hours ago, sometime, somewhere, in his frantic escape from the way the walls of each place he'd tried to settle down in closed in on him every time the memories bore down. He hasn't stopped moving since he started, he can't find a place that feels right, that feels safe to ride this out, because as soon as he stops, the walls start closing in again and every little noise is a crowbar being raised above him and every child's laugh turns sour and cold in his head. Safehouses, apartments - some of them his, many of them not - public parks, libraries, dank sewers, and secluded rooftops are all flashes in his memory, places he had pushed himself toward in some unnamed, indecipherable urgency, only to abandon with a hollow feeling of dread within minutes, if not seconds, of arriving.

This happens sometimes, in some years, on this day. Other years, he can't stand to move, can't move at all, and he hunkers down wherever he is and tries to block out the outside world long enough to shore up the growing cracks in his fragile mental state.

He had thought this anniversary was going to be one of those 'hide in a corner and try not to hyperventilate' ones, so the day before the anniversary he had picked out a suitable hidey hole, stocked it up with food, checked the security and soundproofing, then locked himself in. Barely five hours in the place, he began to feel that itch under his skin, that urge to move, to get away, to look for shelter in spite of the perfect fine one around him. He held it off for an hour, tried calling Tim - like he said he would - but in the end the crawling feeling in his bones and the lack of response drove him out of his appointed safehouse.

He doesn't remember most of his wandering, and that would worry him, except that some distant part of his mind that can worry about things like his personal safety and situational awareness knows that Oracle and Batman are tracking his every move like flies on the walls, giving him the space to deal with this on his own but ready to step in at a moment's notice to protect him from his own vulnerability.

He called Tim twice more after he started running, once when he stopped in Tim's theater Perch and felt, for the briefest instant, like this was safe place to stop, to stay, and then once again five minutes ago. But the itch is coming back again.

He doesn't want to leave the bolthole he's currently pacing the length of, but he can't sit still. He can't stay, he can't leave, but he can't stay. But if he leaves, Tim won't know where to find him, so he has to stay. But he can't…

He sets his phone down on the lone, rickety table and tugs at his already frazzled hair with both hands. The bolthole isn't big, but for a minute or so the small room had felt secure, knowable, safe. But then the walls started getting closer. He knows they're not moving, can see they're stationary, but he can't shake the feeling that they're inching inwards, reaching out to him, trapping him.

It's getting hard to breath. The dim lighting is darkens in his head, the sickly light not all that different from the glow of a timer from across a dark warehouse, the shadows not that far off from the absolute black of a sealed coffin. His hands are starting to shake, again, and everything around him feels so distant, even as the walls feel so close. He has to wait, he can't leave, Tim will come so he has to…

He's leaving. He leaves. He leaves his phone without realizing it.

Bursting through the door feels like clawing his way to freedom all over again, but also like rolling over to look up as the Joker brings down the crowbar for another hit, and he shudders as the memories rolls over him. He squints against the sunlight - bright, for once, but still so cold; taunting him, searing into his soul, despite the gentle warmth that washes over his skin - and hurries forward to the next shadow, shivering as the loss of light burns just as much as stepping into it had only seconds ago. He keeps moving and flounders in that state of neither here nor there as the memories flood up within him, all around him, and he wanders with urgent, pointless purpose.

It isn't usually this bad, this day. He can count on one hand the number of times he's gotten this worked up over the memories. It's not usually that big of a deal, he reminds himself, but right now he doesn't know where he is, he can't stop moving, can't stop shaking, can't breathe, can't remember how much time has passed… and he can't even care that much about any of that anymore and that...

That's bad. It's been a long time since it's been this bad.

He reaches into one pocket, then the next, then the back one, looking for his phone. He needs to call Tim. He said he would call. He doesn't find it.

A distant, reasonable part of him wants to feel okay that Tim didn't make it back in time, that he didn't make it back before he started to unravel. He told Tim to go. He told him it would be okay, that he'd be okay. He told himself that he's done this many times before, that he can handle it.

But now he remembers how awful each and every one of those times was, even the 'easier' ones. He remembers that terrible feeling of wanting someone, anyone, to be there to anchor him through the flood, but also not wanting anyone at all, not trusting anyone, pushing his family and friends and everyone away. This year was supposed to be different. Tim was supposed to be different. He's supposed to trust Tim. Tim is supposed to be there, be something for him to focus on instead of the maelstrom inside of him.

He wants it to be okay, but it isn't. He isn't angry that Tim isn't here. Tim said he'd be here, but Jason isn't angry. He told Tim he could go. It's okay. But now… Tim isn't here and Jason isn't okay.

It isn't okay.

~*~

"H-hey. Tim. It's, uh, me. I, uh… You're not back yet and I said I'd call if…… I'm in the Bowery safehouse, the bigger one, I know you know the one. Meet me here when you can. I'll- I'll see you."

Tim swallows convulsively, anxiety slithering up into his chest like so many wriggling snakes as he paces through the rooms of Jason's largest safehouse, the first voicemail Jason left echoing in his head. Tim knows he isn't here anymore - the rooms are dark, silent, almost foreboding - but he has to check, has to make sure Jason hasn't circled back, like he often does when he's restless and hopping between places.

Tim rushes from the final room back into the living room and perches on on the edge of the couch while he brings up the Bat-special locator program on his phone, sending out a ping to pin the latest location of Jason's phone on his mobile map. He gets a hit and springs to his feet. He has to find him, he has to get to him. He said he'd be there. He has to be there.

~*~

"I'm here. I mean, I- I left the Bowery place, but I'm here, again, I stopped moving. I'm, uh, in your Perch, that is. The Crime Alley one. I know I said that I could... I can't. Tim. I can't. Please come home. Get this and come ho- come back. I don't know long I can stay here. Please. Tim. Please."

Jason's not in his Burnley bolthole. His phone is, but he's not. Tim feels like he's going to fly apart. He wants to hurl his phone out the wall, he wants to hurl Jason's phone at the wall, he wants to-- his phone starts to ring.

Incoming Call from 'O.'

He barely registers his finger sliding across the screen to accept the call.

"Tim? Hey, Tim, you there? I saw you enter Jay's Burnley place a couple of minutes ago and already I know his phone trail stops there. I have eyes on him right now, so I need you to listen…"

Tim pockets Jason's phone and clutches his own to his ear, listening to Bab's steady voice with all the desperation of a drowning man thrashing towards air. He listens. He follows. He's going to get there. He will be there.

~*~

"T-tim. Tim. Tim. I-I. I can't. I'm. Burnley. In Burnley. I'm… I'm trying. I'm trying to wait but I can't. I can't stop. I can't wait. It's… it's bad. It's really bad this year. I'll- I'll call you. I'll call you… if I can. I'll try, but I don't… I can't…"

"Ja-Jason?"

Tim steps lightly into his very first safehouse - one of their favorite hangout spots back in the day - and searches with quick eyes and slow feet, as afraid to startle Jason as he might a feral cat. The stumbling, nonsensical sobbing of Jason's third and final voicemail is ringing in his ears as he rounds the corner and spots Jason pacing the small space of hallway between the living room and the kitchen. His voice trembles and breaks as he calls out again.

"Jason?"

Jason looks up.

~*~

He looks up at a sound and suddenly Tim is there, calling his name, rushing toward him and throwing his arms around him. Jason's body flinches before his brain catches up, but when it does - TIM! - he wraps his arms around Tim and squeezes, holding on for dear life. His mind hones in on Tim's presence and abruptly halts its spiraling, frantic cycle of respun memories like a dog pauses barking to listen when it hears a new sound, but, at the same time, Tim's sudden presence blows a whole new storm of emotion over him, so he hangs on to Tim so he won't be blown away, and Tim hangs on just as tightly back.

They stand there for a few minutes, just holding on to each other and rocking slightly with their breathing, until they each start to relax and loosen up against the other. When Jason's arms loosen up enough to give him room, Tim leans back and tilts his head up, the unshed tears in his eyes startling Jason. He doesn't think he's ever seen Tim cry before, or even come close.

"I'm so sorry, I'm so sorry, Jay, I'm so-" Tim buries his head into Jason's chest again so that his continued stream of garbled apologies is muffled into the fabric.

Jason feels as if someone just hit a struck a tuning fork his head, the pure tone snapping him out of the lingering traces of his earlier meltdown. He feels a curl of annoyance as he notes that Tim looks about as distressed as he felt earlier, maybe more. He isn't sure what Tim thinks gives him the right to feel worse than Jason on his own deathday, but focusing on Tim's bewildering distress does have the upside of giving him a reason and the urgency to compartmentalize his own for the moment.

"Tim. Timmy. Look at me."

Tim looks up and there are tears visibly swimming in his eyes. "-m so sorry. I said I'd be here and-"

"You're here now," Jason says firmly, fighting down the tiny urge to chuckle at how overly dramatically upset Tim is. He still feels pretty awful right now - nothing changes the past, changes his damage - but just having Tim here now, it's helping. Even this bullshit is helping. "Wow, you must not have slept very much over the weekend, you're a total wreck right now."

Tim makes a croaking sound halfway between anguish and indignance and takes a step back. One tear leaks out of his eye and rolls down his cheek. He whips up a hand to scrub it away, but Jason's hand gets there first and gently brushes it away. "I-I didn't but… But you've been frantic, you're were having a breakdown earlier, and I wasn't… I wasn't here." Tim takes a shaky breath and angrily scrubs the tears out of his other eye before they can spill over. "I wasn't here for you."

"I was and you weren't," Jason intones solemnly. "And I still feel pretty shitty, but this… whatever this" - he waves his hands vaguely around Tim and grins weakly - "is about is pretty distracting, so thanks for that."

Tim scrubs at his eyes again vigorously and his expression darkens. "I made you a promise and I broke it, that's what this is about. I said I'd be here and I wasn't. You were having an awful time, and no one you trusted was here for you. That's not okay."

"No, it wasn't okay. I wasn't okay," Jason admits seriously before gently grabbing Tim by the shoulders and gently shaking him as he leans down into his space. "But you're here now. It'll be okay. We'll be okay.

"Will it? Will we?" Tim bites off angrily, pulling away from Jason's touch. He looks into Jason's eyes miserably. "I broke your trust, worse, I made you go through all of that alone and I don't know if I can ever forgive myself for that and…"

Tim is angry, but Jason can tell it isn't with him for making light of the situation. He's upset with himself. Disproportionately upset with himself and Jason is starting to get a bad feeling about it. Time to nip this line of thought in the bud.

"I can forgive you," Jason cuts in loudly, pinning Tim with an insistent stare. "Easily. I never blamed you to begin with. And you certainly haven't broken my trust. I told you to go. That's on me. Let me decide how I feel about it, okay? Besides," Jason lets some of his annoyance color his voice and he points an accusing finger at Tim, "Since when did this become all about you and your need to self-flagellate over everything, huh? Leave a little misery for the guy who actually died on this day, will ya?"

Tim covers his face with both hands and turns away, groaning. He leans over and makes a sound of disgust as he scrubs at his face. "Ugh. You're right. I turned this all back on me and made it all about myself." He sank down into a crouch and covered his eyes with one hand. "I guess I'm sorry for that, too? Damn… I suck. I'm so sorry, Jay. This was supposed to be about you and helping you and… I'm sorry."

Jason crouches down beside him. "Tim. Look at me. You don't suck." He takes Tim's hand and pulls him to his feet. "And I'm not sorry. A little annoyed, yeah, but also a little glad." Tim gives him an incredulous look and Jason chuckles and gently pulls the smaller man into his chest. "It's probably not the healthiest thing - I dunno, I'm not a psychologist," he mumbles into Tim's hair as he wraps his arms around him and squeezes softly, "but sometimes getting sucked into someone else's problems is a great way to take a step back from your own. So thanks for pulling me out of mine and into yours for a hot second."

Jason feels Tim huff a quiet laugh against his chest and then wrap his arms around his waist. "You're welcome?"

Jason rocks them from side to side, almost like they're dancing to some unheard music, and continues speaking in soft tones. "So now that you've helped me helping you with your problems, let me help you help me."

Tim tenses and looks up instantly, brow crinkling slightly. "What do you need?"

Jason chuckles and rocks them a little harder, pulling Tim out of his rigid stance. "Easy, there. Don't give yourself whiplash, Timbo." He hums and leans his forehead down to rest on Tim's. "As for what I need... this was great and all - this impromptu game of tag plus hide 'n seek plus lots of feelings and talking at the end - but I think I need to retrace my steps 'cause I think might have dropped my phone somewhere, and then, after that, maybe it'd be nice to actually settle down somewhere for a while and ride out my annual deathday meltdowns the right way, the healthy way."

Tim's eyebrows rise. "Healthy way? What is that?"

He shrugs, and grins weakly. "I dunno, still working on it. Thought maybe you could help with that."

Tim pulls back and meets his gaze thoughtfully. "Yeah, I think I can do that. And hey," he looks down and starts digging around in his pockets. "Uh… not that one, how about… ah! There it is. I can fix your first problem," he replies, offering up Jason's phone.

"Oh, good! Because retracing my steps would actually be pretty tough since I, uh, don't actually remember all that much about how I got here," he admits with a chagrined grimace and a shrug.

"Jason…"

"Hey. None of that. I didn't ask for no pity," he cuts in, giving Tim a look that is half disapproving, half teasing.

"No, no pity, I would never," Tim backtracks playfully, before turning serious. "But empathy… ouch."

Jason swallows and lets that hang for a second, then nods. "Yeah. Ouch."

Tim buries his head into Jason's chest again and squeezes. Jason lets him, accepting the unspoken gesture of comfort and commiseration and returning it with a squeeze of his own. After a moment Tim pulls away again and smiles up at him fondly.

"Let's get out of here. I'd say we could stay at this place" - he turns his head to look around the sparsely furnished space with fond sadness - "but we haven't used it in a while and I can't really say how well-stocked it is right now."

Jason shakes his head. "Nah, let's head back to my main safehouse. I bought a whole bunch of food over the weekend and stockpiled a whole bunch of stuff for us there, so we should be good to hide out there for a few days."

"Sounds like a plan to me," Tim replies agreeably. "Did you uh…" he trails off with a grimace. "How did you get over here?"

"I uh… I think I walked? I did have my bike at one point but…"

Tim shakes his head and offers his hand. "Let's take mine. We can track yours down later."

"Sounds good to me," Jason agrees. He slips his hand into Tim's, and together they leave his frantic wandering in the dust on Tim's safehouse floor, behind them, where it belongs.

~*~

"This uhh… wasn't what I was expecting."

Jason steps out of the kitchen, carrying two bowls of chili - complete with fried tortilla tucked along the sides and a mountain of cheddar cheese on each - and raises an eyebrow at Tim.

Tim sweeps his hand in gesture to Jason's current attire - his baggiest, softest sweatpants; the biggest, softest t-shirt Tim had owned before Jason had lovingly nicked it from his pyjama drawer; and the softest fucking blanket he owned draped over his shoulders - then to the food, and finally to the colorful, animated space adventure show queued up on Netflix. He shrugs. "I just figured… it'd be different? From when we usually hang out? I just thought you'd want, I dunno, quiet time and maybe… talking? Not that I'm not down for this, I just…"

Jason sighs and settles down on the couch, setting the bowls on the coffee table. "Tim, I don't know if I can talk about it, not right now, but maybe not ever. I don't… I'm not…" He makes a frustrated sound and leans back against the couch, running a hand through his hair. "I've never done this before. Having another person around for this. So we're just gonna hafta figure this out as we go."

"So… you want me to distract you," Tim asks hesitantly. Jason snorts softly at the wording, thinking of all the ways Tim could keep his mind off of everything.

"No, not that. It's not that I'm not going to think about what happened or that I don't want to," he admits, "I just… I need someone here to remind me not to get lost in my thoughts, in the memories."

Tim nods along slowly, comprehension dawning on his face.

"So whenever I start to space out…"

"I'll be there," Tim finishes softly. Jason nods with a gentle expression.

"Yeah, you will, and that will be enough to keep me from spiraling."

Tim fiddles with the corner of Jason's blanket, then looks up with a guarded expression. "Then let's dig in and get going on our Voltron rewatch, but... if you ever do want to talk… I, uhh… I'm here to listen..." He swallows, then rapidly adds, "And I'll never, ever judge." His hands twist the blanket nervously, but his eyes are cool, firm and serious as he meets Jason's. "There's nothing to judge, but even if there were, you wouldn't get that from me. I know how strong you are. Not in spite of all the shit you've been through, but because you overcome it, again and again."

Jason flips the blanket out of Tim's hand settles it across their laps, then reaches an arm up and around Tim's shoulders, bringing him in close.

"I 'preciate that, Timbo, and I promise, I'm a pro at using the pause button, so if I get the urge to talk… I'll be sure to use it."

Tim relaxes into his side and cranes his head back to smile up at him. "Cool. Now what's this about a chili you promised me?"

"Only the second best thing to real-life chili dog, that's what," Jason responds blithely, hitting play on the show, and settling in for a long evening with his favorite food, his favorite animated show, and his favorite person.

~*~

Five seasons in and several hours later, Jason shifts uncomfortably. He hadn't lied or said whatever he thought Tim would want to hear back when he admitted that he'd probably be mulling over the unpleasant details of his death and resurrection, even while they were snuggled side-by-side watching TV together, for the rest of the day.

Really, any time the credits roll or his mind drifts away from the plot or they pause the show for a bathroom break, memories creep forward from the back of his mind and haunt him with their echoes. Sometimes the show itself dredges up flashes of the past, each one the bittersweet intersection between the emotional connection to the characters that marks good fiction and the miniature personal crises indicative of post-traumatic stress disorder.

For the last thirty minutes in particular, he's been lost in the feeling of death; not the pain of dying, but rather the darkness and loneliness of going into the void and the panic of waking up again buried alive. The words he needs to say out loud sit bitterly at the back of his throat, choking him. He stares blankly at the television, registering nothing of what's happening on screen, while he wavers over whether to finally vent his feelings or continue on stewing over them internally.

He knows Tim has noticed that he's lost focus and fallen into his head - the smaller man sneaks peeks at him and stiffens instinctively before deliberately relaxing again, all the while rubbing gentle little circles into Jason's thigh, presumably to soothe him - but to his credit, he doesn't stop the stream or say anything. He's giving Jason control over when and whether to discuss what's eating at him, and offering his presence and touch in the meantime to keep Jason from spiraling off.

That means the world to Jason, and in the end, it is the combination of that silent solidarity and the reassurance of knowing Tim well enough to know he really won't judge that makes him comfortable enough to pick up the remote and pause the show. Tim sits up slightly and Jason sucks in a deep breath.

"I can't sleep in the dark," he spits out without preamble, his voice cracking at the end. "Not anymore. When… when I was a kid, with my mo-with Catherine, then on the street, then at the manor, I couldn't sleep unless it was pitch black. But after... I just can't. As soon as I can't see to the walls anymore, they just start to close in and I'm back in that box and I can't…"

He swallows and steels himself against the raw, hollow feeling he gets for admitting this out loud. Tim's hand stops circling and spays across his leg instead, squeezing gently, and that gives him the boost he needs to go on. "I lose it. I have to have something - a table lamp, a nightlight, sometimes just pulling up all the blinds and letting the light from Gotham in, but… I feel like a scared, stupid little kid, afraid of the dark and I hate it."

Jason sighs and closes his eyes. "I can't sleep in rooms with low ceilings, either. Or in rooms with wood paneling, or with wooden ceilings. Basements are the worst. It sounds so stupid, but every time I try I feel like I'm back there, six feet under, death on my tongue, running out of air, pounding against the lid and…" he cuts off shuddering. "I hate that, too. I dream about it sometimes. I've clawed my way out of that coffin, out of death, more times than I've celebrated my birthday and that is just... so sad, and so stupid, and I just feel so... broken. Stupid. Worthless."

The last word comes out as barely a whisper but Tim hears it and scoots in close, turning his body toward Jason, wrapping his arms around him, and mashing his face into his chest. Jason sinks down into the embrace and rests his chin on Tim's head. They stay like that for a time, the stark silence in the apartment ringing paradoxically in his head, suffocating him with the illusion of total stillness, like death itself.

Eventually Jason focuses on breathing in and out until the sound of Tim's breathing jumps out at him again, then the sounds of the city outside reappear, and finally the feeling of Tim around him sinks in again. He feels empty and scraped raw having admitted some of the things that had been banging around his head, but it feels right having let some of it out, having shared it with someone else. It feels good. He feels lighter and stronger, maybe because some of his burden rests on Tim now, like he doesn't have to shoulder it all alone anymore.

Now that it's out, he feels like he can forgive himself for some of it, accept it instead of letting it eat at him like acid in his chest, in his head. If Tim can accept it, can accept him, then why shouldn't he?

After he relaxes again, Tim pulls back and hums softly. Jason glances down at him, distracted by the way the gentle lighting plays in his soft, glossy hair.

"I get that. I can't ever know what it's like, exactly-"

"I hope to God you never do," Jason growls lowly, disturbed at the very thought.

"-but I wouldn't say that… Me personally, I don't think you're stupid or broken or worthless because sleeping in the dark or under a low ceiling - or a wooden one - reminds you too much of being buried alive," Tim explains, voice low and thoughtful. "To me that makes sense. I would be the same way; I think anyone would be. It's fucked up, but no one would call you broken.

"And the dark... well, I get that," Tim finishes in a low voice. Jason frowns. There was something in the way Tim said that last bit that sets off his intuition, urges him to press, just a little.

"How?"

"What?"

"You said 'you get that'? How?" Jason asks, keeping his voice low and soft. Tim hesitates and Jason instantly checks himself.

"You don't have to say, it just sounds like there's a story and… you know, same deal: if you wanna talk, I'm here for you."

Tim nods, a troubled expression crossing his face before he forces it back to neutral stillness. Jason doesn't press. Instead, he presses a soft kiss into Tim's hair and Tim cranes his head back to catch his lips in a gentle kiss. They return to the show in unspoken agreement and several more minutes pass before Tim finally picks up the remote with a sigh and pauses the show himself.

It takes him a minute to speak and when he does, his voice croaks like his throat is closing up around the words. "After my mother died, I couldn't sleep in the dark for years. I just… any time I tried, my mind jumped to her, alone and cold and stiff under thousands of pounds of dirt, not rotting, but slowly desiccating, and then I would be there, feeling it, feeling cold, feeling dead."

Jason could feel himself freezing up in horror, the descriptions triggering his own memories, but he didn't stop him. This was something they needed to share and then maybe overcome together, he thought.

"S-sometimes it wouldn't be my mother," Tim admitted hoarsely. "Sometimes… after I became Robin… after I saw the… your file, the last entry… then it would be you." Jason stopped breathing, his eyes widening. "I didn't know you, but I'd spent so long watching you as Robin, admiring you, building myself up to do your memory justice…" - Tim's voice wavered and Jason sucked in a breath, searched numbly for Tim's hand - "…that I felt like I did. I'd… I would talk to you, talk to your suit, in the case, promising to be better… but sometimes, in the dark, thoughts of you, cold and silent…" Tim cut off and shook his head, unable to go on. Jason rode out a wave of nausea and focused on Tim. He didn't let himself fall into his own head; Tim had gotten him through his shit, he could get Tim through his - they could get each other through all of this.

"What-what about your dad?"

Tim latched onto the question just as Jason hoped he would, pulling himself out of his thoughts to respond. He shook his head.

"When Dad died, it was different. Bruce was there when he die-when Boomerang murdered him," Tim corrected. There was something in his eyes as he spoke, a darkness Jason saw in his own whenever he looked in the mirror and thought about the Joker, but that was something to come back to later.

"It hurt like hell, more than with Mom, but somehow… Bruce took me to the manor, after, and shared my grief, kept me close, then, later, adopted me. He kept me focused, grounded me in what was real and present, I guess," Tim mused, his expression thoughtful. It turned hollow in a way Jason had never seen as he went on.

"But after he died… after Steph, Kon, Bart, Dad, then him… I lost myself, a bit. No one was there to keep me grounded anymore - Dick and the demon brat sure as hell weren't, and Alfred was facing a such great loss of his own… - so, for days after we settled the scuffle for the mantle-"

"After you recovered," Jason amended guiltily, his eyes darting briefly to the center of Tim's chest, imagining the batarang-sized scar he'd put there. Tim's eyes shot up to his and he shook his head, squeezing Jason's hand.

"Yeah, but we're way past that, Jay. Don't beat yourself up for something you did when you were in an unbelievably bad place, something I can't even blame you for now that I understand how bad it really was," Tim chided him sternly. Jason opened his mouth but Tim went on over him.

"Anyway, after Bruce died, I spent weeks wandering the manor as if, I dunno, if I looked hard enough, if I walked through the right door or looked under every bed, he'd be there. It was such a shock, such an impossible thing that he could really be gone, that it just wouldn't sink in. I'd look and look and look, for hours sometimes. When the manor started to feel too small and suffocating, I'd wander around Gotham. Every safehouse, every rooftop, every nook or cranny we'd ever hid in. I couldn't stop moving, stop looking," Tim admitted, his eyes lost and distant.

"It felt like, if I kept moving, maybe eventually, I'd find Bruce or find a way to accept he was gone. It wasn't until Dick… when I lost Robin that I snapped out it. Losing my only remaining purpose was a slap to the face, a wake-up call. I stopped wandering, but I still kept searching. I found a painting amongst the family paintings - it had changed, I swore on it - and that convinced me that Bruce was still out there, somewhere in time, and that the body we'd buried was a copy, or that Bruce had been copied, but one way or another he was still out there. I became obsessed with finding him and lost myself to that instead."

He swallowed and admitted in a quieter voice, "Without anyone or anything to keep me grounded… if I hadn't found Bruce eventually… I don't think I would have come back from that. Not really." He paused then blinked and shook his head with a scoff. "Sorry, I'm making this all about me again and-"

"That was what happened today."

"What?" Tim blinked at him in confusion, but Jason nodded slowly.

"To me. That's where you found me. Sometimes, on the anniversary, it all becomes so much that I feel like I'm going out of my mind, like it can't be real, couldn't have been real, and I have to get away, I can't stay in one place, as if… if I search long enough, move fast enough, that I could outrun the past, find a better reality, find a place I feel like me again," Jason explains. Tim stares at him with wide eyes. "So that 'can't stop, won't stop, suffocating and going out of your mind so keep moving' you described? Well, I get that."

Silence falls again around them as Jason lets it sink in; he looks away and gives Tim a moment to process. Tim eventually leaves the room, and after a minute Jason hears the toilet flush. A few minutes later Tim returns on quiet feet and clears his throat. When Jason looks up, he smiling beatifically down at him, and he raises his eyebrows when Tim climbs into his lap and kisses him unreservedly. Jason hums in surprise against his lips, but kisses back just as thoroughly. Tim pulls away after a moment and looks down at him fondly.

"What?" Jason asks with a touch of amusement. "What is that look for?"

Tim laughs and moves off to one side, plopping down beside him. "Nothing. You're just something else, you know?"

"Me?"

Tim flicks his hand in playfully reproach. "Yes, you."

"Why?"

Tim flicks his hand again, so Jason flips it over and snatches Tim's, lacing their fingers together. "This day was all about you, about your problems, and here you are helping me through mine. Again," Tim explains. He shakes his head minutely against Jason's shoulder. "Honestly, I should be the last thing you're worrying about right now."

"Yeah, sure, I mean it's the day I died and that's important 'n all, but that doesn't mean I get the monopoly on being messed up and needing an ear for the day," Jason replies wryly. Tim sucks in a breath like he's going to argue, but Jason lifts their hands and thumps them emphatically against Tim's knee. "No, I don't deserve that, so don't even try to tell me I do. And besides, like I told you earlier, helping you through your problems kind of helps me get past mine.

"I guess, sometimes, it takes seeing someone else suffering in a similar way to put your own suffering into perspective, to make it possible for you think about it objectively enough to work through it," Jason suggests.

Tim hums in agreement and squeezes their fingers gently. Jason gives them a few beats to sit together in companionable silence, then thumps their hands one last time and moves to sit up.

"Okay, Timbo, I know we said we were going to finish out the entire series tonight, but I feel like it's about time we call it a night."

Tim nods in agreement and yawns as he pulls himself away from Jason's side. He darts away just a second too late to avoid Jason playfully ruffling his hair with one hand, and Jason laughs at the little hiss and glare Tim shoots him. Together they lethargically tidy up the living room, turn off lights, check and recheck security systems, then shuffle off to bed.

~*~

Jason climbs in first, rearranging pillows and kicking around the duvet, while Tim brushes his teeth and makes sure to triple check the security system - they are vigilantes, after all, and with people like Batman and Ra's al Ghul up in their business on a regular basis, it could never hurt to double, triple, then maybe quadruple check.

Tim flips off the last light - mindful to first open the shades to let in the light from the city - then hovers over his phone, briefly glancing over his messages before bed. He squawks in playful indignation when Jason rolls over and hooks an arm around his hips, dragging him onto the bed.

Tim falls into the motion, toppling like a felled tree across Jason's body, and feels a brief moment of satisfaction for the breathless 'oof' he gets before Jason rolls them and tries to crush Tim with his superior bodyweight. They wrestle for less than a minute before their brief surge of playful energy wears off, at which point Tim lets himself collapse at Jason's side and doesn't fight when Jason tugs him in close. He rests his head against Jason's ribs and lets himself drift off to the rise and fall under his cheek.

He's almost completely asleep when the rumble of Jason's voice brings him back.

"Tim?"

"Mmmm?"

"That thing…that you said about Bruce…"

"Mmmhmm?"

"About losing your father and then Bruce being there, being around, giving you something to center yourself around, someone to keep you grounded…"

Tim perks up his head and blinks into the dim light, focusing. "Yeah?"

"That's what I need. For days like today. For… always. Someone to be there. Maybe not to talk about it or to help me forget, but just… to keep me here. Present. Centered. I just need you to be here for me, nothing special, just like you always are."

Tim hums morosely and shakes his head. "I almost wasn't today."

Jason scoffs softly and Tim squints at him in the dark, trying to make out his expression. "Yeah, you almost didn't make it back to Gotham today, and, yeah, I guess it helped to have you here, in-person, where I could see and touch you, but even if you hadn't made it back, even if you'd just picked up the phone, made a video call, or done something just to let me…ugh," he sighs and scrubs a hand through his hair. "Long story short, let's just say that even if you can't always be right here beside me, I'll never doubt that you'd move heaven and earth to be here for me," he explains, a touch of amusement coloring the undeniable tones of affection and appreciation in his voice. "Not unless… You're not planning on leaving me, are you, Timbo?"

Tim snorts softly and lets his head drop down again. He wraps his free arm around Jason's waist and squeezes gently, feeling Jason's breath hitch slightly before whooshing out in a long, easy sigh.

"No," Tim replies, smiling softly, "I'll be here."

[wardencommanderrodimiss]

Swan Song

Sequel to A Place to Roost and Seventeen (Once and Never Again)

There is a legend that just before death, mute swans will sing once, and beautifully; naive, really, to think they will not carry their silence to the grave.

Klavier Gavin, a jailbird, and a tightening noose.

on ao3

Klavier volunteers to juggle extra cases through the end of December, acting as a counterweight to the coworkers who take vacation days. He could, himself, but with no one to spend the time with he might as well just do his best to get justice for the poor bastards murdered on Christmas. Sebastian does the same; he always has, Klavier gathers from their conversation, in imitation of Prosecutor Edgeworth, who “has the least holiday spirit of anyone I’ve ever met,” Sebastian adds, in a tone suggesting neither indictment nor judgment but a camaraderie between them. Los Angeles’ Lonely Prosecutors Club.

He got the hawk a bandana with snowflakes on it, despite the local climate being the opposite of such. Klavier liked the snow, whenever they ran into it on their tours, but he likes the sun more. Such was not the reasoning behind declining several offers to appear as a solo artist at Times Square for the new year; he would rather tell the outgoing year to go fuck itself in the sole company of alcohol in his own apartment. Alcohol and Kris’ — no, his — dog.

Prosecutor Edgeworth enters the too-quiet courthouse, his footsteps echoing, while Klavier is cooing at the hawk. “I see you’ve met Taka,” he says, and Klavier flinches in surprise, not at Edgeworth’s appearance, but that he is actually addressing Klavier. The past year Klavier has spent very sure that Edgeworth would like to trip him down at least a dozen flights of stairs.

“It has a name?” Klavier asks, which is silly: obviously it has a name. It was obviously someone’s pet. The better question is how Edgeworth knows its name.

“Yes,” Edgeworth replies, offering a hand to the hawk, for it to stare suspiciously at him at response. He lowers his arm. “Taka. He was once Prosecutor Blackquill’s.”

“Oh,” Klavier says, very softly, all the air feeling to have vanished from his lungs.

“You know him, then?”

“Not personally, but I would be remiss as a prosecutor were I to not recognize his name, ja?”

Klavier had left the office by the time of Blackquill’s conviction. His first trial had been in April; he hung on until the next year before the Gramarye ghosts ate away at too much of his spirit, and the road and adoration of the people who had rocketed his little garage band to stardom was too tempting. He can’t remember where on the continent he was in October, while the trial eventually designated the UR-1 Incident was going on, but he remembers reading about it: just a few hours on one day for an open-and-shut guilty.

“That was seven years ago,” Klavier adds, suddenly wondering whether Edgeworth expected him to recognize the name Blackquill or whether he doubted that Klavier had been paying attention. “Has Herr Falke lived in the courthouse for all that time?” He scratches Taka under the chin. “Were you not allowed to be a jailbird?”

Edgeworth snorts and when Klavier looks at him he hastily composes his expression. “Truthfully, I do not know,” he answers. “I have spent most of the past nine years in Europe. I cannot say I have been here often enough since Blackquill’s conviction to know whether or not Taka has been here this whole time.”

“He has since April,” Klavier says. “Since I returned.”

Edgeworth heads for the stairs, leaving Klavier behind with Taka. “Prosecutor Gavin,” he says, glancing back over his shoulder. “You might do well to familiarize yourself with Prosecutor Blackquill.”

A few days later, Edgeworth is named Chief Prosecutor, and Klavier wonders what he meant.

His suggestion is one easier made than fulfilled. News articles about Blackquill from the time harp on his guilt, the injustice committed by someone who was supposed to carry out justice, but didn’t have much concern for minor details like where or who; most outlets were focused more on the HAT-1 rocket launch and the series of mechanical failures that followed once the craft was in space. The UR-1 case file contains a sparse summary and a transcript and evidence log sealed entirely with the necessary clearance far beyond Klavier’s head. When Edgeworth comes into his office to find a copy of the case summary on his desk, he gives Klavier a copy of the transcript, heavily redacted. The victim’s name, the location of the crime, a motive, pages of testimony and pages more of supplemental details that did not make it from the investigation into the trial — all buried beneath the black bars of redactions. What is left are two damning pieces of evidence: security camera footage showing Blackquill leaving the murder scene (wherever that was), and a picture (from an unknown source who was at the unknown location for reasons unknown) in which he could be seen holding a bloody sword.

Open, and shut.

Klavier knows he is missing too much to actually understand the case, the verdict, and even why Edgeworth told him that he should look back into this now, going on seven years past, but what he can see on the page of the man leaves talons sunk into his heart. Blackquill might as well not have had a defense attorney at all, because the state-assigned defender clearly gave up less than ten minutes in, when Blackquill made his guilty plea. He spoke for himself, often speaking over the aforementioned defense attorney, to make the statements that plunged the legal system into darkness: It was me. I killed her.

He would have been convicted without the confession, but his words were the first thing to leave him dead in the water.

And Klavier has prosecuted many cases, seen reactions of guilty and not to accusations, confessions, indictments, convictions — but he has never seen a man walk so willingly to his death as Simon Blackquill.

Sometime in March, a case takes him down to the prison to interview a supposed accomplice, already convicted of another crime, of the suspect. He doesn’t leave right away after and instead sits to reexamine his notes, absorbing none of it, thinking instead about how his brother is right here and Klavier could visit him, now.

— Or he could visit the jailbird, instead, the other prosecutor in the other inciting case of the dark age of the law.

So that is what he does.

Having submitted himself to reenter as a visitor and not an interrogating prosecutor, he waits and wonders if Blackquill knows his name. Did the man keep an eye on what happened — surely then, but now, now eight years later, seven of them imprisoned, does he remember the name of the first young prosecutor to snuff out the lights? Their time at the Prosecutors Office intersected briefly, just enough that Klavier thinks he can remember Blackquill, younger, haunting the halls. They were both so young then.

The man who emerges to meet Klavier has long, tangled hair, going gray at the roots in uneven patches, and dark, sunken eyes. “For what reason does the glimmering golden boy stoop from his spotlight to meet me?” he asks with a scowl.

So he does remember him — and not impressed, either.

“A little birdie told me it may be worth my while,” Klavier says. He stands, because Blackquill has remained standing, and it puts him almost at eye level to the prisoner. He is tall, a towering void with not a speck of light or life in his eyes. “The chief prosecutor has mentioned you several times of late and though I find him typically inscrutable, I thought it perhaps a decent use of my time to meet you.” He searches Blackquill’s expression for any trace of a change. “I’ve also had the pleasure of making Herr Taka’s acquaintance. Quite a smart bird, that one.”

There. A reaction, the twitch of an eye, and moving to sit. “And how is Taka?”

They take the next twenty minutes to discuss Taka and hawks in at large; at several moments Klavier feels he is being interrogated. Time spent at the office researching hawk biology and habits has its payoff in the way Blackquill’s glare softens from frigid to cold. When he leaves, he still doesn’t know what Edgeworth has been hinting at, but he thinks it time better spent than having nothing new to say to his brother.

In April, as the anniversaries of two cases that shook Klavier to his core draw closer, a year ago, eight years ago, something else too approaches. Blackquill has not had a retrial. He has not been cleared of any charges; yet the Twisted Samurai will be brought out of prison to prosecute a case. A convicted prosecutor — a prosecuting convict — one of four men, one of two prosecutors, who Klavier marks as the harbingers of the dark age of the law.

When the chief prosecutor confirms it, throughout the office there are not whispers about the decision; there is a cacophony. Klavier has long learned to filter out most of the talk, because so much of it has been about him, and there are only a few colleagues to whom he bothers to listen. “I trust Mr. Edgeworth’s judgment,” Sebastian says, which is decidedly not the overall office atmosphere, “and this is still…”

“Fucking weird?” Detective Skye asks, batting Kay’s hand away as she reaches for the Snackoos bag.

“That’s not exactly what I was going to say, but you’ve got the right — sensibility? No—”

“Sentiment,” Kay fills in. “I was gonna say ‘fucking weird’, too, though. Klav?”

“If Herr Chief thought it a wrongful conviction, why not a retrial, why not reopen the case? Why instead this performance? This—”

“This fucking weirdness,” Skye says. “Like sure there’s a lot of incompetent fucking prosecutors in this office” — she is looking at neither Klavier nor Sebastian, but instead shoving Kay away from the Snackoos again, and Klavier knows her well enough to know that if she meant one of them she would not hesitate to make that subtext text — “but if Mr. Edgeworth wants to get some more employees who aren’t useless, grabbing one out of prison is a weird fucking choice.”

“Hey,” Kay says, pulling her hand back away from Skye’s snack bag but still eyeing them, “Blackquill’s not a twofer, at least, and maybe that’s all we can ask for.”

“A ‘twofer’?” Sebastian repeats.

“A two-for-one evidence-forger and murderer. Like sure he stabbed a human being to death with a katana but he’s not, like, corrupt.”

“I think murder is a kind of corruption,” Klavier says.

“You know perfectly well what I mean without being pedantic,” Kay says.

“I know what you mean,” Sebastian says, which is no surprise. Professionally and personally, he and Kay are two halves of an incomprehensible whole.

“Like it’s fucked up still, obviously,” Kay says, glaring at Klavier as though he is about to suggest that she fails to grasp that murder is bad, “but it’s a separate different type of fucked up, you know? Like usually when it’s lawyers or detectives murdering, they’re forging evidence too.”

The silence that falls over the four of them is the silence of all having experienced that far too personally.

“Okay but it’s still really fucking weird of Mr. Edgeworth to do,” Skye says.

Klavier put the striped bandana back around Taka’s neck the prior week, as soon as he heard the rumor — still a rumor, back then then — that Blackquill would be back in the courthouse. Ever since he learned that Taka was Blackquill’s, those stripes have looked to him like the black-and-white of old prison jumpsuits. Jailbird, he thinks, but he cannot summon a laugh.

The trial lasts two days. Klavier is not at the courthouse for the first, and on the second he does not get the chance to speak with Blackquill before he is ushered out, in handcuffs, by a detective that Klavier does not recognize. Was he in handcuffs while prosecuting, too? Taka wheels about in the air, shrieking, when the doors close him off from Blackquill. “You will see him again,” Klavier says, when Taka finally comes over to him, the poor replacement for his favored human. “Herr Edgeworth intends him to prosecute more cases, I believe.”

The day after he goes to visit Blackquill to check that Taka’s weight is acceptable and that Klavier has not spoiled him, now that Blackquill has had a chance to assess the progress of the past year. When Klavier asks him about the case, Blackquill gives him the alleged reason that he, specifically, was called up out of prison to prosecute this case. With his background training in psychology — which Klavier did not know about — who better to handle a case shrouded in superstition, a murder alleged to be by a mythical monster passed down through village stories?

“Well, ‘who better’ would have been a prosecutor knowledgeable in the realms of psychology who has not committed murder,” Blackquill continues, “but our options are only so many, and so often we do not get as we wish.”

And he grins, and it is threatening the way Taka is — that Klavier knows he has talons and is aware of the damage they can do even though at this moment they are not pointed in his direction. It is a grin of a man laughing at his own joke, but said man happens also to be a convicted murderer.

“You studied psychology?” Klavier asks, because he is enjoying the conversation, happening though it is in the visitation area of a prison, and he is eager to know more about the man who is haunting him.

Something shifts in Blackquill’s face, like a shadow gone darker, a motion Klavier could easily have missed were he not treating the man like a crime scene whose every last detail needs the closest attention paid. “I thought it useful in the line of reticent witnesses and obfuscated motives.”

What was Blackquill’s motive for murder? For what reason did he cut down a woman with a sword and plead guilty to it on the stand? “And yokai now as well, ja?”

“There are no monsters,” he replies sharply. “Only men who hope to glove their own bloody hands in the guise of something else — a demon’s mask in a fool attempt to shift blame from the demon soul beneath it.”

Who was it that asked for the diary page forged?

It was the Devil.

“I wonder what you would make of my brother,” Klavier says.

He wonders what it would be like to be a witness, or worse, a suspect, underneath the icy spotlight of Blackquill’s stare. Even here, a conversation with no stakes, a chill settles along Klavier’s spine. He wonders what Blackquill is trying to read from him — the intention of that offhand remark, perhaps, or how Klavier feels about his brother (to which he wishes him good luck).

“Would he deign to be in lockup with the rest of us common murderers, I could answer.” Blackquill’s smile is not the expression of a man with no answer. “As it stands,” he adds, that smile folding into something that looks more like a barbed snarl, “he having bought himself into the nicest of the clink’s accommodations, I have not had the misfortune of meeting him.”

“The misfortune,” Klavier repeats. “I see his reputation, at the very least, has reached you.”

And then, with none of the finesse that would make the switch in topic seem like a natural progression of the conversation, Klavier asks him again about yesterday’s case. Blackquill had already outlined the progression of it, but he humors Klavier’s clumsy redirection to flesh out the details. He has a lot to say about each of the witnesses. He does not mention the defense team at all.

They talk until visiting hours are over and Klavier decides that it is better not to pull his badge to stay longer. The explanation given for Blackquill-as-prosecutor makes no sense when he steps back out into the sun’s lengthening shadows. Edgeworth made that cryptic statement back in December — he could not have known that in April there would be a case that would play to Blackquill’s strengths. There is no way that something like this could be called together on a whim. There is no way, from what he knows of the chief prosecutor, that Edgeworth would do something like this on a whim.

Why not just reopen the case?

He sees Blackquill again that Monday, at the Prosecutors Office, talking to Edgeworth with the same detective trailing after them through the lobby. Klavier catches Blackquill’s eye and waves and decides to linger — out of earshot, because Edgeworth has also noticed him and is glaring — to see if the conversation will be over quickly and he will get the chance to say hello. When Edgeworth leaves for the stairs, Blackquill is still left standing there, a tall black figure to whom everyone but the detective, a white-clad shadow, gives a wide berth even as they slow to gawk.

Klavier walks over. Eyes are on him too, now, but that is nothing new. “You garner quite a reaction, Herr Blackquill.”

“Jealous that their eyes are not on you?” Is that a smirk or a sneer that crosses his face; is he tactless or malicious? “No doubt these nosy onlookers wonder if I am to be moved into an office here,” he continues. “The chief prosecutor, however, thought it quite wasteful to go to the trouble of installing bars for the window and door when there is already a perfectly fine jail cell for me to occupy.” And he chuckles, and when he moves the chains around his wrists clink. “No great loss; I doubt they would allow a convicted murderer such as myself to decorate in the same manner. I wonder what dullard now occupies my old office.”

“Dare I ask what your old office looked like?” Klavier says.

The smirk returns to his face. “I found a simple way to dissuade halfwits from quibbling away my time was to keep a katana near at hand.”

All Klavier can see now is the decisive evidence, the still image of the bloody blade in Blackquill’s hands. That katana? No, the location in the picture was more like some sort of workshop and could not have been the office — and even if the room had held more ambiguity, there have been murders at the Prosecutors Office before and word got around quickly. That couldn’t have been kept a secret. “I am picturing a wall of a dozen of them,” he says.

Blackquill stares at him and for the first time, Klavier catches confusion on his face. “For what reason would I need that many?”

“I have a wall of guitars, so I was thinking along those lines.”

“I reiterate: for what reason do you need that many?”

“Do you want the answer, because I can tell you, and we will be here a while.”

“I don’t think Prosecutor Blackquill has the time for that,” the detective says. Klavier tries to remember if he has worked with him before. He thinks he would probably recognize the white suit and the gleaming smile if he had. “I’m afraid I do need to get him headed back to prison.” He thrusts a hand toward Klavier and all he can think is how many bloodstains this detective must need to wash out of his gloves and suit on a daily basis. “Detective Bobby Fulbright! Defender of the citizenry and champion of justice, at your service!”

Daryan didn’t like a lot of his fellow detectives; Fulbright, if they ever met, doubtlessly would have been on that list. Klavier wonders if he has heard complaints about Fulbright before, just detached from his name. “Prosecutor Klavier Gavin,” he replies, accepting the proffered hand. “Quite nice to meet you.”

Blackquill’s eyes, over Fulbright’s shoulder, narrow ever so slightly with what Klavier thinks might be skepticism about Klavier’s statement. “I’m the detective in charge of managing Prosecutor Blackquill here, so if you’re seeing more of him, you’ll be seeing more of me!”

Managing. That is certainly a choice of a word. Blackquill’s lips twitch in a smirk. He thinks it funny? Spending more time with the man hasn’t given Klavier a better grasp of him.

“Gavin-dono,” Blackquill says, as though he has not noticed Fulbright at all, as though the detective is a figment he does not hear, “do you know that wretched imitation of a ninja attempting to hide around the corner?” When he makes the gesture to direct Klavier’s attention, rather than point with one hand, he moves both, like a marionette whose arms are controlled by the same string. His wrists never stray far enough apart that the slack in the chain tightens.

Klavier turns in time to see Sebastian duck out of sight. “He lacks both the stealth and grace which he will find necessary for such maneuvers as he attempts,” Blackquill says dryly.

“That’s Prosecutor Debeste,” Klavier says.

“As in Blaise Debeste?” Blackquill asks.

“He — yes, that is Sebastian’s father.” Is, or was? Will Kristoph, once six feet under by the state’s decree, still be Klavier’s brother, present tense?

“You sound surprised,” Blackquill says. His dark eyes, sunk into shadow in the chasm between his thick unkempt hair and the bony peaks of his cheekbones, rove over Klavier’s face. “As though you expect that seven years should have rotted my memory. Did yours atrophy while you played the entertainer? Then do not act shocked that my blade once finally unsheathed is still sharp.”

“Point taken.”

“Good. Some dunces need the point driven between their ribs several times before they understand.” When he looks toward Fulbright, he does not move his eyes; he turns his whole head, subtly abandoned or perhaps just never known.

“I did not, if you would believe, intentionally set up the sword metaphor,” Klavier says.

“In the end, that is always where we return.”

Back to the bloody blade in Blackquill’s hands.

Blackquill might not have acknowledged the detective’s words, but he obviously heard them, because he takes several steps toward the door, away from Klavier. “I suppose I shall see you around again, ja?”

“I do not know how often I shall find myself in this building,” Blackquill replies, “but you well know where to find me, and I as yet have nowhere to go.” Sometimes when he laughs at his own jokes he closes his eyes, and without that dead stare emerging from his gaunt face, he looks a little less like a ghost. “And as penance for what I have done, when I will finally leave, it will only be by a short ferry ride down to Hell.”

The smile does not fade from his face.

Klavier doesn’t move from where Blackquill left him, watching the doors swing closed behind the dark ghost and the white wraith. Sebastian creeps up at the corner of his vision, nervously wringing his hands together and plucking at the fingertips of his gloves. “You didn’t need to run and hide like that, Herr Debeste,” Klavier says. It takes effort to tear his eyes away from the space which Blackquill formerly occupied.

“He’s a murderer!” Sebastian is grasping at the air, hands flexing until he closes them around each other with a nervous force which leaves him visibly trembling. “Not just allegations but a whole conviction and you just walked over to him like it’s nothing!” He looks at Klavier with wide eyes. “Do you think he did it?”

“Have you read over the case?”

“As little of it’s available. I was curious what Mr. Edgeworth was basing his judgment on but…” Sebastian shrugs. “I guess he probably had clearance to read the whole thing? I mean, the evidence that’s there was damning but there’s so much more behind the scenes.” He spreads his hands apart, as though to gesture at the scope of information that they are missing, and then with a sigh his arms drop to his sides. “There’s always, um, mechanations—machinations, behind the scenes.”

“That is how this office greets new prosecutors, ja?” Klavier asks. “‘Guten Tag! Here is your own personalized conspiracy, guaranteed to leave you with residual trauma!’ Very welcoming.”

Maybe Blackquill would have laughed, maybe even Skye or Kay, but Sebastian, twisting his hands together, only looks concerned. “I have no more information than you with which to make a judgment on Herr Blackquill,” Klavier adds, “and we both are lacking.”

“But from talking to him,” Sebastian says. They start for the elevator. “From talking to him, what do you think?”

Klavier jams the button to call for the elevator with more force than necessary. “I think I am proven to not be able to tell whether someone I know is capable of murder, ja?”

When later that week he is back at the courthouse, he poses to Taka the question: is Simon Blackquill a murderer? Taka studiously ignores Klavier to preen himself. Klavier would swear the hawk, doubtlessly hoping for Blackquill’s return, had looked disappointed when he saw him. “And would you even tell me if you knew?”

Taka scratches his head.

“And were I to put you on the witness stand, it would accomplish nothing, because you are a bird, and birds do not understand perjury.”

Taka continues to scratch.

“Though in fairness to birds, many witnesses do not seem to, either.”

Taka sticks his beak into Klavier’s briefcase. “You already had your snack,” Klavier says. “Are you looking for more? Don’t be greedy.”

He watches as the hawk pulls the autopsy report free of its folder. “You know that is not food, ja? I need that. Please don’t eat that.”

But rather than tearing it up, as Klavier feared he would, he hops forward, his head thrust toward Klavier as though he is presenting the paper. “Why thank you, Herr Taka. I suppose I should take the time to review this.” Taka flutters his wings as Klavier takes the page from him. “Herr Blackquill hasn’t… trained you to assist him in the courtroom, has he?”

Taka raises his head, one eye fixed on Klavier, demanding scratches under the chin. Klavier obliges. “Are you his only friend, as you were at one point mine?”

Being a bird, Taka again has no answer.

These are the facts of the case which Klavier knows:

A     woman was murdered.

Simon     Blackquill was sighted at the location of the murder.

At     that time, he was holding the bloody murder weapon.

He     again was spotted when leaving the scene.

He     pled guilty.

The     trial ended on the first day.

These are the facts of the case which Klavier does not know:

[REDACTED]

This is another fact which Klavier knows:

More     of the information than not about the case is redacted.

Somewhere in that blacked-out text must be, at the very least, the identity of the victim and location of the crime. He doubts the on-record existence of a motive. Blackquill’s admission would be enough. Why bother asking why when he is already willing to say he did? Motive isn’t always even necessary for a conviction — Kristoph, sentenced for the murder of Shadi “Smith” long before the victim’s true identity became clear, can attest.

And there is one last fact that Klavier keeps returning to:

There     must also be something beneath those redactions which seems to Chief     Prosecutor Edgeworth a reason to doubt the verdict.

The moniker Demon Prosecutor has been whispered more and more again these days, in tandem with Twisted Samurai, but Klavier has never felt reason to doubt Edgeworth’s honesty. He respects him, and always has, even when it looked like that was not a two-way street — and as many stories of the Demon Prosecutor as there are, there are more of a man who alone has thrown himself against the tide of corruption, and won. It is why Sebastian trusts and admires him as he does — it is why all of them do. Edgeworth is to Sebastian and Kay and even jaded, cynical Skye, what Courte is to Klavier, or perhaps more. Some history has bred in them an unshakeable faith of a strength that holds even through this that Edgeworth has not tried to offer an explanation for. It’s some kind of secret club that Klavier is locked out of and couldn’t even join if he tried. They have all been burned, too, but somehow they still trust.

But he — he can’t trust anyone like that. He wonders, certainly, because of Edgeworth’s strange behavior; at times he doubts, but Kay believes. If Edgeworth thinks there is something about Blackquill’s case worth reconsidering, then Kay will believe not just in Edgeworth, but in Blackquill, too.

He learns that one night in June, when at Kay’s behest, her pleading that none of them have met up and relaxed — “Fuck does ‘relax’ mean?” Skye asks — in months, they get together at a bar again. Skye is dead-eyed and cursing when she arrives; she has been reviewing well in advance to retake the forensics exam and thinks all of them distractions. “Mandatory fun kinda bullshit,” she grumbles, awkwardly clambering into the chair across the table from Klavier. “Bet Kay’s late because she knows I’m gonna kick her ass.”

Kay and Sebastian arrive five minutes apart, both looking exhausted from the case they’ve been pursuing. Kay has a list of grievances against half of the detectives in her department from the week, which she announces she will complain about alphabetically as she reaches over and plucks the paper umbrella from Klavier’s drink to stick in her ponytail. Klavier decides to head her off by jumping to the Fs: “I have meant to ask — what do you think of Herr Fulbright?”

“Ugh.” Skye glowers at the name.

“You feel that way about everyone,” Klavier says to her.

“You all deserve it,” she says. “Especially Fulbright. He’s so fucking annoying.”

“Herr Blackquill calls him ‘Fool Bright’.”

“Ooh, I like that one,” Skye says. “I’m going to steal it.”

“He’s enthusiastic,” Kay says. “Very, aggressively, enthusiastic.”

“The fucking audacity of not being dead inside like the rest of us,” Skye says.

“I think not being dead inside is an admirable trait that we should try to, um, emulate,” Sebastian says. “Though…” He taps his finger on the side of his glass, frowning. “He sounds really patronizing when he talks about Prosecutor Blackquill, sometimes. Yes he’s a murderer but it’s still—”

And that’s when Kay interrupts to say, “Allegedly a murderer.”

“He was convicted,” Klavier reminds. “That puts it more than allegations, ja?”

“Yeah, I know.” Kay glares at him. “But I don’t believe that, if he was just a murderer, case-closed, Mr. Edgeworth would be bothering with him.”

Skye shrugs. Sebastian is drumming his fingers on the tabletop now. Neither objects.

“And he doesn’t seem like a murderer, either,” Kay adds.

“As though that’s easy to tell,” Klavier says. Now Sebastian is conspicuously staring at the floor, while Skye throws her head back and downs the rest of her drink. “I will remind you here, it is not.”

“Klav,” Kay says plaintively, her chin in her hands, pouting. Something hits his shin and he glances beneath the edge of the table to see that she is kicking him. “I thought you liked Prosecutor Blackquill.”

“I… do,” Klavier says, and the admission is the reluctant realization that at the office he has less friends than he needs all of the fingers on one hand to count, and one of them is a convicted murderer. “But that hardly precludes him from having committed the crime of which he is accused.”

And honestly, the more Klavier thinks he likes Blackquill, the more certain he becomes that there really is nothing more to the case than Blackquill murdering someone. After Kristoph, after Daryan, why would it work out any other way?

“He’s right,” Skye says. Her mouth twists like she has tasted something unexpectedly sour. “I’m not drunk enough to be saying shit like that.”

“I will treasure the memory of it forever,” Klavier says.

“You do that.” Skye slides from her chair and heads for the bar.

“Weren’t we talking about Detective Fulbright?” Sebastian asks after some twenty seconds had passed. “You’ve never worked with him, Klavier?”

Klavier shakes his head. “Most of my cases have been with the detective who just left this table. Have you?”

Sebastian nods. “A couple times, a few years back. He’s — enthusiastic, like Kay said. Loud. He had a lot of thoughts about the concept of justice. It’d be a mistake to get him and Justine talking — the most just justice versus the Goddess of Law.”

“My money’s on Judge Courtney,” Kay says. She has plucked the umbrella from her hair and twirls it between her fingers. “I worked a couple cases with him back in the winter, some murders, missing persons, fun times that turned into cold cases like some unlucky dude with a busted-up face we fished out of a river.” She shudders and takes a long draught. “Or the dude found dead in a koi pond,” she adds, much more upbeat. “I like him, though, even when he’s out-enthusiasticing me.”

“I don’t think that’s a word,” Sebastian says.

“Hm.” Kay contemplates a stain on the table like it will grant her an answer. “You know, I don’t, either.”

“I mean, I guess he’s sort of nice,” Sebastian adds, and as he continues he starts to talk faster, his words running together, “but he’s just — sometimes, sounds so condescending when he’s talking about Prosecutor Blackquill, even when Blackquill’s right there.” He looks close to tears and Kay leans over to throw an arm around his shoulders. There is some context that Klavier knows he is missing.

“I didn’t notice,” Kay says, now leaning her head on Sebastian’s arm, “but I’ll keep an ear out and I’ll kick his ass if he does that while I’m around.”

“Whose ass are we kicking?” Skye asks, returning with full glasses for each of them in her arms.

“Fulbright’s,” Kay says.

“I’m down,” Skye says. With the volume of the bar, Klavier doubts that she even heard the reason why.

June rolls into July; time doesn’t slow to give him time to prepare for the next painful anniversary. Blackquill has prosecuted more trials since April, ones that don’t even pretend to need a specialist in psychology. Klavier sees him around the courthouse, has several times not spoken to him because Kay was already there, chirping at him and cooing at Taka while Fulbright attempted to get them to the doors. (“I want a pet crow,” she says to Sebastian and Klavier later, and Sebastian looks like he has been paralyzed with terror. Klavier knew her meeting Taka would be bad.)

Edgeworth has been predictably evasive when even Sebastian has put new questions to him; Klavier witnessed another of those exchanges in the hall this morning and is still turning it, and everything else, over in the back of his mind while he works. He thought if anyone could get an answer out of Edgeworth, it would be Sebastian.

“You really do have a plethora of guitars.”

Klavier jumps, yanking his headphones halfway from his head. “Warn me before you sneak up on me next time, ja?” he says, smoothing his hair back out of his eyes and spinning his chair to look at Blackquill in the doorway. Over his shoulder, there is Fulbright, the omnipresent shadow.

Blackquill raises his arms and shakes them, once, so that the chain and cuffs rattle loudly. “I thought that enough to herald my approach.”

Well, maybe he’s right about that one. “I would not have joked about something as serious as this,” Klavier says, standing and waving his hand at the wall. “To which I believe that you, Herr Blackquill, asked for a very detailed explanation of what makes each of these fine instruments differ from the others?”

“I most certainly did not,” Blackquill replies. Klavier laughs. He wonders if that is simply Blackquill, or whether it is symptomatic of life on death row — that with nothing more left to lose, there is no reason to mince words. “Though I may make an attempt at supposing what sets that one apart,” he adds, raising his hands and motioning at the remains of Lamiroir’s guitar, hanging closest to the corner, half-hidden by a small table.

“Sentimentality does,” Klavier replies, “in regards to the magnificent artist who gave her guitar to me, and my best friend who torched it and murdered a man in attempts to cover up his smuggling operations.”

He runs out of air too quickly on that sentence. He can hold a phrase longer in song but finds himself gasping for breath. A year doesn’t lessen the sting. He realized that back in April.

(And god, it’s been a year now since Klavier lost his best friend, an entire fucking year.)

Blackquill’s dead eyes slowly drift from the guitar to Klavier. He says nothing and Klavier does not feel the pause is a deliberate one on Blackquill’s part, but rather, for the first time, he does not have a response easily at hand.

“So if it was not to discuss with me my collection of guitars, what brought you here?” Klavier asks, forestalling any response Blackquill might be about to make, because in the silence he realized he does not know how to talk about Daryan, at all, in the slightest. He has no words to say about Daryan, because all of the words he ever wanted to say were cut up and rehashed and transformed into something else by two bandmates, two publicists, and a manager, and he has taken all of the feelings that were stripped from those public statements and buried them somewhere deep inside his heart where he no longer knows how to reach.

“I doubted you had yet heard and as I was here to speak with the chief prosecutor, assumed you may wish to know — Phoenix Wright has his badge back.”

Now it is Klavier who does not have a response ready. Wright, behind the bench again — of course the Bar Association would have cleared him of the prior charges against him. The evidence that came to light was enough. He shouldn’t be surprised, he should have expected this to one day be the case—

“Ach, news travels faster in prison than I have heard, ja?” Klavier asks. “Enough that you have heard this before I?”

“Only because tomorrow I am to stand against him in the courtroom in his first case in eight years,” Blackquill replies.

Klavier wouldn’t count it as such — from the transcript, the trial which he ran from the defendant’s chair, before climbing behind the bench with Apollo, might as well have been one in which he stood with his badge. But he has just barely staunched the flow from the wound of bringing up Daryan, and he has no desire to reopen one more, not when Blackquill has just lodged another blade in his gut. “Oh,” he says.

One of these days he’s just going to fucking fall to pieces in front of Blackquill, isn’t he? Only one other man has loomed before him like a manifestation of all of his guilt, a specter of his failures, which he cannot just lock away like he does with grief. How does Blackquill, who Klavier only met a few scant months ago, so much resemble his brother in this regard?

“That will be quite the trial, ja?” His desperate attempts to feign detachment are grains of sand through his fingers. He spins his chair back to face his desk, as though some part of his work will have become so pressing that he needs to send Blackquill away. “Viel Glück, though of the two of you it will be Wright who needs luck, as his school of thought only builds cases on luck and bluffing, which — nein, you surely know already—”

“Gavin-dono.” His name has weight to it, like a heavy blanket thrown over his head, and he stops. “Yes, I thought given your history you should appreciate a warning, but should your inane and childish babbling not cease this instant you will miss the part which you will most like to hear.”

What else is there even to say? Klavier closes his eyes and reopening them steels himself to face Blackquill. He does not expect him to be laughing when he does.

“He is defending an orca.”

“An… orca?” This is a fever dream, surely; the Twisted Samurai is not here to tell him that Wright is defending an orca as his first client in eight years. “As in, a whale?”

“They are closer related to dolphins,” Blackquill says, “as both have teeth, while what you might consider ‘true whales’ do not — but I believe you understand the crux of what it is I am saying.”

Of all of the aspects of this which Blackquill could choose to overexplain—

“Wait,” Klavier says. “This means that you are — you are prosecuting an orca.”

“Yes,” Blackquill says, an answer given without hesitation, an unreserved admission to his role in this latest courtroom lunacy.

Klavier presses his hands over his eyes and tries to imagine the expression which Apollo made upon finding out that his boss is defending an orca. He tries to imagine the sequence of events that led to Wright taking up the defense of an orca. “Was your meeting with Herr Chief to convince him of the merit of this case?” he asks. “Or perhaps the logistics of flooding a courtroom to allow the defendant to enter? What will Herr Taka think about no longer being the only animal present?”

“I do not think that the orca will be physically present in the courtroom,” Blackquill says, but he again is laughing, the rattle of the chain between his wrists a discordant background track to it. “Though I would not be surprised should the defense make an attempt.”

“Nor would I.”

He always can’t help but think of Kristoph, the good and the bad and the murder, around Blackquill, but this, the laugh, is different. Kristoph’s final tirade against Wright was the culmination of over seven years stewing in resentment about losing out to someone he thought inferior, ending in a screaming breakdown insisting that the law is absolute, immutable, and sacred; what mockery would he think it that Wright, with a badge once again, having slipped free of Kristoph’s plots, is bringing an animal into the hallowed halls of justice? How furious would he be? “If by any chance you are ever to run into my brother,” Klavier says, “please, please tell him what Wright is up to.”

“And I will doubtlessly be able to enjoy the expression on his face when he hears of this?”

“Ja, ja. Most certainly.” Klavier leans back in his chair. “And you will have to tell me how this trial goes and what your delicate psychological technique is to draw out testimony from such a defendant.”

Blackquill smirks. “‘Delicate’ has never been a word I have heard used in conjunction with myself.”

“I cannot even begin to imagine why,” Klavier drawls. Blackquill laughs, again. Klavier remembers once thinking him stoic. That impression has not quite held.

He should hate him. It should be easy, lacking the history he has with Daryan and Kristoph that makes his heart stay softer than the courts have determined they deserve. He may know that there are no ends without proper means, and the information he lacks about Blackquill’s trial means that he cannot make a proper judgment, but if he trusts the verdict reached by those at the trial, with full evidence and testimony—

(Trust is a hard thing to give in this legal system; still, why does he assume the worst of the prosecution and defense but the best of Blackquill?)

No, he should hate Blackquill — not even for being the straw stacked on the scales of justice that caused them to break under the strain, but for ending a woman’s life. Doubt everything, but he admitted to it in court, on the record, plain to read in black ink. Who was she? How did Blackquill know her? What do her friends and family think seeing her killer stand in court as a prosecutor? Is it salt in that old, but no less painful, wound? Does it seem a mockery of justice, a mockery that Klavier should stand against?

(He wonders what Kristoph thinks of this.)

He could ask Blackquill if he knows the best way to deal with cognitive dissonance.

He does not ask Blackquill this. Instead, he asks about how he came to own and train Taka, and whether he knows that he chose the most boring bandana possible.

“Do you know that you have chosen the most eye-searing hues?” Blackquill asks in response, watching Taka survey the options Klavier has laid out for him. After several moments of what Klavier presumes is contemplation — though Taka is a bird and Klavier does not claim to understand bird psychology — he plucks up the bright yellow bandana and presents it to Blackquill to tie around his neck. Blackquill frowns.

“Yellow not your color, ja?” Klavier asks.

“Yellow is fine,” Blackquill replies tersely, in a tone making clear that this answer had better be fine to Klavier.

Blackquill arrived late to the first case he prosecuted, as he told Klavier, but since then he and Fulbright seem to have developed a schedule that leaves adequate “preparation time”. Privately Klavier believes Blackquill just wants to spend more time with Taka, but it makes for a system that if Klavier arrives early on a day when they both are prosecuting, he can spend some time chatting before witnesses arrive. The cushioned benches are much more comfortable than the prison visitation room chairs, though here, Blackquill has clattering chains around his wrists and Fulbright never out of earshot.

“What is your opinion of purple?” Klavier asks. “And the Gavinners logo?”

He grins as Blackquill gives him a once-over, eyeing his necklace. “Tacky,” he answers, “as your aesthetic sense is long proven to be.”

“You will be sorry when you find your bird blinged out in said logo, with no other bandana in sight.”

Taka, perched on the bench in between them, lets out a shrill chirp.

“And you shall be sorry when you find yourself, your bandana, and your glitz and glamour back in the dumpster, and while you are there you may wish to search for the fashion sense you lost long ago.”

“Oh, you think me glamorous?”

“Did I not just speak of a dumpster?” Blackquill shakes his head. “Still, it pains me to say that you are more presentable now than the imbecilic boy you once were, wearing sunglasses in the halls of the office in what must have been a poor attempt to fool us all into thinking you someone important and worth knowing.”

Klavier glances at Fulbright, who is, as he always seems to, wearing sunglasses indoors.

“Your past wardrobe keeping company with Fool Bright’s is a sad indictment of your state of affairs.”

“You often give this much thought to the manner of my dress?”

“You would refrain from flattering yourself—”

“Ach, I’ve been told that’s what I do best—”

“—because much nature’s most colorful and oft hideous beasts, you dress yourself with the intent to draw all eyes in what is an obvious warning to keep far away lest you be poisoned.”

“Nein, now you’re just mistaking me for my brother.” Klavier waves a hand toward the prosecutor lobby. “Well, feel free to leave at any time, Herr Blackquill. Is your drab monotone meant to be camouflage from the predators of the courtroom such as those defense attorneys and their orcas?”

“Much like the orca, I mean to mark myself as the peak of the food chain.” He chuckles. “And why should I leave? That dull blade you call your wit cannot hurt me as you swing it.”

“I thought the animal metaphors to be a bit of a surprise, but I suppose you are not quick enough on your feet to continue with it and must return to the usual.”

“Challenge me to a duel and you will see how ‘quick on my feet’ I am.”

“And the weapon? Guitars, perhaps? I have quite the collection to arm both of us.”

Blackquill looks like he’s seriously considering the logistics of that. “I suppose that would do. It is after all a blunt instrument.”

Klavier groans. “Get out of here.”

“Prosecutor Blackquill!” Klavier jumps; he had forgotten about Fulbright again. “I’m afraid we really do need to leave — your witness is here.”

“Then you get your wish,” Blackquill says, standing and looking back down at Klavier. “I am forced to blink first, and you are presently rid of me.”

He takes one step away and Taka for a moment hesitates, glancing between Klavier and Blackquill. Then, as Klavier expected, he takes to the air and settles into his usual place on Blackquill’s shoulder. He stops, and ahead of him, so does Fulbright. “I think your bird has taken a liking to me,” Klavier says. “Do you worry I will steal him?”

Blackquill shakes his head. “I have not the faintest fear of that. I…” He frowns. “I am grateful to you, Gavin-dono,” he adds, very quietly.

“What for?” Klavier stands up as well, so that the distance in height between him and Blackquill is no longer a chasm.

“For taking interest in Taka,” he replies. At his name, the bird flutters his wings and raises his head slightly higher, appearing dignified for almost a second before he looks at Klavier with his head cocked much the way Vongole does when she hears a sound she doesn’t recognize. “I am… heartened to know that there will be someone to care for him once I am gone.”

Klavier’s stomach drops.

“I hope he’ll get along with my brother’s dog, then,” he says, his voice wavering when he tries to make it sound like a joke.

“So long as you keep him properly fed, he should behave himself,” Blackquill replies, already moving again to the lobby where the witness waits, already burying vulnerable moment. “But you seem to have discovered that on your own.”

Not again. Not someone else ushered toward the gallows, and Klavier only to watch and care for a life they left behind.

He doesn’t need more reminders of Kristoph as the months pass, summer fading into October to mark a year since he last spoke to his brother. In what feels a mockery of the fact that he broke up the Gavinners immediately after, Klavier gets an email from Themis Academy asking if the remaining members want to come play a reunion concert for the school festival. He texts the others immediately: I’m going, he tells them, before firing off an affirmative response to the school administration. An hour later, a second email asks him if he wants to teach a class on prosecuting for the winner of the mock trial. We’ve reached out to Phoenix Wright to ask if he will be the guest defense lecturer, it reads, which Klavier thinks a cruel irony, to put the two of them together — but this he accepts as well. It all will force him to see Courte again, no excuses on his part.

He’s been ashamed to see her since he came back, over a year ago. His own brother, a murderer, and Klavier with no idea. He didn’t want to see anyone who might force him to confront that, or worse, to confront his first-ever case and his murderous brother’s role in it. Courte would have told him to stop doubling down on his adamant belief that it was all Wright, him alone the sole player in his own demise; she would have told him to keep an open mind, and he hadn’t wanted to think about what that meant. And then once he couldn’t run from the truth any longer, the shame had piled on too heavy like the weight of a grave filled in above him: he had been careless, too trusting, and a man’s life had been ruined for it.

Because for all the lingering doubts, and despite the fact that Gramarye had literally disappeared from his sentencing, he had been proud to go to Courte and tell her that on his first case he had brought a corrupt, dishonest defense attorney to face the music. It’s what she taught him, wasn’t it — above all else, the truth, through proper means. And he thought that was what he did. He thought he took down a man of dishonest means. And he was proud to tell her that.

And he was wrong, so very wrong, and how could he go back and face her?

Themis is just far enough outside the city that he can lie to himself and say that it was a bit too out of the way; he is just busy enough that he can lie to himself that he missed any emails from her even though he read every word. On the times he thought to send an email himself, shame kept him at bay: after avoiding her for so long, what excuse can he make to justify himself? What can he say to stop her from being disappointed in him? It’s too late, he thought again and again, too late to just reach back out after hiding from her for so long.

And then when he has ironclad reason, an outside force pushing him to see her, it really is too late.

He doesn’t feel angry, or grieved, or anything; the heart that he had that could ache was torn out long ago, and the pulsating void that remains pumping his blood offers him only numbness. All he feels is a small, soft, oh: oh, that was why no one had seen her this morning when he asked about her after he arrived. Oh. Oh, she’s dead, and that explains that.

Fulbright recognizes him as “Prosecutor Blackquill’s friend” and waves him over; Blackquill has been assigned as prosecutor, he learns, and has already determined a witness to call. Approximately half an hour later, Klavier passes this information over to the defense. He wants answers about Courte’s death, and the more informed both sides are, the better chance of reaching the correct verdict.

Apollo has seen him at two of the other worst moments of his life. Why not now, why not this moment? Klavier knows he is failing at putting on a brave face; Apollo knows him well enough to know to raise an eyebrow at the way Klavier’s accent thickens, German phrases dropping more and more heavily into conversation. Apollo can see he is pushing his rock star persona downstage to take the heat and leave the rest of him, the gaping emptiness, sheltered in the wings. Cykes is young but sharp, reading through his words to what lies below, and something about her reminds him of himself at that age.

 When he parts with them, he runs again into Fulbright, who has Blackquill on speakerphone; Klavier supposes that phone calls from on-scene is the best that Blackquill can do, and he doesn’t envy the difficulty of investigating remotely. Fulbright talks more about the case and the possibility of the crime scene being a different place than where the body was found. Klavier accompanies him up to the art room to look it over and on his way back down runs into Wright — literally.

He wishes he had Blackquill’s warning, like back in July, to cushion this.

Klavier had intended to — somehow, he hadn’t gotten that far into a plan — dodge Wright for the duration of this event. Instead, here he is in an empty hallway, with Wright making casual conversation like it’s nothing, like there isn’t eight years of painful history haunting them both, plain in Klavier’s face and tarnishing the golden badge on Wright’s lapel. Klavier stammers out some sort of response to some friendly, irreverent remark, tells Wright what he has learned about the real scene of the crime, and bolts. The hollow place where his emotions should be has again filled up with shame.

Wright is the reason he avoided Courte, and now she is dead, and Klavier—

Did she die ashamed of him, or having forgiven him, or had she stopped thinking about him at all when he stopped responding to her?

He hopes it was the last. He hopes she washed her hands of him. He failed her and then avoided her in an attempt to, even worse, avoid confronting his mistakes; and not having asked her forgiveness he does not deserve it, but neither did she deserve bearing the weight of his failure. He hopes she wrote him off as a lost cause and found better students to carry her teachings. He hopes she wasn’t looking forward to seeing him again when he accepted the position of guest lecturer.

But still he hopes, if he cut out the Gramarye-Wright debacle from his history, she would be proud of the rest.

That evening, starting too early, he drinks until the shame is gone and falls asleep on the floor, waking at four am with a hangover that is still not the worst ever in his life. He doesn’t go back to sleep but showers, drinks about a gallon of water, and goes into the office before the sun has risen to get some work done before he arrives at the courthouse for the first day of Woods’ trial. The building is still silent as a crypt when he arrives, curling into himself on a bench near the vending machines. Taka is not there, and Klavier does not move to seek him out, but before long the bird settles next to him.

“Why?” he asks.

Taka, being a bird, cannot answer.

This, no one can.

As people begin to trickle into the courthouse, Klavier remains there, saying to Taka any words that pass through his head: a story from his days at Themis, an idea for a new song, the color of a new bandana. It is as he rambles about this last one that from the corner of his eyes he spots the towering dark figure of Blackquill, and he expects Taka to immediately take to the wing and greet him.

Surprisingly, the bird stays right there next to Klavier, and it is Blackquill who moves to them. He stands there silently looking down at Klavier.

He is thinking green for the new bandana. He tells Blackquill this, an inane continuation of the inane conversation he was having, but now with man instead of bird — but now with someone who can actually respond, someone who can say something, anything, to break the silence that has consumed Klavier for the past twelve hours. What must he look like, how tired, how broken, to crack the stone-faced Twisted Samurai and the heavy dark circles around his dead eyes into showing pity?

He has heard Blackquill speak too smoothly so often to doubt that he could easily pluck some pretty and meaningless words of condolence from the air; he has heard Blackquill speak too sharply so often to doubt that he would not even make attempt at comfort if he did not genuinely mean it. Blackquill has no trouble brushing off Klavier, or anyone else, when he wants to; but he remains with words that are almost awkward. Even a few minutes later Klavier doesn’t remember exactly what was said — he is too dazed, too empty — but he knows that Blackquill’s comfort was of justice. He will cut down the one who did this.

Justice is the only comfort that Klavier has ever had: the guilty, found and exposed to face the punishment they deserve for the crime.

Funny, then, to be consoled in that way by a murderer.

Watching Blackquill stand at the bench is and isn’t what Klavier expects from him. Typical are his sharp words that even generously are hard to interpret as anything but threats and an excess of blade puns, but something about the jabs he lands on Cykes are different than anything Klavier has heard. Belittling at best, cruelly personal at worst — does he know her outside of the courtroom? And how could he, her so young, him in jail for seven years?

The trial ends with an extension to tomorrow when the defendant’s two friends offer up perjurious confessions of committing the murder themselves. The most generous thing Klavier is willing to call them is frustratingly, stupidly naive, to think that obscuring the truth is a way to help anyone.

Blackquill knows that Klavier assisted (leaked information to) the defense, mentioning such when they spoke about Courte before the trial; this does not stop Klavier from returning to Themis with the express intention of continuing to do such. Cykes asks him point-blank for his help, as though he wasn’t going to give it, but he does think that the girl is probably getting some strange ideas about what the dynamic between defense and prosecution should look like. That’s not his problem, though. That’s Apollo’s future problem.

They reinvestigate the scene where the body (the body, he frames it in his head like another crime scene, not someone he knows, not someone he loved) was found and try to reconstruct the stage as it was meant to be from the initial plans. When Cykes suggests rebuilding his statue, he cracks a joke about picking up the pieces of a shattered rock star, stunningly apt in both the literal and the metaphorical, but the more he thinks about it, the more inside he is screaming. Bickering with the two defense attorneys is almost relaxing, but the second time Cykes echoes his own original joke it stings and he tells her, perhaps too curtly, to reword what she has said.

Apollo and Cykes are more familiar with Fulbright than he is, enough that he and Cykes have some shared greeting or something. It’s funny in some sort of way that for however familiar he is with Blackquill — friends? Fulbright said such but Klavier does not know what to think — the detective who trails him is a fixture more like furniture. As the defense move on to investigate further, he remains, the weight of memory heavier than ever on his shoulders. With the art room window open still, he can hear the faint chatter of investigators as he sits alone on the edge of the stage, wondering how the one untainted memory of a victory he had, here at this school, in the mock trial, has become yet another shadow. Everything around him is shadows now, dark corners into which he can barely stand to look.

His Gavinners banner comes back to him as a sooty scrap of rags, an injurious insult on top of everything else. Later, he catches up to them in the main lecture hall to find the defense with suspicions of fabricated evidence. He makes a copy of the of the voice recording that so became a point of contention in the trial today and of the mock trial tape and drops them off at the lab for analysis, leaving them with his number for when they learn whether the former was fabricated using the latter, and goes home. The sun has dipped below the skyline on the ride back, the artificial lighting of the streetlamps not banishing any of the autumn cold that cuts him down to the bone.

He doesn’t drink that night but still falls asleep sideways on his bed, his head wedged up against Vongole’s chest so that he can feel her breathing. He needs reminding that there is something else alive in this house; some days he lives only with ghosts. Some days he thinks he is one of them.

In the morning he picks up the results of the audio analysis and heads to the courthouse, where for the first time in many months he does not seek out Taka but instead makes straight for the lobby where the defense team has gathered to make their scant preparations. Cykes is wild-eyed and visibly exhausted but still grinning when she sees him. He hopes that having proof the recording is a fabrication will ease some of her anxiety, but he doesn’t have time to find out for certain; someone thumps against the wall, unsubtle eavesdroppers looking for an edge, and Klavier takes off after them, leaving the defense to shout “I’m fine!” at each other.

He spots them, black, blue, and red, turning a corner, but the trio of students don’t make it any further than that; O’Conner is trying to run with his hand still in his pocket, and the girl in the box — Scuttlebutt? — and her lack of peripheral vision out of her cardboard box collides with Newman and sends them both into a wall. O’Conner appears to realize then that any attempt to flee is futile and recomposes his face into a cloying smirk while the other two scramble about on the floor, Scuttlebutt yelping and ducking into her box when Klavier’s eyes turn toward her.

He knows exactly what they were up to but still asks, and Newman, still on the floor, pretends that absolutely nothing is wrong and asks him what he was doing. Scuttlebutt has now retreated entirely beneath her box and is inching away from the scene of the pileup. Klavier takes one step closer and places his hand firmly on top of the box. She squeaks and then hisses — actually hisses, like a leaky steam heater or a snake. More entertaining than the usual paparazzi he deals with, but have teenagers gotten stranger in the years since he attended Themis? He doesn’t remember anyone like — oh, Mien Gott, he was the weird one, wasn’t he.

At least being famous means he can upgrade to eccentric.

Two answers he expected: Scuttlebutt, looking for a scoop, and Newman, going where her friends go. That leaves the one who Apollo and Cykes suspected as the killer. “And you, then, Herr O’Conner? What exactly were you doing, ja?”

“Heh.” O’Conner’s face is almost contorted as he stares down Klavier. “What does it matter to you? You’re not the prosecution or the defense.”

“And why do I need to be officially assigned to this trial to be concerned about some untoward suspects skulking about the courthouse?”

“Suspicious of me?” He laughs, an attempted deflection, but it sounds pained. “I’m a witness, not a—”

“Then perhaps a witness ought to be off preparing with the prosecution, not spying on the defense, ja? You seem awfully worried about what they will do, despite only being a witness.”

“They’ve accused just about everyone of murder! Why should I not think I’m next?” O’Conner rubs his neck and from the corners of his eyes glances at Newman and Scuttlebutt. “You’ve really got it out for me, huh,” he says to Klavier. “But of course, a genius such as myself should expect that — for a prosecutorial has-been to recognize the threat I pose.”

“A ‘has-been’?” Klavier repeats. Of all the insults—

O’Conner ignores him. “What defense attorney goes into court unprepared, besides that laughable pair at the bench yesterday?” So he really does want a punch in the teeth. “And since I’m probably next on their list of baseless accusations” — Klavier would hardly call it baseless but to each their own — “I have to prepare myself, as I’ve learned. The ends justify the means, don’t they?”

“No,” Klavier snaps. “They don’t. Not your desperate, underhanded means, and I will enjoy when that unprepared defense team rips you apart on the stand.”

“Is colluding with the defense ‘underhanded’?” O’Conner asks. “I don’t listen to lectures from lawyers who don’t know what badge they wear.”

“Fortunately, the lecture that I was to give would be to the prosecution course, not you.” Was Klavier this insufferable while he was in school? Probably. “I would be careful, ja? Or that badge you will so be happy to have will be stripped from you like—” He snaps his fingers.

“Oh, you’d know all about taking away the badge of someone who doesn’t deserve to lose it.”

He should have expected that, and it hurts. He doubts it will ever not, but missing every last chance he had to speak with Courte because of it is seawater far above his head, salt stinging in the open wounds as he drowns. He sinks. “You flatter yourself to think yourself comparable in any way to Phoenix Wright,” he says. “Nein, if you know his story, you should know how I mean it when I say this — if I ‘have it out for you’, as you seem to believe, it would be because you remind me very much of mein dear brother.”

O’Conner recoils; Newman inhales loudly, in preparation to yell. All of them, Klavier included, freeze as the clanking of chains heralds the approach of another. “My most sincere appreciation, Gavin-dono,” he says, his tone sickeningly sweet, deeply unsettling, “for softening up my witness for me.”

He turns his cold smile to O’Conner, who shrinks away and grips his neck like he is in pain. “I cede the stage to you, Herr Blackquill,” Klavier says, and he leaves them, Newman indignant and Scuttlebutt a large box tucked conspicuously in the corner and O’Conner still on the line between terrified and smugly thinking himself unjustly persecuted, to retreat up into the gallery. Blackquill’s lifeless eyes burn into his back as he goes.

Klavier thought the first day of the trial a mess, owing to the friendship drama of Newman, O’Conner, and Woods; somehow, he didn’t think it would get worse. But somehow, the cases that Apollo takes are still left throwing him for loops. O’Conner’s testimony starts solid and solidly unfavorable for the defendant and the defense’s theories, to the point that the judge nearly lays down a verdict, before suddenly he makes an objection and his new testimony takes a hard turn off the rails into incoherent.

Blackquill walks out of the courtroom.

What should he care of consequence? What punishment can he face greater than death for the crime he has already committed, and what mockery can he make of the courtroom more than his very presence as a convicted murderer at the bench? And worse — the judge barely bats an eye. What else has Blackquill done in the hallowed hall of justice?

(Well, there was the orca he brought to trial.)

But he would be frustrated were he at the bench, too; he is frustrated in the gallery even knowing that Apollo has pulled the truth out of the ridiculous before and Cykes seems to be learning that from him. Blackquill, though, has none of Klavier’s patience for their antics. He pulls the chain between his wrists taut, a motion that Klavier has not seen of him outside of the courtroom, when he slams his fists on the bench. One of them has to give, the prisoner or the bindings — and it is the chains that break.

The judge is shocked, terrified even, but as he cries out, Klavier catches the word “again”.

Blackquill has done this before?

O’Conner goes on, babbling about how he has to lie to protect Juniper because innocent though she may be, the truth isn’t enough in this dark age of the law. And Klavier thinks of a page out of a diary, though Kristoph loved nothing but his own pride and no one but his dog and would never perjure himself for the sake of another. The means are the same and it is not enough that they seek different ends. O’Conner goes on to confess the bribes that birthed his perfect grades and Klavier knows this story too: a student who believed the forged evidence of his genius and clung to the false confidence and bravado that his parents bought for him along with his grades, because that is a hard truth to face down. That story is very much not Kristoph’s. Klavier almost regrets what he said earlier.

A call from the lab pulls him out of the courtroom. Their further progress is no more progress; they suspect that the voice in the original recording is too deep to be Woods, but no substance is yet recovered. Klavier hopes that the proof that it was fabricated will be enough. He gets back inside, making a note on his calendar to send the lab a fruit basket, to find Cykes has somehow pulled Professor Means onto the stand.

From the gallery he himself wants to lobby an objection when she suggests that they listen again to the mock trial speech. He sat through it once before and that was more than enough. But the defense insists, and Klavier sinks in his seat and does not hide the fact that he has again pulled phone from pocket, because if the courtroom is now a lecture hall then he will act like it. Themis gotten no better about their corruption since we were there, he texts to Sebastian as Means’ voice on audio drones on. Witness’ perfect grades bought by parents.

Blackquill, with his back at the bench and his head bowed, hasn’t moved in three minutes. Has he actually fallen asleep?

What does a man on death row care for courtroom penalties?

The defense seem to be pushing to accuse Means now. For all that the professor surely would have loved Kristoph, he does not have his grace under fire and Means’ demeanor shifts quickly, courtesy giving way to lecturing as though this is lecture hall and he can win if he sways the defense to his side. They’re too surprised to do anything but agree that this is now a roll call; Blackquill does not play along until Means demands that he leave the “classroom”. He has already walked out once, after all.

But that was before the chains broke.

Blackquill straightens up from leaning on the bench with a smirk that suggests he will very well heed those words, and suddenly he flinches, twitches, and — no, he spasms, for a full second that is one of the longest of Klavier’s life, before slumping forward, gasping for breath. Fulbright appears — or maybe he has always been here, somehow in bright white still no more substantial than a shadow, a phantom who easily fades away when all eyes turn to the convict he shepherds around — near the stand, grinning, almost ghoulishly it seems to Klavier now, with a jab about discipline, and—

Blackquill sneers back in between heaving gasps, but he doesn’t seem surprised. Has that happened before, too? What goes on in these trials?

He has a text from Kay asking how the trial is going, and so he tells her exactly what has just happened. She is a detective. If there is anything standard department-issue about — fucking taser-shackles, whatever the hell it is that Fulbright has, she can tell him.

Cykes fights valiantly, but Means knows where to hit, and hit hard. What better way to break a teenage prodigy than to tell them that they are a failure, undeserving of their badge? And break she does; before the eyes of Klavier and the gallery, she folds into herself, arms curled protectively around her body. Blackquill’s barbed blades through the past two days could only dream of drawing out such a reaction.

But maybe that was never what he intended. Not when he calls across the aisle, harsh as always, with not quite reassurance, not quite encouragement, but a reminder: a purpose to why she has chosen this path in life. Someone that she will disappoint should she give up.

He must know her outside of the courtroom, but how? If Klavier is ever to get an answer he knows it will not come from Blackquill and the tangle of secrets he has locked away.

And for all the turns the trial took, the truth is laid bare: Professor Means killed her. As though Klavier didn’t hate him enough for “the ends justify the means”, as though Klavier had not already been thinking how satisfying it would be to punch him, to just bash him over the head with—

It is not for Klavier to think he can dole out what anyone deserves. Blackquill swore justice for Courte, and that, they got.

“Proudly serve her memory,” Blackquill says. “Do not let her death be in vain.” His words are to Woods, but Klavier remembers their conversation the prior morning; while the exact words still don’t come back to mind, he knows the shape of it was the same. And slightly more clear-headed than yesterday, he finds himself surprised at the sincerity, that to the whole courtroom the Twisted Samurai would again show a heart.

He slips out of the gallery at the clack of the judge’s gavel.

Again he finds himself playing that game of avoidance, fleeing the courthouse without a word of congratulations to Cykes for her win or Woods for her exoneration. He doesn’t have long to hate himself for it, spared by a call from Themis asking if he will be able to make it back tomorrow for an extension of the school festival. He’ll be able to see them tomorrow. He’ll be able to sing with Ms. Woods, Courte’s chosen successor.

After Daryan, he swore to never play the Guitar’s Serenade again, but he had also thought he was breaking up the band for good, so what does he know, really? When Woods was chosen as student representative to sing with him, they exchanged a few emails, and she told him she was a huge fan of Lamiroir. And that had been enough for him to offer to bring the song to the stage, one more time. What was it that Daryan always said he was — a sucker for a pretty face? He wasn’t ever wrong about that one.

Klavier had hoped that he could at least create for himself a new memory of the ballad, form a new association that wasn’t the murder case that took away his best friend. Now it’s the murder case that took away his mentor.

Apollo and Cykes look at him like he’s glass that will shatter with a glance head-on. Trucy is there as well, with an invitation to her magic show, and a smile dimmed just around the edges by the concern in her eyes that she doesn’t voice. She’s a performer, too. She understands the masks they wear. Time spent with the three of them, plus Woods, briefly lifts the weight off his heart; running into O’Conner doesn’t drag him down, even though O’Conner doesn’t look him in the eyes and Klavier still can’t bring himself to apologize to his face.

On the stage, pre-show preparation — that’s when it hurts. That’s when he awkwardly hops about the stage to avoid the white-tape outline that has been taken away but still is burned into his mind; that’s when he looks around and counts only four of them, a shadow left in place of the last. What is Klavier’s life now but shadows filling holes?

He doesn’t put his feet down where Courte’s body lay all night. He tries not to think about her otherwise, tries to keep himself only in the moment, and it holds him together until he’s left alone with the clouds blocking the last of the evening’s light. How he looped back to the stage he isn’t sure but he stands there now, thinking about his banner soaking up the last of her life as it bled away. There’s a song in that somewhere. It isn’t a happy one.

He sits with his back against the mock defense’s bench. “I’m sorry,” he says to the empty air over which he can superimpose the the crime scene photograph of Courte’s body. “You thought better of me, Professor Courte, and I let you down.” Just like so many others have done to him. “The dark age of the law you so valiantly fought, with I as a cause, only for it to kill you.”

Proudly serve her memory, Blackquill said, but Klavier is not proud.

“Prosecutor Gavin?”

Over the stage edge he sees the top of Sebastian’s head. Did he hear him speaking to Courte’s ghost, another regret to haunt him until his own grave rises to meet him? “I didn’t know you’d come, Herr Debeste.” His text informing Sebastian that the festival had been continued through today was sent this morning; it had only then occurred to him that it might be something his former classmate would want to know.

“I nearly didn’t,” Sebastian says. “Since sure I felt great about being a student while I was a student but now that I look back…” He stops on the steps. “My memories are all tainted and sour now.”

“Mine, too,” Klavier says.

But he’s growing used to that.

“After you told me about Professor Courte,” Sebastian says, “I asked Justine, and she said that she knew her. She admired her, too.”

Courte and Courtney; with names like that, what career can there even be but one in the legal profession? He can’t to find his voice to joke.

“I wish I could’ve met her.”

“I wish you could have, too.”

And in several ways, it’s Klavier’s fault that he never got the chance, isn’t it?

In the morning, he awakens with an ache in his chest from a backlog of tears he has not managed to cry and a text from Kay telling him that they are meeting up at her apartment tonight. It isn’t an invitation. It is a demand. If he backs out, she will show up on his doorstep and pick the lock on his door. He knows her well enough to know that, so he takes Vongole for a walk in his Saturday-morning anti-paparazzi disguise of glasses and unwashed hair in a messy bun and crawls back into bed for a few more hours to steel himself for the evening and the look of concern he knows he will find on Kay’s face.

Ema is already on her couch when Klavier arrives, Kay with a stack of flashcards in her hand when she opens the door. “When’s the test?” Klavier asks.

“First week of December,” Ema answers, too promptly for her to really have registered that it is him, specifically, speaking to her. She pulls a handful of Snackoos from the large back next to her and shoves them one-handed into her face. “I’m not cramming this time. For six months I’ve been fu—” She lifts her head and squints at him. “Oh,” she says. “Gavin.”

And he thinks that will be the last she speaks to him tonight, but she adds, “I asked him about the thing.”

“Who about what?” he asks.

“Mr. Edgeworth,” she says irritably, like she expects him to obviously understand her vagaries. “About Fulbright.”

“You — you asked Edgeworth?” He hadn’t expected that. He hasn’t expected Kay to take the question to Ema in the first place.

“Mhm.” She crunches another Snackoo. “Because it’s fucked up. How much have they vetted Fulbright — oh wait I don’t give a shit because I’m sure Gant was vetted way more when they gave him a fuckton of power and I still wouldn’t give him a remote control shock collar on anyone no matter what they’ve done or who’ve they murdered.”

Gant. The name feels some sort of familiar, but hazy and distant. Ema raises her head again and glares at him. “Damon Gant,” she says. “Police Chief, 2015 to 2017, arrested for murdering a prosecutor, forging evidence, murdering a detective, and threatening a different prosecutor into taking the fall for it” — she inhales loudly — “and the reason I’ve got trust issues. Sentenced to life, but I don’t doubt there’s more of his type in the ranks and I don’t want a single one of them getting their hands on that shit.”

Klavier realizes that he has stood paralyzed just inside the doorway for nearly a minute and moves to where Kay has piled some beanbag chairs in front of the couch. “So what did he say?” he asks, and face-first in fabric it sounds like a mumble even to himself.

Someone kicks one of the bags near his face. Kay and Ema are both on the couch now and Klavier suspects either equally. He lifts his head. “What did Herr Chief say?”

“That it’s not gonna be mass-produced or standard issue, ever,” Ema says.

“A special leash for our jailbird, then.”

“One of a kind, and they built the cuffs separate from the chain and fucked it up somewhere putting it all together and have to keep welding it back together now — or not even welding, I think welding was too much heat and going to damage whatever the hell mechanism is in those cuffs. Totally not an optimized design or construction process, and at that point I tuned Fulbright out because sure it might be science but it’s fucked and I am not a fan.”

Ema shakes her head and stares blankly ahead, even as Kay reaches over her and takes the Snackoos bag. The door handle rattles and Kay bellows “It’s open!” with a volume that makes Klavier flinch, lost as he was in trying to take in what Ema had said. Sebastian inches in, obviously still in the process of deciding whether he wants to back out of socializing now.

“I asked Mr. Edgeworth if he thought he was innocent,” Ema says, like she didn’t notice Sebastian had entered. She stretches her hand towards the bag and Kay places a handful of Snackoos in her palm. “He said the answer is above my security clearance.”

The blacked-out pages tell the same story.

“He must, though,” Kay says. “Why would he do any of this if he didn’t really believe it? Wouldn’t even a little doubt stop you from going this far?”

“He’s Chief Prosecutor,” Klavier says. “Who can stop him?”

The Prosecutorial Investigation Committee, if they aren’t corrupt as well; the Chief of Police, if they aren’t corrupt as well; whoever holds the cards to blackmail the Chief Prosecutor. He doubts Edgeworth has those problems, and he has never seen evidence of it, but he is not willing to say it for certain about anyone.

“I read as much of the case as I could,” Sebastian says, “and if he was innocent, why would he so ferverently—fervently proclaim his own guilt? What reason would anyone have to do that?”

“Kay, let’s hit the flashcards again,” Ema says. The expression on her face is one of wide, unfocused eyes, like she is seeing what none of them can. Like she had a revelation.

Like she has found an answer she cannot speak.

“If you can run tests to find out what kind of poison was used, why do you need to know all of the properties and symptoms from memory?” Sebastian asks, as Kay flings a note card labeled arsenic into his lap and reads off the next, cyanide.

“Ask the idiots who wrote the test,” Ema says.

“The more I’ve thought about it,” Sebastian says to Klavier, “the less surprised I am, I suppose, that Prosecutor Edgeworth has done this with Blackquill. It’s just what he does.”

“What do you mean?” Klavier asks.

“He’s giving Blackquill a chance, when no one believes in him, because he thinks — he must think — there’s a deeper truth and he wants to find it. Like he did with Mr. Wright.”

Klavier pushes himself upright. “What do you mean?”

— “Hexapsycho, um, hexacycle—”

“It’s pronounced exactly as it looks, Kay.”

“Well Emmy you know I don’t know how to read!” —

“Those cases that Kay and I worked with Interpol and Prosecutor Edgeworth over in Europe — sometimes he would bring Mr. Wright over as a consultant too. And he’d sometimes bring his daughter. She always made my badge disappear.”

Wright somehow never lost his touch in the courtroom after seven years. That could never be owed entirely to Kris. There’s a history between Wright and Edgeworth, one that everyone knows, even Klavier, though he never dug into it because he didn’t want to have anything more to do with Wright. It makes a certain amount of sense that Edgeworth would believe, believe there a truth to bring to light, monsters lurking beneath to burn to ash, even when the evidence said it was all Wright, only Wright. And there was and if they succeeded at drawing out the truth behind one inciting case of the dark age of the law, why not the other? Once he had fixed Klavier’s main mistake, why not push back against the dark that he and Blackquill brought on? Why not exonerate Blackquill, like Wright?

The notecard for hexo-whatever drops into Klavier’s lap. Kay reads off the next. “Atroquinine.”

Klavier rolls up onto his feet to see what she keeps in her kitchen.

November passes in a blur. He gets Taka an emerald-green bandana, like he said he would; he tries to broach the topic of Fulbright and the shackles to Blackquill and is shut down in an even more dismissive way than Blackquill usually does when Klavier tries to say something he is not interested in. Fraülein Wright is overzealous in inviting him to her magic shows, and he wonders if it was Apollo or Cykes who told her that he was coming unglued. He lands a case against the pair that lasts only one day but as complicated as he has come to expect. (Do they deliberately try to take the most fucked-up cases?) Kay and Sebastian invite themselves over to his apartment several times, and Kay doesn’t even try to claim that it’s Vongole she wants to see.

The arrival of December feels like the tiniest relief. He is ready for the year to end. Maybe next year, he thinks, maybe next year will be free of tragedy. With email inquiries from his manager and publicist about various New Years’ Eve celebrations that would be happy to host a Gavinners reunion (declined, as they all agreed that Themis was a very special and very one-off occasion) or a Klavier solo performance (also declined), he has been thinking about it again, the never-ending passage of time, the hope for a fresh start. With thirty-one days left to go he already wishes to just let the year die, to bid it to its grave alone, like the year before.

He is working on wording his responses to those emails, and an entirely different professional email to Ema, when there is a knock on the door. When he looks up, a dismissal ready on his lips to chase away one of the usual suspects, he sees Edgeworth standing in the doorway. “Do you have time for a word, Gavin?”

This seems — unofficial. Were it something on the record, Klavier would have been called up to his office, right? But with that expression of his — tight, closed off, bordering on anger — what else could it be but a reprimand? “Of course, Herr Chief,” he replies. The piles of cross-references on the floor betray that he is lying. Edgeworth’s frown deepens as he looks over the mess. He still doesn’t yet speak, and that further worries Klavier. The chief prosecutor is not a man who minces words or concerns himself with cushioning their impact.

“I’ve noticed that you and Prosecutor Blackquill seem close,” he says.

Many people have commented on that. From Sebastian, it was merely confusion as to what made Blackquill friendship material. From Kay, it was merely an observation, with perhaps a touch of jealousy as to the way Taka took to Klavier much more than her. From Fulbright, it was a statement almost glad that Blackquill has managed to form another human relationship. From most others, it is a jab — the two horsemen of the dark age of the law, together. From the chief prosecutor—

“What of it?”

Again, there is silence before an answer, and a heavy sigh as Edgeworth closes his eyes. If he has to brace himself to speak—

Ice is gathering inside Klavier’s ribs.

“Prosecutor Blackquill won’t tell you this — and I believe he has threatened Detective Fulbright as well to make mention to no one — but I thought it better that you be warned in advance. The date is set for the twenty-first of December.”

The cold has made its way through his chest and up his throat, leaving his mouth dry, his voice a croak. “The date of…” He cannot force the words out. “Of…” Edgeworth just looks at him; there is no pity in his gaze, no attempt to finish the sentence and help Klavier with the words that his lips will not form. “Of his execution?”

Of course it is. What else could it be?

And the damned emotionless Chief Prosecutor just lets him flounder. “Yes,” he says, sharply, and he doesn’t even have the fucking sympathy to have answered by saying I’m sorry instead.

December twenty-first. He doesn’t need to put the date into a calendar. Already it is burned into his mind — the winter solstice, the longest night of the year, sparse daylight with darkness encroaching too fast and too close on every side. Fitting, really, but for the fact that after that day, the light comes back, the night gets shorter. It doesn’t just go on and on like eight years, like forever, dark age of the fucking law, Klavier rolled out the red carpet for it, and now all there is to do is fucking watch.

Edgeworth is already starting to turn away, to leave having done nothing but tell Klavier that the long night he helped usher in is never, ever going to end. The ice in his chest layers thick on top of itself, squeezing out room for anything else but the twisted cold, and he is on his feet before he knows what he’s doing, spitting poison at the chief prosecutor’s back. “Then why the hell did you do any of it at all?”

Edgeworth stops and slowly faces Klavier. His expression is thunderous. “If you have something to say, Gavin, then—”

Then by all means Klavier already intended to say it. He slams his fist against the door. “Why? If you believe him innocent then you have had a year as Chief Prosecutor to do something! Instead the end is fast approaching and all you have done is—” give me someone else to lose.

Edgeworth, staring at him unblinking, pushes his glasses further up on his nose. The gesture reminds Klavier too much of someone else. “I do not answer to you, nor do I owe you an explanation of my actions, but I very much do resent your implication that I have done nothing—”

“Then what have you done, besides walk in here and tell me that in three weeks he will be dead! What have you done but watch the noose tighten?”

“Prosecutor Blackquill knows what I am doing, and you, Gavin—”

“And what is it that you’re doing? Putting him on a leash — a shock collar like a dog?”

“Detective Skye told me of your collective concerns and I very much understand and agree. I will have you know, however, that while the position of Chief Prosecutor is one which has been long abused by those who held it, I have sworn to not get my way through threat or blackmail. This means that while I am able to issue the writ to place a dangerous criminal back in the courtroom to prosecute other criminals, it is not a plan that has not met resistance every step of the way. Do you think that the police have not balked? Do you think with no negotiation I could simply force them to devote one of their detectives to the full-time task of shadowing a convicted killer who I let walk forth? Do you think I could convince them to do such while not having contingencies in place for the protection of both the detective and the rest of us?”

He doesn’t give Klavier time to say anything.

“This is the bargain I have struck for the chance to bring an end to the dark age of the law and save Prosecutor Blackquill from an early grave — this is the most kindness I have been allowed for him, because for his crime most are content to let him rot, and none willing to chance on the good behavior of a man who brutally murdered his own mentor!”

“His own mentor?” Klavier repeats, aghast. He thinks of Courte.

He thinks of Blackquill comforting him after Courte’s death.

The ice clings tighter to the edges of the hole where his heart was.

Edgeworth’s eyes flare open wider for the briefest of moments and then narrow back into pitiless steel daggers. “As you see, you, much like Detective Skye, lack a significant amount of evidence with which to understand both this case and my actions surrounding it, so if you have any more duly uninformed opinions, I would suggest you save them for another time.”

Klavier slams the door shut.

Stupid. Stupid. Blackquill has been on death row this entire time. He was convicted. What did he think, that he could draw the truth out of the man by being friends, that the truth would be anything other than the verdict cast down upon his head?

Eventually he finishes the email to Ema, but the ones about his musical career wait until another day, and when he finishes the work he throws himself back into as a distraction, he makes straight for the detention center. The sun is already sinking between the buildings, lighting up the sky bloody-red before it stretches up into darkness. He flashes his badge, submitting himself as a visiting prosecutor, and paces the detention center’s visiting room as he waits for Blackquill to be brought in on the other side of the glass.

“And for what reason does your path cross mine this evening?” Blackquill asks. He doesn’t look surprised — does he ever? “Or shall I guess? You are not the most predictable man, but you appear agitated, and oh what a fearsome glare with which you turn to me now.” He grins. “Perhaps a kitten would cower from you but I hold more doubts than not about even that.”

Klavier circles back to the glass, Blackquill sitting there with that frustrating smirk still set on his face. “Did you kill her?”

“Surely you have gotten your hands on at least part of the trial transcript by now. I made my plea very clear on several occasions and the stenographer cannot have been so incompetent as to improperly record all of them.” He chuckles. “Though, the quality of others I have had the misfortune to work with in this justice system does leave some room for doubt. Perhaps they were.”

Klavier slams his fist against the partition. “Did you kill your mentor?”

In an instant, Blackquill’s smile vanishes. “And from whom exactly did you hear that she was my mentor?”

“Edgeworth.”

“You have my admiration for managing to draw such information out of him. He does not usually give anything away.”

“I asked you a question, Blackquill.”

“And I did answer it — unless you have never looked at even the case file, which made plain that my plea was the same as my verdict is the same as I deserve. But I should hope that you are a curious enough man that you would not make association with me without first reviewing all of the facts and evidence available to you, however scant that may be. After all, you are not as the Wright Whatever Agency, with their aversion to thorough preparation, however you may ally yourself to them.”

“I wanted the truth,” Klavier snarls, “about my mentor — and yours, Blackquill. Did you kill her? Tell me!”

Blackquill slowly shakes his head. “I am disappointed, Gavin-dono, in your skill as an investigator and prosecutor if you have dismissed decisive evidence and a confession to stand here and plead like a child for a different answer. I have made no reservations about or attempts to hide from you what I am. Perhaps you thought better of me, given that I have not lied to you, and that is more than what the others in your history have done, but know this — better to leave me to sink than in folly to chain yourself to me in hopes of finding some secret truth. There is none. Yes, I killed her. Of course I did.”

Klavier sinks into the chair. “She was your mentor.”

“Yes.”

“Why?”

“Because there were things I wished to learn and that she was able to teach me. You should very well know what a mentor is.”

He is laughing. His laugh is the opposite of Kristoph’s unhinged hysteria; he is all-too composed for the situation. “This isn’t a time for jokes,” Klavier snaps. His rings clack against the sill when he brings his hand down on it.

“And why ever not? I met once in the clink a former comedian who imparted the wisdom that it is better to laugh at the darkness than wallow in it. I am the man upon the gallows; why should I not find it humorous?”

“Because you killed a woman! Because she is dead and you — why?” He inhales and tries to force away the image of Courte. “Why did you kill her?”

“It matters not.”

“It matters a lot!” Like Kristoph, and Shadi Smith; no confession of motive to hide something so much darker lurking beneath the surface.

“Why? Because you think of Professor Courte? Because you think the comfort I offered you insincere now that you know this of me?”

Klavier blinks.

“Do not look so surprised. I would not know well how to manipulate people if I could not read them well.” He settles back in his chair. “It is the word ‘mentor’ which has set you off, as though it is a fresh blade across a wound which has not even had time to scab over. Did I not just say I have never lied to you? I was more than sincere when I offered my sympathies for the loss of someone who meant a great deal to you, nor to Juniper Woods when I said to honor the memory of Constance Courte. Your mentor was not mine. They are in no way linked. That I killed her does not mean I cannot feel sorrow at the unnecessary death of another. And though my condolences are genuine, you should not stand so in need of them. You need concern yourself with nothing of what a damned soul as I thinks of you. Be rid of me.”

“Yeah,” Klavier says. The winter solstice looms. “I’ll be rid of you quite fucking soon.”

“Make it sooner,” Blackquill says. “Leave.”

Klavier gapes at him.

“I hardly know what keeps you here,” he continues. “I have never been famed for my magnetic or attractive personality, yet you remain. Disentangle your fate from mine.”

“Like it’s that fucking easy!” Klavier snarls. “Like the dark age of the law won’t still haunt me! Like you’re not about to die and leave me alone with our fucking legacy of this mistrusted mess of a legal system!”

And in that instant he understands why exactly he has been drawn to Blackquill, why the man has haunted him. He never thought so much about the darkness he was the catalyst to, not even immediately after the Misham trial, as he has since he first stared down Blackquill. Where he can’t face himself in the mirror, his fellow prosecutor, fellow herald to the so-called dark age, is there to be a twisted reflection that he cannot run from, a killer where Klavier was pawn. It is why he thinks so often of Kristoph, and and for that reason he is a man from whom Klavier should not, cannot, seek support in shouldering the burden of that legacy. Yet he has. Stupid. Stupid.

“You ask me, the man at fault for this darkness, for assistance in bringing back the light,” Blackquill says. “What a dunce I thought you eight years ago, and some part of you has not changed; still a child, thinking now that you have fixed your mistakes you can do anything for mine. I — ah.” He closes his eyes and heaves a sigh that is visible in the slump of his shoulders. “‘About to die’,” he repeats, like he has caught up to all of what Klavier said. “‘Rid of me soon’ — this is what you mean. It was the Chief Prosecutor who told you this as well, I presume, that on the calendar has been marked my final day?” Klavier nods. “So my request of the fool detective, that we not speak of it, needed to be extended as well to one man who I thought surely understood the value of privacy.”

“So you were just going to let me find out with no warning one day that you are now dead and gone?”

The light glints off his eyes when he opens them, glaring with all the precision and force of a hawk about to strike. “Yes, I was,” he says. “And you were not to wallow in it.” He sits up straighter but keeps his head bowed, scowling out from beneath his hair and the chasms around his eyes. “But seeing now that you appear imbecilic enough to care for me in some regard, consider it a practice run for when the rope necklace takes its long-deserved place around your dear brother’s neck. Did you beg him for an answer that was anything but the truth, too?”

Klavier feels like he has swallowed an icicle sideways — no, not swallowed. Had it lodged horizontally into his throat from the outside in.

When he leaves the detention center, the light is gone from the sky. He goes home and straight from his front door to his studio, soundproofed walls so if he wants to play the guitar until three am he can, and drops his briefcase on the floor. And standing in the middle of the room, he screams. He screams for a long time.

How can an unapologetic murderer help the public regain its trust in the legal system? And what can Blackquill be but a murderer?

And how did Klavier think he could uncover a truth that Edgeworth, with full access to all the details of the case, still hasn’t? And why did he think that exonerating Blackquill would relieve him from this crushing sense of guilt? As a prosecutor, he does not make cases on benefit of the doubt. Is this because of Wright? Is he trying to make up for the case he so badly bungled by affording Blackquill the benefit of the doubt that he never granted Wright?

It has gotten him nowhere but his own apartment, alone in it, screaming at the empty walls.

He is left alone with himself for most of the following week; he chats with Taka, sees not a shadow of his owner, and tries not to lend further thought to that ghost, the dead on earth, whose chains rattle through the courthouse. Then, T-minus fourteen days, Kay barges into his office, flinging the door open so hard that it bounces off the wall and smacks back into her. She upends half of the contents of a table once she makes it in past the threshold. “He — he threatened me!” Her voice is practically a wail. Usually when she is angry she can maintain some small level of apparent detachment and disdain, but there is nothing of the sort now. “With a salary review! He’s never done that!”

“Who did?” Klavier asks. “Herr Debeste?” That doesn’t seem possible.

Kay knocks the rest of the papers on the table to the floor and sits on it. “No!” Her expression is in flux between an indignant pout and something anguished. “Chief Prosecutor Edgeworth!”

“What happened?” Klavier asks; through his shock he at least has the presence of mind to phrase it that way and not the worse way that he is nonetheless still thinking, what did you do?

Still scowling, she folds her arms across her chest. “So I tried to pick the lock on his office door—”

“Fraülein.”

“—to get to the classified UR-1 case files. Because—”

“Fraülein—!”

“Because the truth is in there!” she yells over his second protestation. “And we aren’t allowed to know! Blackquill’s dying and we aren’t allowed to help! Mr. Edgeworth won’t let us help!”

He closes his eyes. “Even in service to the truth, that is—”

“A crime?” she snarls. “Yeah, tell me about it, Herr ‘stole the mock trial script to let the defense look at it again’ Gavin — or is it Herr ‘manipulated my fans in Criminal Affairs to get them to look at this evidence tape that I shouldn’t have because it’s not my case’ Gavin! You draw the line in a weird fucking place, huh, Klavvy.”

He doesn’t have any rebuttal, no justification or excuse to make himself into not a hypocrite. He wonders how she learned about the mock trial script, whether one of the detectives on that case told her enough that she was able to put it together.

“If he won’t give us the truth, then I’ll try and steal it.” She raises her chin, shaking her hair back, for a moment composed and haughty and almost regal. “I am my father’s daughter. I am the second Yatagarasu. I will not sit and do nothing!”

“And when the only truth there is to find is the one that has been plain in front of us all this time?”

Yes, I killed her. Of course I did.

“All those classified files, all this time Mr. Edgeworth has spent, and you think there’s nothing more?”

“He admits it, Fraülein — unapologetically.”

As unapologetically as someone else.

Phoenix Wright and Zak Gramarye both deserved what they got!

“Adamantly insists upon it, in fact,” Klavier continues, “and made clear that he thinks me an idiot for even the merest implication that there could be any possibility but that one. We spoke about it at length the other day.”

You have dismissed decisive evidence and a confession to stand here and plead like a child for a different answer.

“I’m sure he would be happy to have such a conversation with you as well, though perhaps not as happy, because I do not believe you bear as many open wounds as I for him to salt.”

Did you beg your brother for an answer that was anything but the truth, too?

“I don’t know what you look for that you think the Chief Prosecutor has not found in a year, Fraülein.”

She hits him in the chest with a binder which she retrieved from the floor to lob at him. “Stop it!” she screams. “Stop it! Your stupid rock star accent! Stop it! Stop trying to pretend you’re all cool and detached! You’re not! You’re his friend too! You care about him too!”

“And where has that left me, but with someone else to lose!”

“We’ve all lost people, Klavvy! In case you’ve forgotten!” Stooping again, she reaches for a file folder, and he springs from his chair and wrests it from her hands. “If Mr. Edgeworth thought he was guilty, he would say that. He wouldn’t do this. He won’t say he thinks Blackquill is innocent because — liability or some shit, I don’t know — but he does! I know he does!”

“Then why has he found nothing? Why does Blackquill fight him every step of the way? What innocent man would not fight the end as it draws so near?”

“Ask Emmy! Ask her about—” Kay throws her hands in the air. “Ask her about her sister! She would’ve told you and Sebby back in October if she wanted to talk about it but fucking ask her and she won’t tell you because she hates you and your annoying insincere German shit!” She jabs her finger into his chest and he smacks her hand away. “There’s always another possibility until there’s decisive evidence with no other explanation—”

“And what about the evidence from the trial isn’t decisive?” Klavier demands. He turns back to his desk. “You’ve seen it, ja? Shall I remind you? Show you the photographs of the man and his bloody sword at the scene of the crime? You work for prosecutors, not defense attorneys! What is this faith you have in him—”

“Not him!” Kay snaps. She grabs the UR-1 file he has retrieved from a drawer and drops it on the floor, spilling open to the black-marked pages of missing information and the pictures of Blackquill, so young when they were all still so young. “In Edgeworth! Who’s harder on corruption than anyone I’ve ever known—”

“Except when it’s Phoenix fucking Wright!” He remembers what Sebastian says again now. Wright, disbarred for corruption, and Edgeworth — what a farce. No matter if he was innocent, with the way the deck was stacked against him, the evidence that was everything, it was not the place of the future Chief Prosecutor to defend him. “He was one of you Interpol consultants while he was disbarred, ja?”

Kay wrinkles her nose. “What’s that got to do with any of this?”

“Edgeworth has his biases, like any other man; even he and I do not quite manage to be the impartial arbitrators of justice that we strive to.”

“Even if — and maybe he is — he’s biased toward Mr. Wright, he doesn’t have history or a preexisting relationship or anything with Blackquill,” she says. “And you just wanna be angry, huh?”

“I am tired,” he tells her, a redirect away from the very good point she made about the history of Edgeworth and Wright versus Blackquill. “I am tired of losing people. I am tired of them letting me down.”

Her eyes widen as she looks at him, pity welling up in their dark centers, and he would prefer her fiery anger. “But you care about him, though?”

I shouldn’t, he could answer, or, unfortunately, I do. “In the last conversation we had,” he says, “he made it quite clear that he wished me to accept his guilt. And because we seemed at some point friends, I will do for him what he wants.” He points at the door like he has an objection to it, rather than his objection being to Edgeworth, to Blackquill, to this entire abstract situation. “Please leave and let me clean up the mess you’ve made, Kay.”

She stops in the doorway, staring down at the mess. “Sorry,” she says, but she has the audacity to only look sheepish for a mere instant. “He — Mr. Edgeworth told you when the date is, right?” she asks. Klavier nods. “He didn’t tell Sebastian — not specifically, now, anyway. He’d said to him at some point that it would be the end of the year, but…” She fiddles with the cuffs of her gloves. “I guess he didn’t think Sebastian and Blackquill were — are! — close enough to… to need the warning.” Her hair falls across her face, eyes fixed on the floor again. “He mentioned it to Ema, too. To us together, I guess since she’d asked him about the shackles, last week. I only managed to get over here today to try and get the files. I’m going to try again.” She lifts her head, shaking her hair back, her face set like stone. “I’m only telling you so that you know you and Sebby are buying me ramen when my salary is down to pennies.”

The door clicks quietly shut behind her.

Klavier thinks about screaming again.

The days count down like sands to the bottom of an hourglass, the noose pulled tighter and about to drop. Thirteen, twelve, eleven: December tenth, Klavier at the vending machines after a trial, trying to retrieve the autopsy report that Taka snatched away from him as soon as the judge called his verdict. “You have no need of that,” Klavier says. Taka peers over the edge of the machine at him. “What will you do, eat the paper? Do not eat paper. Give it back. Herr Taka. Herr Taka.”

A sharp whistle causes Taka to stiffen, casting his eyes about for a moment before he takes to wing, talons buried in the paper, and lands somewhere behind Klavier. He can guess where, or rather, who, even before hearing his voice. “I see my darling beloved bird is not behaving himself.”

The autopsy report that Blackquill hands back to him is pierced through with holes. “Fortunately I only need this for my own records, now,” Klavier says. Taka lifts his head proudly. “Naughty birds get coal in their stockings, you know.”

He is about to walk past and leave it at this but Blackquill’s question stops him. “You do not actually have a Christmas stocking for this ungrateful bird, do you?” He sounds confident when he hit the word actually but faltering and turning it into a question, after all this time still not knowing when the joke becomes serious with Klavier.

“Where would we hang it?” Klavier asks, turning back around to look at the convict, soon a dead man, and his hawk, soon Klavier’s, on his shoulder. “Off the vending machine?”

Blackquill laughs.

Ten, nine: December twelfth, Kay comes down from Edgeworth’s office, again fuming; the UR-1 case files aren’t where they should be on his shelves. He hid them from her. Eight: December thirteenth, Klavier waiting for a witness, and Taka taking to wing at the approaching death rattle of chains. “Gavin-dono,” says the ghost. “I have something for you.”

“Ja?”

Blackquill jerks his head and Fulbright, always, to the end, following in step as his shadow, is suddenly at his side to hand to Klavier a stack of papers. All are covered, front and back, in straight even rows despite the fact that none of the pages are lined, of the most beautiful handwriting Klavier has ever seen, like an entire document in calligraphy. Flipping through to a random page, he starts reading at a paragraph in the middle and finds Taka’s name. He looks up. “What is this?”

“It is as close to everything about this bird as I could put to page,” Blackquill replies. “All of those things which I presumed you may not know from your merely periodic exposure to him; what I guessed to be the best way to lure him out of the courthouse and convince him to adopt a new location as a home; again a guess, this as to how to acclimate him to yet keep him apart from a dog as friendly yet unintelligent as you have explained your dog to be; and more such as that.”

At the bottom corners of the pages are tiny numbers inked into place. In the body of the writing, Klavier spots at least one cross-reference. “How long have you been working on this?” Klavier asks.

“Many months,” Blackquill replies, a little softer than he usually speaks. “A labor of love and necessity both.”

Klavier is starting to feel a little nauseous, and more than a little dizzy. “Is there a section on how Herr Taka feels about hats?” he asks, flailing for something, anything, any deflection, because that is what he does, he deflects, he runs, he never faces head-on what he needs to until he is forced. “Picture a tiny Santa cap — or perhaps those New Years glasses with the year for the frame, but bird-sized.”

“Do not do this,” Blackquill snaps.

Klavier blinks. “What?”

“This,” he repeats. “You speak of a time that I will not be here but ask of me to imagine it — for what purpose? To deny that which is plain in front of you, as you have tried before? As you have asked of me my assistance? By Christmas I am gone. Whatever nonsense you attempt to usher in the next year with, I shall not see. Stop flinching from that fact!” He raises his arms up to his chest in tandem and brings them down like he has forgotten that there is no bench here to slam his hands on, but the clanking of the shackles is jarring enough.

The next wave of nausea that rises in Klavier’s chest is cold. Everything has been cold for a long time now. “Would he try to bite off a necklace of little tiny lights?”

Blackquill’s expression does not change. Have the hollows under his eyes gotten darker? His face is the sharp, barren surface of a faraway moon, and beyond that, a black hole, swallowing all light. Klavier can barely recall the time he moved him to pity. “Yes,” he answers tersely. “He would bite apart the wires, should he not simply tangle himself in them. Glasses would fall from his head as he plainly does not have external ears on which to balance them. And a hat he would shake off regardless of how you attempted to secure it.” He shakes his head. “Stick with the colorful bandanas of which you are so fond. Do not seek to overcomplicate the matter.”

Klavier slips the papers into his briefcase and hopes he will remember to secure them safely as soon as he is back in his office. Taka from his perch on Blackquill’s shoulder is preening his hair. “Steel your resolve, Gavin-dono,” he says, gesturing toward the prosecutor lobby. “You have a case awaiting you.”

That, and more to come. Klavier nods.

The cold has turned to numb.

Seven, six, five: December sixteenth, Sebastian slamming straight into Klavier’s door, too much momentum causing him to fail at opening it while on the move. “The news,” he gasps. There are tears in his eyes. “Did you see—”

Klavier turns his eyes back to his computer screens and silently points at three different news stations, each covering the explosion at the courthouse. “Kay had a case this morning,” Sebastian says, his hands curled tight into fists, one clutching his phone, his face twisting in a poor attempt at holding back tears. “I can’t get her or, or anyone. Who had cases today? I think Prosecutor Blackquill, he was going against the Wright Somethings, and—”

The pressure gathering at Klavier’s temple is threatening to burst and it feels like it will split his skull in half when it does. “It was contained in one courtroom,” he says, which is scant reassurance because he didn’t know a moment ago that half of the people he knows were down at the courthouse this morning and because—

“Someone died!” Sebastian yells. His voice cracks. “Someone died and Kay’s not—!”

Klavier lunges across his desk to his phone. One dead, one taken to the hospital in serious condition, numerous injuries treated on-site — was Kay in that courtroom? Was Apollo? What about Cykes, or Trucy even, Wright, Blackquill, Taka, Fulbright, where was Ema this morning? Apollo’s phone goes straight to voicemail. Trucy’s rings and rings. He doesn’t have Cykes’ number so he searches for the office website and calls their phone. Sebastian is still trying for Kay, no longer trying to stifle his sniffling. Klavier tosses him a box of tissues that hits him in stomach and drops to the floor.

“Herr Edgeworth might still be here,” Klavier says after his third attempt at calling Apollo comes up immediately unsuccessful. “If anyone has information about — about who — and…” None of the words come to him properly but Sebastian nods and they start for the elevator. At the ringing of his phone, he stops dead in the middle of the hallway, seeing the anxiety on Sebastian’s face dissipate to be replaced by confusion and a question that he does not get to ask but Klavier knows would be coming, is your ringtone really one of your own songs?

He’s answered before he has managed to process the caller ID, and Kay’s voice is a shriek at his ear. “Klavvy! Where’s Seb? He didn’t have a trial this morning but I’ve been trying and trying to call him and—”

Even with the direness of the situation, he has to laugh. “He’s been trying to call you, Fraülein.”

Now Sebastian is shouting in his other ear. “Kay? Kay!”

Klavier holds the phone between them and Kay’s voice echoes out into the corridor. “Sebby! I called Ema and then I couldn’t get you, what were you—”

“Trying to call—”

“One of you could have sent a text,” Klavier says, before realizing that he has not done so and he pulls the phone back closer to himself to send messages to Apollo and Trucy both.

“Oh, aren’t you so smart?” Kay says. “Bleh.”

“He’s not smart,” Sebastian says, wiping the tear tracks off of his cheeks with his sleeve. “He’s just going to text someone now.”

He has Woods’ email from the event at Themis, and she and Cykes were close friends, so if he emails her and asks her to ask Cykes to tell him if—

“Courtroom number four,” Kay says. “Blackquill was on the bench there — he’s fine, he dumped Taka off on me, Fulbright’s dragged him away now. No idea if I’m supposed to be here—”

“What happened?” Sebastian asks.

“That’s what I’m hanging around trying to find out. Detective who was supposed to testify in the trial is dead — Armie, I think? Arnie? Arme! Candice Arme. And the, the defense, Wright Anything Office, whatever those guys are called” — Klavier’s heart seizes up — “they carried the red one out on a stretcher, practically had to dig him out, poor kid—”

The phone slips from his fingers. He is at the elevator before he knows he is moving, jamming the button, not sure what he expects to get from Edgeworth now but something, anything, he is friends with Wright, he will know, or find out—

“Klavier!” Sebastian flings an arm through the elevator doors before they shut him out. “Klavier, wait—”

He knocks once on Edgeworth’s door before barging in, finding the chief prosecutor with his cell phone in one hand, scowling at it, and his desk phone in the other at his ear. “I am well aware of that!” he barks. His eyes are alight with fury when they turn on Klavier. “Nonetheless, what you suppose is that — no.” He pinches the bridge of his nose. “One moment. Hold.” He jams the button and drops the phone to his desk. “Prosecutor Debeste, Detective Faraday is fine, and Detective Skye as well. Gavin, this wouldn’t happen to be about Mr. Justice, would it?”

Klavier nods, numbly. Edgeworth tosses his cell to him and it bounces off of his hands and to the floor. “What I know is that they took him out in an ambulance,” Edgeworth says. Klavier retrieves the phone to find it open to the call log, displaying seven unanswered calls to Phoenix Wright. “Anything more than that, I don’t know either. You might try calling Wright; maybe he will better respond to an unknown number. If he does, let me know, but otherwise, get out.”

He takes down Wright’s number into his own phone, moves to set Edgeworth’s down on the coffee table, and changes his mind and tosses it back. Edgeworth, snarling into the other phone again, catches it one-handed. Klavier didn’t know he had that kind of coordination.

Head still spinning, he follows Sebastian over to his office and slumps down into an armchair to try and get answers from someone. He alternates calls to both of Wrights, tries Apollo again, hopelessly, and finally sends a text to Wright: Is Apollo okay?

Sebastian has a baton in a pencil holder that he is now tapping against his desk to make an absolutely infuriating clicking sound. Klavier almost flings his phone at him. He almost screams. Ema shows up half an hour later with two bags of Snackoos that she does not offer to either of them but instead tears through by herself, sitting on the floor with her back to Sebastian’s desk. He has the news on but the volume is turned down to a low murmur that Klavier can’t make out. He could ask for it louder but doesn’t. It is a full hour that feels so much longer by the time his phone chimes with a text.

-At hospital. Looked bad but hes stable n shld b fine

Klavier slides halfway out of the chair, all of the tension that he was using to hold himself upright gone.

-Whos this

Ah. Right. Wright doesn’t know his number.

Klavier.

-K -How did u get my #

Edgeworth gave it to me. I was worried. Sorry.

-Dnt worry abt it

He was trying to get thru to you. You should call him.

-K

What kind of phone does Wright even have? Klavier hasn’t seen anyone text like this in more than a decade.

Thank you for the update on Forehead.

-Yw

It is still hard to breathe and his hands are still shaking but the heavy lump in his chest is starting to shrink. Sebastian launches his baton across the room while flexing it and without looking, Ema throws a Snackoo up over the desk. It doesn’t hit him. Edgeworth stops in the doorway, looking at the three of them, shaking his head like he is about to say something, but he doesn’t, not a word about the work they aren’t getting done, or that Ema doesn’t even work in this office, and he leaves them there. Too late does Klavier think to confirm with him that Wright called.

Kay arrives after another hour with takeout for all of them and a laptop tucked under her arm. “We’re not assigned to these cases so it’s not like anyone should expect us to get work done,” she says. “It’s fucked. You guys see about the Space Center yesterday?”

Ema nods; Klavier shakes his head, and Sebastian mutters a negative. “Bombing there too,” Kay says. “And someone stabbed to death. Center tried to keep it all hush but it didn’t work.” She snags a handful of Snackoos. “That was the trial for that murder there, in this courtroom that got blown up. Shitty unlucky break there.”

“You say like it’s a coincidence,” Ema says. “I doubt it is. Any other courtroom going to shit today of all days, maybe. That one? That’s fucked.”

“That’s what the investigation was thinking so far, though,” Kay says. “That it’s unrelated. Then someone realized I wasn’t supposed to be part of that investigative team and threw me out.”

Ema sighs. “Oh, Fraülein,” Klavier says. “Never change.”

“Wasn’t planning on it,” Kay replies, stealing a piece of chicken from Ema’s plate.

The afternoon wears on with Kay trying to extort information out of her coworkers on the scene and while she is engaged in her second argument with the supervising detective, Klavier gets another text.

-4hed says he wdnt mind if u came 2 visit

Klavier writes and deletes a response three times before a second message arrives.

-Figured u mght wnt 2 kno

He deletes a fourth message and simply sends: Thank you.

And because they weren’t doing anything anyway, he gets up and leaves.

Wright is not at the hospital when Klavier arrives, but Trucy is and she meets him in the hall, apologizing profusely for never responding to his messages. In a low voice she explains to him exactly how bad the situation was even before Apollo got blown half to hell: his best friend (Klavier thinks of Daryan and shakes it out of his head) was murdered yesterday and Apollo is defending the man accused of doing it. (Klavier thinks again of Daryan and thinks that what Apollo is facing would hurt worse.)

Trucy clambers back into the chair next to the bed and says nothing but watches Apollo with wide sad eyes, blinking much too frequently. He is unsurprisingly, but unnervingly, quiet, a bandage wrapped around his head over one of his eyes and his bracelet still on his arm, slid over a layer of bandages. Juniper Woods was arrested for the bombing, he says, and Klavier feels a pang of pity for the poor girl. He doubts she is the culprit, trusts Courte had better judgment when it came to all of her students but one, and evidently Apollo doubts it as well, as he says he will defend her. Klavier is about to ask how — you plan to be the first defense attorney to mount a defense from a hospital bed? — when Apollo abruptly asks Klavier about the cases he’s worked on recently. It is an obvious plea for any sort of distraction from the situation that Klavier willingly obliges. God knows he’s been there too many times — and he would even if he hadn’t.

He leaves not having shaken away the unease that, once panic had subsided, hung over him throughout the rest of the day. Worry has clawed its way into his chest, too; that look on Apollo’s face he has seen before in his own reflection. Balanced right on the edge of despair, tipping toward numb. When Trucy texts him that Apollo is released from the hospital, Klavier is lying on the couch with his face in a cushion and Vongole wedged in between him and the back of the couch, and he hopes that Apollo has something more the silence of the grave and the echo in his own skull to come home to.

Four: December seventeenth, Woods’ trial dragged out until a second day, Apollo back in the hospital. Three: December eighteenth, Woods not guilty, an email that Klavier sends Apollo asking how he is doing, no reply. Ema receives word that she passed her forensics exam and will be moved to that department with the new year. Kay wants to plan a party.

Two: December nineteenth. Taka affixes himself to Klavier’s shoulder and doesn’t leave when Klavier tries to shoo him off to go prepare for his case. He has a final pre-trial conversation with the witness with a hawk on his shoulder. This does not help said witness concentrate on what Klavier is trying to say. This does not help Klavier concentrate on what he is trying to say.

“How smart are you?” Klavier asks Taka after the trial, having left the courtroom to find the bird immediately there in a plant by the door, waiting for him. “Can you sense something amiss?” He scratches him beneath the chin. “I am glad you escaped that awful bomber,” he adds. He’s glad Blackquill did as well, for whatever difference the scant few days remaining could have made. “I need to go speak with your samurai soon.” He feels like he did over a year and a half ago, now, alone, lost, set adrift, no one to speak with but a bird whose name he did not know. “‘Soon’ is all he has left now, I suppose. Today? Or tomorrow?” Not the day of, and not just because he doesn’t know what time it will be — the stroke of midnight, an immediate end? Or with the sunrise, or noon, or sunset, his life gone with the last of the light? — but he doesn’t want to know, doesn’t want that countdown running in his head, and he doesn’t want to impose on Blackquill’s last day, not when the man so obviously wanted him gone.

One: December twentieth, waking in the morning to a decision. He skips most of his usual routine for styling his hair and heads for the detention center, having realized that he doesn’t want to face Blackquill after the workday, not when he’ll be stepping out into the dark after that, not when putting it off will mean that he will be haunted one last day searching for the words he could say to draw out the truth. They don’t exist. Better to end this now. Make a clean break of it.

Say goodbye.

Blackquill shakes his head when he sees Klavier, and first he thinks that it is about the hour, although Blackquill has obviously been awake for longer than him, and then he thinks it is about Klavier being here at all. But it seems to be neither. “You look like,” Blackquill begins, casting a critical eye over him, “a maggot-riddled corpse that the vultures will come swooping down to pick at any minute now.”

“Thanks,” Klavier says.

Blackquill sighs.

“What was it about your case that convinced Edgeworth that you could be saved?” Klavier asks. “For what reason did he even bother with you?”

“For sad naivety,” Blackquill replies, though Klavier would not describe the chief prosecutor as naive, “and an unwarranted, baseless hope for a future that could never be.”

“But why?”

“That is, I believe, still classified, and will remain so even after Hell has taken me.”

“Then I expect an answer when I see you there.”

“You won’t.” His smirk almost loses its edge to become sad, but in the next moment his mouth twists into a sneer. “Even now, you think you can draw some truth from me? You think there is some truth left yet not found? I hope not, or I have badly misjudged you these many months.”

“Deathbeds are good places for confessions, I hear.” Klavier can barely force himself to meet Blackquill’s cold stare, even knowing that this is the last time he will ever see him. How can he ever banish the ghost if he cannot face him one final time?

He shakes his head very slightly, his empty eyes never breaking from Klavier’s. “Yet dead men give no testimony, and I have been dead for a very long time already.”

“Was it worth it?” Klavier asks. He doesn’t know exactly what it is he is referring to.

But Blackquill raises his head, lips pursed together, and something about his eyes looks more alive than Klavier has seen him, the most proof offered that the grave has not quite yet claimed him. “Unquestionably,” he says, but even as he says it, the muscles in his throat tighten and he blinks twice in quick succession.

Klavier doesn’t know what to make of that. Klavier has never known what to make of him. All this time spent trying, and he has still not found an answer.

“I will take good care of Herr Taka. You need not worry over him.”

“Good.” Blackquill smiles.

The silence stretches out like infinity even when Klavier knows they have no time left at all. “This is goodbye, then, ja?”

Blackquill nods curtly, once. “It is, and one long overdue, at that. Do not mourn me, Gavin-dono. I am not worth your time or that soft fool heart of yours that would do you credit anywhere but death row. Take comfort that this fate of mine is justice well served.”

Justice is the only comfort that Klavier has ever had: the guilty, found and exposed to face the punishment they deserve for the crime.

Funny, then, to be consoled in that way by a murderer over his own impending execution.

“Goodbye, Gavin-dono.”

If he has nothing left to say, then Klavier has nothing, either. “Goodbye, Herr Blackquill.”

The lump growing in his throat and his chest does not feel like grief; he does not know what it feels like. Anxiety? Apprehension? It doesn’t leave him but sits like a cloud across his shoulders, and he still gets more work done that morning than he has in the past week. The day drags on until sometime after two, when Sebastian charges in to once again tell Klavier to turn on the news, to reports about a hostage-taking at the Space Center.

“What a fucking week,” Klavier says. This new incident is related to the bombing there, he presumes.

“Prosecutor Edgeworth left to deal with some part of it personally,” Sebastian says. “I don’t know what is happening anymore.”

“Have we ever?” Klavier asks.

Sebastian leaves but calls Klavier up to his office an hour and a half later, saying that Ema has arrived with information. She is sprawled in the armchair, her shoes on the floor, angrily munching. “He’s prosecuting it himself?” Sebastian is asking.

“Yeah, and then he told me to stop pulling a Faraday — not in those exact words, mind, but he threw me out of the courthouse and told me to come back over here and wait to be on call for anything that he needs me for.”

“Who, and what’s going on?”

Ema throws a Snackoo at him. “Mr. Edgeworth,” she says, “is prosecuting a retrial of Blackquill’s case, at the demand of the Space Center hostage-taker.”

There are so many moving parts to that sentence that Klavier can’t exactly follow. “What does the Space Center have to do with—”

“I don’t know.” She chucks another snack at him. “I’m just telling you what I do know, which is that.”

“But if Prosecutor Edgeworth is prosecuting, then that would mean that he’s trying to prove Prosecutor Blackquill guilty, even after — even after all the time he’s spent letting him prosecute and all.” Sebastian frowns. “Unless they found a new suspect?”

Ema flicks a Snackoo into his face. “I said, I don’t know.” She scowls at the bag, which evidently is empty, and she crumpled it and flings it in Klavier’s direction. “I got out of a trial and there’s this commotion over in the Courtroom Four ruins, because that’s where they’re holding this shitshow, and this is what I learned before Edgeworth found me trying to sneak in.”

So that’s what pulling a Faraday means. He could have guessed as much. “And he asks me to be on call for anything he needs analyzed, except he still doesn’t tell me what’s happening with the case.” Ema starts to make the motion of reaching into a snack bag, only to realize that she doesn’t have one. “And that’s where we’re at,” she says, her arm dropping dejectedly over the side of the chair.

Again, he remembers this — sitting in Sebastian’s office listening to the live news coverage on his computer and simply waiting for any information. Sometime around 4:30 the report arrives that the police and the Chief Prosecutor have secured release of the hostages and have the culprit in custody. Ema arrives back in the room after wandering the halls searching for a vending machine, cursing prosecutors in general for not facilitating her stress-eating. Sometime after five, the door crashes open, hits the wall with a loud bang, and swings closed.

“That was unfortunate,” Kay says, pushing the door back open.

“What are you doing here?” Ema asks.

“Waiting for instruction,” she replies, blinking curiously at Ema, like she expected to have some Snackoos to steal and is utterly baffled as to the sudden lack thereof. “Just got off from the Space Center situation.”

“You were down there?” Klavier asks.

Kay gently pushes Ema’s legs off of the arm of the chair and sits down on it. “Yeah, me and Little Thief” — she pats the pouch on her belt where she keeps the device — “got called to help find another way in to the Space Center and do some sweet hack job to shut down the robots, but Mr. Edgeworth lawyered the way out of the situation before I had to pull off that heist.”

“Is the trial still going?” Sebastian asks.

Kay shrugs. “Dunno. Probably.” She stares at the floor for a long time before she adds, “The hostage-taker was his sister. Prosecutor Blackquill’s, I mean. She was a roboticist at the Space Center and she didn’t believe the verdict from seven years ago so she — she…”

“Was going to throw other people’s lives away?” Ema demands. “A dozen people she would’ve sacrificed for one? Even — even for the truth, no! If it was just her own life she was going to throw away for him, fine!” She sits upright now, but as Klavier watches, she sinks back into a slump, placing her face in her hands. “No. Still not fine.”

“And what if the truth still isn’t what she wants to hear?” Klavier asks.

What a strange thing, to believe so staunchly in her brother’s innocence.

Kay’s phone rings and she jumps like she didn’t expect it and unbalanced she falls off the armchair. “Yo!” she says, answering the phone while lying on the floor. “At the Prosecutors Office — yeah.” She scrambles up onto her feet, knocking her head against the arm of the chair, appearing entirely unfazed by such. “Really?” The way her eyes sparkle with delight is almost frightening. “Wait, really, you — okay, okay, yeah, I can do that. Where in your office? I checked the shelves like a week ago but they weren’t where they — I mean, no, I totally wasn’t in there again.” The grin leaves her face and is replaced by fierce concentration. “Okay. That won’t be a problem, not for a Great Thief like me! — I’m with her right now, actually. Want me to just hand the phone to her?”

She takes the phone away from her ear and hands it to Ema. “Chief Prosecutor wants to talk to you.”

Edgeworth? What does Edgeworth want from them? Is the trial over? “Hello?” Ema asks, frowning. “Yes, of course, why?” Her frown deepens. “Okay. I’ll call you when I’m there, if you aren’t already. Bye.”

“What’s Prosecutor Edgeworth want?” Sebastian asks.

“Trial is on a recess and Blackquill’s taking the bench after,” Kay says. “Chief wants the UR-1 files out of his office, and meet him over at Criminal Affairs, and something from Ema.”

“Go to Criminal Affairs, instructions to follow,” Ema says. “Who’s driving? I’m not waiting for you, Kay.”

Kay pouts. “Well, Sebby can take you, and I’ll go with the files and Klav—”

The beginning of a problem is forming in front of Klavier, along with another tension headache. “I rode my bike in today, Fraülein. Not the best for carrying objects of dire importance.”

“Gavin, you’re fucking useless,” Ema snaps. “I’ll wait. Fine. Go, Kay.”

“I’ve gotta crack the lock on his office and his desk,” Kay says. “You’re not going to want to — or okay I guess you might rather than—”

Ema pinches the bridge of her nose and closes her eyes, spinning in place. “Fuck. Fuck it. Gavin, do you have an extra helmet?”

His headache isn’t going away but this is not where he expected this to go. “I — yes, in my office—”

“Then fuckin’ get it and I’ll meet you in the garage.” Ema throws her hands in the air. “Dying in a motorcycle wreck in rush hour was not my life plan but fuck it, I passed the forensics test, dream fulfilled. Mr. Edgeworth needs my help so let’s fucking go die.”

She bolts from the room before giving Klavier time to absorb any of what she has said beyond rush hour and dying, which would both be slight obstacles in the plan of getting to Criminal Affairs in time. Can he get a police siren for his personal motorcycle? Of everyone he imagined that he would ever actually give a ride on his bike to, Ema wasn’t even on the list.

She is glaring daggers at his bike when he arrives with a helmet for her, but asking her if she is sure gets the helmet snatched out of his hands and the glare turned to him. Neither of them say anything more and Klavier speeds from the garage making the mental calculus of how reckless he can be with a passenger, someone else’s life in his hands instead of just his own, and though he doesn’t weave his way through traffic like he could were he an idiot, he suspects that he’ll have bruises around his ribs from Ema’s deathly forceful embrace.

A few blocks around Criminal Affairs are blocked off with barricades and police cars but Klavier sidles in and swings around the front of the building to drop Ema off. She springs off like she was sitting in lava and rushes up the front steps, and Klavier looks for a place to park and to negotiate his presence with the officers. He flashes his badge and drops both his own name and Edgeworth’s a few times before he is allowed to go, and inside he has already lost Ema. He has to ask the few detectives left in the building — most are currently scattered between the courthouse and the Space Center — where she went. He finds her in the lab on her cell phone, queueing up a fingerprint analysis but confusedly staring at the screen. “That — I’ll do it, but can you explain to me why?” Next to the keyboard is a bag of Snackoos and Klavier is almost impressed with how she has managed to acquire a snack in such a short time. “Okay. I understand. I’ll call you when she gets here, if you aren’t already.”

“What are we doing?” Klavier asks, trying and failing to catch the Snackoo lobbed at him.

“The chief prosecutor wants me to run a check on fingerprints for every still-unidentified victim from the past two years.”

“Against what?” Klavier asks, because he might not pay much attention to those little aspects of an investigation, but he’s pretty sure that a fingerprint for comparison is needed.

Ema pauses with her hands over the keyboard, frowning even more than before. “Against Fulbright’s,” she answers.

“That doesn’t make any sense, Fraülein.”

“Shut up, fuck you, I know that! Edgeworth says he has an explanation when he gets here.” She grabs something smaller, tablet-sized, off the table and swings it into his chest. He’s going to be bruised in the morning and not in the fun way. “You want to make smart remarks about fingerprints, here.”

It must be the instrument she uses to compare fingerprints (which was not within her investigative scope but he has fought and lost that battle before) but — “I don’t know how this works.”

She snatches it back out of his hands muttering something that sounds suspiciously like “glimmerous fop”, and she jerks her thumb at the screen which is now, slower than he expected, running the fingerprint analysis. “This thing is going oldest cases first, so I’m loading this one up newest first, and you can run it backwards and meet in the middle.” She shoves the machine at him again. “Just hit the button to go to the next one.”

It seems possibly the most mind-numbing task on the planet, but he accepts it, because when Edgeworth arrives, Klavier knows which of the two of them here is his favored employee. “So we are looking for a dead man with fingerprints identical to Fulbright’s, ja?”

Which doesn’t make any sense.

“Nobody has identical fingerprints,” Ema says, again leveling on him a glare containing all of the disgust she can muster. “We’re looking for Fulbright, period.”

“I saw him two weeks ago,” Klavier says. “Why is Herr Chief having us look back two years?”

“I saw him today, and I told you I don’t fucking know.”

The analysis comes up with another failed match and Klavier hits the button and thinks that a good interrogation technique would be to leave the suspect with this or the choice to talk. Ema sits on the table and starts angrily munching snacks. Time seems to go on forever, the two of them in the lab with nothing but fingerprint data for company. In the quiet, Klavier can hear when there is finally a clattering of footsteps down the stairs, long before they arrive with a cacophony of voices.

“—name is Ponco! Ponco! And I can move on my own, thank you very much!”

“Well, sorry, pal, but it seemed quicker this way than bouncin’ you down the stairs.”

Kay is the first through the door, skidding to an abrupt halt when she stops herself by grabbing onto the edge of the door to hold it open for Detective Gumshoe, carrying what appears to be a robot, which is squealing indignantly in its mechanical voice. Edgeworth and Sebastian trail them, Sebastian carrying two binders and an assortment of manila folders.

“Why are we running Herr Fulbright’s fingerprints?” Klavier asks at the same time Ema asks, “Why are you manhandling a robot?”

“Quicker than waiting for the elevator,” Gumshoe says, depositing the robot on its stubby legs. “Sorry ‘bout that, pal,” he says to it, patting it apologetically on its orange head.

“That is not my name!” it shrieks. “I am Ponco! Say it with me!”

“Yes, yes, Ponco,” Kay interrupts, hopping into its line of sight and patting it on his head as well. “Gummy and Mr. Edgeworth aren’t so good with names, okay?”

“Hey!” Gumshoe says.

“The robot?” Ema repeats. Sebastian already has the files open and is so absorbed in their pages enough that he nearly misses the table that he tries to sit on. “Anyone going to answer?”

“She contains a facial recognition database from all visitors to the Space Center,” Edgeworth answers, sounding very irritable and raising his voice to be heard over Kay who is chatting amicably with the robot. “I want to get from her information about all of the first responders to the murder at the Space Center seven years ago.”

“There was a murder there back then, as well?” Klavier asks.

Edgeworth fixes him with a piercing stare that Klavier can barely hold his ground against. “That is the crime for which Prosecutor Blackquill was convicted,” he answers.

“Oh,” Klavier says, very softly.

“Ms. Ponco is ready to help!” Kay says, springing back onto her feet from where she had crouched in front of the robot. “Not sure what you’re looking for, so your turn.” She drops her voice, but barely, so that it is more of a stage whisper, and says to Gumshoe, “I think calling her ‘pal’ upsets her.”

“Er, sorry, pal.”

“And the fingerprints?” Klavier asks, as Kay’s eyes turn to the screen and she asks, “Why are we searching Fulbright’s prints?”

Edgeworth stops on his way over to the orange robot. Gumshoe, bent over to examine it, looks up. “Is this like a Shih-na situation?” Kay asks.

“That is… about as close a precedent as we have for this situation, I believe,” Edgeworth says.

“A what?” Klavier asks. “What is going on, Fraülein?”

“Blackquill’s not guilty,” Kay says. “And I don’t know what Fulbright’s got to do with it but Blackquill and they” — she points to Edgeworth and Gumshoe — “have a trail on the real killer from Blackquill’s case seven years ago, and at the Space Center this week, and the bombings, and everything.”

That doesn’t answer anything but Klavier focuses on the first words that Kay said. “Blackquill isn’t guilty?”

Kay shakes her head forcefully, her hair flying.

“Then why would he claim he was if this — repeat criminal, was responsible?”

“Prosecutor Blackquill calls him a phantom,” Gumshoe says. “A real big spy trying to sabotage the Space Center back then and now, and Prosecutor Blackquill knew he was around back then, but he didn’t know it was the phantom who did the killing of the poor victim. He thought it was one of his pals who killed her, thought it was some mistake, no evidence of the phantom, so he let us convict him to protect his pal.”

This still leaves questions, so many questions, and too much to process while the fingerprint scan is still running up on the screen, hostages not long freed from the Space Center, that Klavier doesn’t even know what to ask. A spy? A murder at the Space Center — how, so many months ago when he read articles about Blackquill’s arrest, surrounded by celebratory articles of the Space Center rocket launch, did he never read about it? Who was Blackquill lying to save?

What the hell happened?

Ema closes her eyes and lets her breath out in a hiss. “Fucking stupid,” she snarls. “He was going to die to cover for someone who didn’t need covering for! If he’d just dug one layer deeper into it — he was a prosecutor! You’d think someone used to investigating would — I don’t know — assess the evidence instead of getting stupid for love and accidentally covering for the crimes of a monster?”

“Detective Skye,” Edgeworth says softly. She doesn’t look at him.

“Prosecutor Edgeworth!” Sebastian calls, waving a file at him. “I looked over everything, and Fulbright was not one of any of the detectives who were anywhere on scene during the incident, first responder or later investigator.”

Edgeworth nods curtly. “That’s exactly what I am seeing from this little robot here.”

“Ponco!” it yells. “My name is Ponco!”

“So what does Fulbright have to do with this?” Ema asks.

“Know why Prosecutor Blackquill calls him a ‘phantom’, pal?” Gumshoe asks.

“Because that is just how Herr Blackquill talks?”

“Nah, but y’know you remind me, the couple times I talked to him—”

“Detective,” Edgeworth says firmly.

“It’s ‘cause of him being a master of disguise,” Gumshoe says. “Got all fancy gadgets, but the worst part of him, reason why we’ve been chasing him for over seven years to no end, is he can turn into anyone. S’why we never found him, but let me tell you, pal. This time, he’s not gonna get away.”

They wait, watching the fingerprints scan, and the sky sinks into inky blackness outside the window. Klavier is relieved from his personal hell of fingerprint comparisons when Edgeworth gets a call from a court bailiff that Blackquill and Wright — of course Wright is involved in this — want prints from the Space Center murder case rerun. Gumshoe calls down an officer to deliver the results over to the courthouse and Kay tries to volunteer, for the sake of finding out what is going on with the trial, and is denied.

He is mulling over the mystery of Blackquill’s past behavior with the new information that is still not enough —there has never been enough to explain the man to Klavier in all the time he has known him — when the computer dings and the words match found flash across the screen, and everyone’s eyes turn to it. “Fulbright’s prints match to the victim in a cold case from last December,” Ema reads off, tapping a few keys and pulling up further details. “The fourth, body washed up on some rocks out of the Eagle River—”

“No,” Kay says, lunging forward and nearly pushing Ema out of the way to look at the screen. “Oh no no no no, that can’t be right! There’s some mistake, Emmy, you screwed something up—”

“Excuse me?”

“I worked that case!” Kay shouts, jabbing a finger at the screen and the photograph of the body, bruised bloody face and a bullet hole between the eyes. “I was one of two detectives to first respond, and that can’t be Fulbright dead there! Because Fulbright was with me! How can Fulbright be dead when he was right there next to me the whole case!”

Klavier’s mouth has gone dry.

“And we’d worked one two weeks before that!” Kay continues, and she has turned her fury from Ema to Edgeworth. “Together! And he was — he was the same, those first cases, and when we were at the river, responding to that one, he was—” One of her hands is clutching her scarf beneath her chin; the other is gathered in her hair like she wants to rip it out. “He was the same!”

“No,” Edgeworth says. “He wasn’t.”

“That’s what we mean by phantom, pal,” Gumshoe says. “Right under our noses.”

“Your phantom didn’t even burn off Fulbright’s fingerprints before he dumped the body?” Klavier asks. “Destroyed his face but not — and you — you didn’t even check the prints! If you had run a comparison you could have easily—”

“There’s a high probability that the wounds to the detective’s face were post-mortem injuries caused not by the phantom, but the river rapids and its rocks,” Edgeworth says tersely. “So depending on where their confrontation took place, the phantom might not have even had a chance to get to Fulbright’s body at all — not that he could have expected the body to ever be found. So few are ever recovered from those rapids; the phantom could not have chosen a better location to get rid of the evidence. The odds of the fingerprints coming back to haunt him were very low—”

But Edgeworth has avoided a key part of what Klavier said. “But they have, and would’ve much sooner had you bothered to—”

“Hey! Watch it, pal!” Gumshoe interrupts, rounding on Klavier, seething, shoulders hunched. “Prosecutor Edgeworth always does the best of anyone I’ve ever worked with! You wouldn’t have done any better yourself, pal!”

“Detective Skye, can you print these results, please?” Edgeworth says, like Klavier isn’t there, isn’t worth personally acknowledging.

“He was right there!” Klavier yells. “The whole time! The man responsible for this was right next to Blackquill, the entire time, and you—”

Edgeworth turns from the screen, slowly, one hand extended and still waiting for the print-out. “And how would you,” he says, voice low and dangerous, “have thought to compare a corpse’s fingerprints to those of a man very much alive right in front of you?”

“I would have taken more care with the detective I chose to hold Blackquill’s leash! The — you gave control of a shock collar to this phantom — we’re lucky Blackquill isn’t dead! Because you — you—”

Ema places the paper in his hand and Edgeworth folds it with very careful, deliberate movements, while his eyes never leave Klavier’s face. “For what reason would you ever run the fingerprints of a John Doe against the database of living detectives in our employ? How would you have foreseen that, Gavin? How would you have put together pieces that simply weren’t there? You berate me with the benefit of hindsight when you couldn’t even see that right in front of you your own brother was corrupt and a murderer!”

It never hurts less, never feels less like a hard kick to the gut, winding him, and not even Kay’s gasp, almost scolding, “Mr. Edgeworth!” like she thinks he has gone too far, helps put the air back into his lungs. Edgeworth rubs a hand over his eyes, his teeth gritted together, and he turns his head away from Klavier.

“We gotta get going, sir,” Gumshoe says to Edgeworth. “Who knows what they’ve got up to while you’re gone?”

“Call in more backup,” Edgeworth says, and they start for the door. “We need to close every possible avenue of escape in case the phantom tries to run, or his employers attempt an extraction.”

“Hey,” Kay says. “I’m here. That’s my job. Little Thief can help, too.”

“No,” Edgeworth says. “Detective Faraday, you will stay here with your three compatriots.”

“Hey!” She is indignant now. “It’s my job I’m trained to do, and I’m not a child anymore, Mr. Edgeworth! You can’t try to protect me, not after everything I did with you even when I was a kid!”

“Kay,” Edgeworth says firmly. “We have the entire courthouse locked down, but even then, I will count nothing out when it comes to this criminal, and I readily anticipate the worst. Should something happen to me, to Detective Gumshoe, to all of us — you are someone I trust to take up the mantle of putting this to an end. You all are, all four of you, which is why I expect you to look over those case files now that we know the truth” — he gestures at the screen, the damning fingerprints still displayed — “and to stay out of the way and stay safe should something go direly wrong.”

He turns on his heel and sweeps from the room, Gumshoe trailing right behind him. Kay remains standing stock-still in the center of the room, staring at the doors, and it is Klavier who finally breaks the pall of silence that settled over them. “All… four of us?”

“Yes,” Sebastian says, and that is all he says.

“I’m gonna go grab a radio,” Kay says. She returns after a few minutes, dropping another bag of Snackoos in Ema’s lap, with a small radio in her hands that is humming with static until she manages to tune it to the right frequency. The chatter from the courthouse is quiet, announcing Edgeworth’s arrival after about twenty minutes, where he heads straight into the courtroom to presumably announce the fingerprinting results. All on edge, they wait; Klavier expects an explosion, gunfire, something horrible, something dire, but the minutes crawl by and by with none of that. Ema leaves her seat to go poke and prod at the robot, which loudly complains about the treatment, and Kay moves to intervene in the growing conflict. Sebastian is still absorbed in the UR-1 files and Klavier paces circles around the room.

Ema is called by one of the detectives at the courthouse to test some evidence from the courtroom bombing earlier in the week; conversation over the radio heralds the arrival of another detective with a blood sample to be compared to the one Ema found. As soon as the results and the evidence, fragments of a rock, are sent out, the liveliness fades from her and she sinks back into her chair. Kay has begun pacing now too. There is nothing to do but wait, and wait, and over the radio there is a conversation about finding someone who can run specialized testing of mineral composition, a suggestion of getting back to the Space Center, and then there is a loud noise that Klavier prays is a car backfiring or even another part of the badly damaged courtroom collapsing in on itself, anything but—

“Shot fired! Shots fired!”

Kay lunges to the radio and turns it up too loud, loud enough to hurt, loud enough that Sebastian claps his hands over his ears, but nothing coming through is anything useful, any answers about who, what, more than that someone was shot — someone might be dying—

Klavier is on his feet, heading for the door, not sure what he’s going to do, how he could even help, and Sebastian and Kay and Ema are all loudly arguing about those same questions over the frenetic energy of the radio. But Klavier leaves them behind, up the stairs and out the door back into the chilled December night air. The roads are so much emptier now, and easier to traverse, the traffic lights all lit up only green. It takes him fifteen minutes to speed to the courthouse, and another five arguing with the officers closing off the scene about whether the danger is passed, whether they can let him through. It’s only when he takes his helmet off and hangs it on the handlebars that he left the one he gave Ema back in the lab.

The streetlamps along the sidewalk in front of the courthouse cast a cold illumination around two figures sitting on the steps; he recognizes them both, bright red, and a powder blue top hat. “Herr Forehead!” he calls, and Apollo jumps, jostling Trucy, who was resting her head on his shoulder. “Fraülein!”

“P — Prosecutor Gavin?” Apollo asks. His eyes are wide and hooked over his arm is an unfamiliar, dark blue jacket. “What are you doing here—”

“Are you both all right? Is anyone hurt? Is everyone alive? What happened?” He takes a deep breath and tries to choke down the rising panic. Neither of them look good — exhausted, upset, obvious even through the smile that Trucy turns to him — but if someone was dead he thinks they would look worse. “There were gunshots—”

“Just one,” Apollo says tiredly. Trucy’s head droops back down and her hat slips from her head into her lap. “Whoever the phantom’s employers were had a sniper try to silence him.”

Klavier leans against the railing to stop himself from sinking down to the ground. “The phantom.” Apollo nods. “The man pretending to be Herr Fulbright.” Apollo nods again. “And everyone else—”

“We’re fine,” Apollo says. “We’re all fine.”

It’s over, then.

“How are you feeling?” Klavier asks.

Apollo looks away, down at his hands. His arms aren’t wrapped in bandages anymore but still look red and raw. “Terrible,” he admits quietly, too quietly for comfort, “but I’ve still been worse.”

“Sometimes that is all you can ask for, ja?”

“What are you doing here?” Trucy asks. “Shouldn’t you be…” She pauses, pouting as she thinks. “Not here?”

“I was down at Criminal Affairs. We were listening to the police radio and heard them speaking of gunshots and—”

“And you decided you’d run right into what could’ve been a shootout,” Apollo says, and his voice is at a more typical volume for him, sounding stronger than before.

“I… Ja, I did.”

It had seemed natural then, because almost everyone in the world he cares about, besides three bandmates and his dog, all of whom thankfully stay out of the trouble that defines the lives of the rest, was either with him in the lab or here at the courthouse. What was there to do but rush in?

Even Apollo’s exasperated sighs are loud.

At the top of the steps, the courthouse doors open, Wright and Edgeworth deep in conversation and trailed by a young woman wearing a pink sweater and a robe-like dress. Wright stops abruptly in the middle of a sentence, looking down at Klavier and Apollo and Trucy. “My number of kids seemed to have multiplied,” he says loudly, and he bounds down a few more steps, leaving Edgeworth behind. “Hello, Klavier.”

“Guten Abend, Herr Wright.”

“Gavin,” Edgeworth says with a sigh audible all the way at the bottom of the stairs, “did I not tell you—”

“—To remain in the lab? Ja, and then Fraülein Faraday wanted to listen in over the radio frequency, and we heard gunshots—”

“And so you ran toward the gunfire?” Wright asks, a faint amused smile forming on his face, and Edgeworth’s frown deepens.

“Herr Forehead already gave me a lecture on the wisdom of that.”

Wright laughs, and laughs louder when Edgeworth says something quietly to him. After a short exchange between the two, Edgeworth’s glare settles again on Klavier. “Should I expect the rest of your entourage to be arriving shortly?”

His entourage? Klavier opens his mouth to respond, or maybe protest that specific way of referring to them, but the screeching of tires is a better answer than he could give. He glances over toward the parking lot, where Sebastian’s silver car takes a second corner too fast and hops up over a curb. “And it looks like Kay extorted the keys, at that,” Edgeworth says, shaking his head. He says something else, and Wright replies, but Klavier misses whatever exchange they are having as movement up at the courthouse doors again catches his eye. The bright yellow popping out of the gloom heralds Cykes, and next to her, fading into the heavy shadows that the streetlights leave—

Klavier pushes himself off the railing and weaves his way between the others up to face the ghost. He takes one step down to meet Klavier, and the movement is made with an unnatural emptiness, his every motion no longer accompanied by the clatter of chains. Even in the dark, Cykes’ eyes are visibly bloodshot and her face blotchy, but her grin doesn’t seem forced and there is something of a spring in her movements as she hops down to again stand next to Blackquill. “Guten Abend, Prosecutor Gavin!” she chirps. “Are you coming to Eldoon’s with us?”

“The — the noodle stand?”

Cykes nods. “It’s a Wright after-trial tradition, but with everyone tonight.”

He hears Kay, loudly introducing herself, and wonders if he will have to intercept her and stop her from bowling over Apollo. Trucy is chattering with a little more energy in her voice, saying something that Wright loudly tries to talk over, and then Klavier catches part of his name, “Prosecutor Gavin”, and he glances back down at the small crowd gathering, to find Trucy is already looking at him and she calls up, “You should join us! Your friends here are!”

“Simon’s coming too,” Cykes adds.

Simon?

“I suppose I will, then,” Klavier answers.

Cykes is beaming, and Blackquill is looking at her, and when he finally acknowledges Klavier he speaks with his chin raised but his head turned away. “Gavin-dono.” It is the closest to shame that Klavier has ever seen from him. “I shall not even pretend to be shocked to find you here.”

“Blackquill.” He thought he had spoken his last with the Twisted Samurai; he had thought he said everything he could. Now even having been given part of an answer, he still does not know what to say, how to process any of it. He manages to find three words: “What the hell?”

Blackquill laughs.

“What the hell happened?”

“It is a long story.”

“Seven years long?”

Blackquill nods. Cykes leans up against him, her shoulder pressed into his arm.

“Then perhaps you should now begin the telling, ja?”

“Tomorrow,” Blackquill says resolutely. Even in the dark, in the harsh shadows cast by the cold yellow lights, there is life evident sparkling in his eyes. “There will be time enough for the full story tomorrow.”

[fmdrem]

date: march 20th to april 27th, 2019 location: seoul, south korea ( dimensions’ dance practice area ) summary: the fantasy of jeon ahreum word count: 1339 words note: selfpara for points claim of @fmdcandy​‘s choreography for her track fantasy

it always started with a flow of a hand, gentle and fluttery in the air and echo of a dance practice room, with fingers caressing the side of his face or going down to chest and hip and barely collecting the trails of wrinkled fabric underneath fingertips.

it was a good way to start a choreography, a power move a dancer knew and knew well how to use in order to have all the eyes on them, good and bad and inbetween ; the body, he knew, was a weapon and a brush in an otherwordly balance few could really grasp and understand, it could cut and bruise just like it could write the most beautiful words or become canvas for one to paint on in horror and delight ━and in case of candy, the words that would came to him if having to associate her to dance would be sensual, confident, a living power fantasy.

it was counting from one to three more and more, weighing his breath like he’d weigh his leg  and keep his head high, proud and bold ━candy will have a wig on, moving the head was not exactly the best of the ideas when wearing anything above the scalp and not the kind of wig snatching they need and deserve━, staring directly at the imaginary cameras he’d envision as if wanting to tell with all his might that whoever was on the other side was going to end up being devoured.

                ( lust or love, couldn’t really tell ; both were dangerous in their own ways. )

“ you say the song’s about intimacy. ” his words a whisper because the dance practice room was big and even the bat of eyelashes would echo ━he imagined junsu’s hands trailing his hipline and that’s what he transfixed in moves, arms crossed down tracing the slight curve on each side, fingers twinging like when drawing out a scale at the piano. head tilting aside ━like when junsu bites and flicks his tongue on him, holding him so tight against his chest, legs balancing down in a small and quick dip. “ i think ━the sensuality should be there and we’re both pretty much on par to that, but it’s like. subtle. not that much of a punch that makes kbs and sbs ask for the banhammer, but even then, we’ll never know considering it’s sbs and kbs. ” half a spin, hands at the back, pulling imaginary zippers ━rinse and repeat, the steps for that part of the choreography being repeated just to control if it flowed, changing a little bit of the dip to have the leg trail and ease the rise, hands and balance working so far. “ i want small gestures to be the focus ━hands, and gazes. ”

candy’s chuckle vibrated in the air ━it made juju chirp from the sidelines. it was cute.

“ and there will be hula hoops. ” “ hula hoops? ” “ hula hoops. ”

a moment of stark silence, sharp and aching like the buzz of a television in static white lulling him to sleep ━it’s been happening a lot since the new apartment, it was at least a bit soothing. 

he smiled.

“ i am not even surprised anymore when it comes to you, candy-ah. ”

those were moments in which he thanked he was used to somehow direct and teach to more than a person how to do a choreography. he was glad he had decided to film the base of the individual choreo once he was done with candy herself, so that he could study how to make the whole thing harmonious with the back dancers.

and the hula hoops. 

he had thought about having them prominent in the first part of the choreo, which would require some changes, imagining a small little leg pace game with the hoop acting as prop and support for the balance ━sure, it required him storming to a nearby toy store to fetch said tool of the trade, but considering the little amount of attempts he needed to confirm his idea was very doable and very cute, the mad rush was worth it.

with the hoop still hanging uncomfortably on his neck he proceeded to send the filmed snippet of his idea to candy for the approval ━and judging by the amount of heart emojis she just sent him, she must have liked it a whole lot, which allowed him to get some rest before moving to the next issue to tangle ( he’s been good, he made a scheme for it so he won’t be crying mid journey. )

for that one he was somehow glad he got to meet the dancers and get them to know about the Hoop Situation ━which stifled some chuckles, expected considering he literally barged in with two stashes of hoola hoops while looking serious as hell━ before tackling his idea for the intro. he posed as candy for the whole ordeal ━kneeling at the front at the very first beats of the song, the hoops acting like a tunnel for a pretty graphic effect, a frame meant to be removed gradually, then guiding the girls in the leg game he had designed not even two or three nights before.

                               ( he’d question his abilities, but maybe another time. )

it was meant to be just like that, a cute little thing that added to the whole vibes of the song, a pathway for the subtle touches and the little games before tackling the more complex and constructed parts of the choreography. he still wanted for gestures to be the ones speaking, wich was clear by how he designed the way the dancers were meant to hold on candy and compliment her without overwhelming her  ━lines assembled and disassembled with few simple but pleasing moves, slight hip rolls and subtle leanings, with moments of isolation meant for candy to be alone before the return of the dancers and hands resting on shoulders.

he spent at least two hours looking at the work done so far and he felt the swell of relaxation already wanting him to flop somewhere for the next weeks because everything seemed to be going so smoothly. yes, it could work.

“ okay, one last time ! ” 

he was pretty sure candy was done listening to the song over and over ━but she chose hm and she knows he’s a perfectionist, and he wanted to be sure that everything was seamless and worked like it was supposed to.

yes, even if that meant repeating the choreo at least one hundred times.

for how he imagined the whole thing, with the hoops acting like frames rather than being just uncomfortable like unity’s segways ( he cried tears because of those, it really hurt to look at ), the small games of hands and legs and unfolding for the core of the choreography for the chorus to finally bloom ━hands up on an angle and fingers tracing, small little pecks of touch with pointer and middle finger on the arm, slow caresses meant to make everything elegant and confident━, he wanted the prop to be functional without being over the top, and he firmly believed it succeeded.

                      ( for once he didn’t feel like he was useless, an improvement )

it framed candy wonderfully, it was making him giddy and filling his heart with pride and eagerness because he knew this choreography was meant to shine on a stage just like the friend he made it for, with a big smile on heartshaped lips and shining eyes and even an adorable bounce ontop of his chair as the dance reached its end and gave him the perfect excuse to spring up and clap.

“ you all did good ━you all worked well. ” and of course, the biggest hug to the friend he cherished, because she’s been working hard and butting heads and the success of the song with a beautiful dance was what she deserved and needed.

[ebenvt]

Protein Functionality, the Bind Index and the Early History of Meat Extenders in America

Eben van Tonder 10 April 2020

Introduction

In the meat industry in most parts of the world, it is customary to use non-meat ingredients in meat products, especially in comminuted sausages and lunch loaves. I know that here in Southern Africa, the indigenous tribes have been using ground peanuts (and presumably other groundnuts) as meat extenders for millennia before any European settler arrived here.

I can only imagine that this must have been the case with primitive people around the world wherever there was a shortage of meat.

Who popularised this in the West is a question that intrigued me. Off the bat, as one can imagine, these non-meat ingredients were probably introduced in countries where food scarcity was common or in times when food shortages forced humans to “stretch” the little meat they could get their hands on, such as during times of war.  In this article we briefly introduce the functionality of meat protein and ask if we can identify such a movement with the inclusion of meat extenders or replacers to pure meat in America during one of the major wars they were involved in.  The two prime candidates must surely be the two world wars and especially the second when huge food shortages were experienced in America and around the world.

The Functionality of Meat Proteins

The first question is if meat protein on its own is not sufficient to bind comminuted meat in sausages and lunch loaves.  Can a stable emulsion be formed without the use of non-meat additives such as soya isolates and concentrates and the use of different stratches either as emulsifiers or stabilisers? This includes the use of bulking agents such as rusk, which is in reality a meat extender.  This is a level of detail that I was hoping to get into a bit later in a subsequent article, but it explains my point, namely that meat proteins on their own, they have the ability to bind meat extremely well, depending on the muscle and the animal species.

Generally speaking, you will see from what follows that beef meat protein in general provides the best bind and pork, less so due to the higher fat percentage which interferes in binding, especially in emulsions.

There is a major difference between the functionality of different muscle groups in pork and even between different animals.  The sausage producer is interested in how these different proteins bind.  We therefore present the concept of a “bind constant” (functionality coefficient) that was developed to measure this and a “least-cost formulation” (linear programming) computer program to manipulate the model and minimize cost.

The man who pioneered the large-scale use of these technologies is Robert L. Saffle, during his tenure at the University of Georgia.  He did not invent any of the techniques, but was the one man responsible for propagating its use.  He also standardized their use, documented their workability and educated and encouraged processors to use it.

He was very successful at this and largely due to his work,  meat processors throughout the world recognize the word “bind” as having the basic meaning of the capability of meat to bind the sausage together. The value is referred to as the “bind constant,” “bind value” or “bind index.”

Proximate Analysis and Functional Indices of Various Meat Materials

What follows is a compilation of all meats tested by Saffle and his co-workers, in particular John A. Carpenter at the University of Georgia.  It gives the proximate analyses and average measured bind/colour indices. I included the bind index values in the first column because I wanted to show them in descending order and I separated it for different species.

Compiled by J. Carpenter, R. Saffle, H. Ockerman, Anderson & Bell and slightly modified by myself.

When you look at pork, the highest bind value is from the shoulder muscle.   The blade is from the lower shoulder.

    Blade Bone source: https://www.turnerandgeorge.co.uk/pork-blade.html

History of Meat Binding

Labudde and Lanier (1955) put a date to the recognition of when differences in binding quality between different meat cuts were recognised when they say, “It was well recognized by the 1950s that certain kinds of meats bound the comminuted sausage more tightly together than other kinds of meats.”  I wonder what my friends in Germany would say about this statement.  I believe it was recognised probably hundreds of years before the 1950s.

They accurately report on early classification of meat binding ability. “Cuts of meat were classified into gross categories, such as good binders (bull meat, cow meat), poor binders (hearts, cheeks, fat meat) and fillers (lips, tripe, stomachs)” They are correct when they state that “sufficient lean meat of good “bind” was known to be needed to make the meat paste hold together during cooking and to develop a minimum acceptable level of firmness at the end.” (Labudde and Lanier,  1995)   This is my main thesis!  The question is how and when did this change?

Dr. Francois Mellett, who was trained in Germany (did his doctorate in German) and who trained German butchers in the Master program, tells me they don’t work with startches in sausage making in Germany. At least, not when he studied there.  Another German Master Butcher, Gero Lutge tells me that his dad, who was also a master butcher, used no extenders and that it is not very common in Germany.  It was actually these two comments that set me on this journey to unravel what is going on.  The German, and I assume, Central, North and East European traditions all concur on this point in stark contrast to the rest of the world where it became the norm to use stabilizers and emulsifiers (extenders) in sausage production.

The matter becomes wonderfully complex because it addresses matters like affordability and the quality of raw material, but what a journey!

There is a personal preference that creeps in here.  I am personally not thrilled with non-meat additives to the meat I eat.  Using meat replacers and additives is something I do as a meat producer, but I am not happy about it and I try, wherever possible, to rely on equipment and its proper handling together with a thorough understanding of meat to drive our innovations and not, in the first place, reach for the handbook of non-meat extenders and substitutes.  This is a grave mistake.

 This is another personal reason for this study.  I want to be very clear in my mind on what is the best way to use equipment to allow the meat itself to do the bulk of the work.

I am a severe asthma sufferer.  A specialist asked me one day if I religiously use the best medication to keep the condition under control to which I responded in the affirmative.  To my surprise, he was not happy with that answer.  Any chemical you put in your body, no matter how serious a condition you are trying to manage, is always a bad thing.  He encouraged me to continually try and develop an alternative, more natural way of managing the condition.  He even suggested that I try to reduce my reliance on medication.  He suggested that I should determine when I can control the symptoms without medication and when I can no longer do that and I must rely more heavily on medication.  Over the years, I have headed his advice to great benefit.

Most of the additives we are talking to in the meat are natural products themselves, which is why it is allowed, but the principle remains the same.

Before anything became “industrial”, it was first used in the home and meat and meat production is a prime example.

-> Home use of Binders

As every major industry we have today, it all started in the home.  The following Q & A appeared in an American newspaper in 1950.  Mrs GRH wrote in with a question about her meat loaf that is not sticking together.

Reference:  Courier Post (Camden, New Jersey), Thu, Aug, 17, 1950

The advice from the chef is that Mrs. Mrs GRH either did not use a binder or used too little of it. The binders they suggest she should have used are thick white sauce, bread crumbs with a liquid, cooked rice and/or mashed potatoes.  They suggested “good old fashion kneading.” Lean meat, 2 pounds, is suggested and add 4 tablespoons of flour, 1½ cups of milk and 1 cup of soft bread crumbs or mashed potatoes.  They suggest two kinds of ground meat for flavour (beef and pork).  As we have learned, beef added to the pork would also enhance the binding.  Dice and fry ¼ pound of mildly salted pork till it is crisp and light brown, and add it for flavour, as show-pieces and mouth feel. The celery, onions and other seasoning is cooked in the salt pork dropping to develop the flavour.

This “home-level-technology” of binders, how long has this been part of the human cultural and technological matrix?  One will have to survey its prevalence in cookbooks since the time of the writing of the first one. I had a look at references in the “First American Cookbook” published in 1796 by Amelia Simmons.

Several interesting things catch your eye as you work through this historical document.  For starters, there are no sausages.  Second, the use of binders is used widely, especially grated bread, butter and eggs.  In her stew pie she uses a shoulder of veal, slices of raw salted pork and half a pound of butter.  It’s not our focus here but note the common use of veal.  I find the same in German cookbooks of this time.  Her turkey stuffing calls for grated wheat loaf, butter, finely chopped salted pork and eggs.  For meatballs she uses veal, grated bread, salted pork.

-> Meat Binders for Industry (presumably for sausages)

The article below testifies to the use of binders in making hamburgers

Battle Creek Enquirer (Battle Creek, Michigan), Fri, Jan 30, 1948

I am not sure exactly what the advertisement above is saying.  Is the Ground Beef Chuck the binder?  In which case they are advertising the use of a cheaper meat cut (chuck) to use for hamburger patties, which is better than using other binders (non-meat).  Either way, it shows the “hot topic” during World War II when severe food shortages impacted the world at large, including America.  More about this later.  (I assume Binders is not the surname of the well-known meat processor of this time, R. Binder Co., because as far as I can see he always spelled his name, when used in this way, with an apostrophe “s”. It could have been a typing error when the newspaper did the typesetting 🙂 )

-> List of Newspaper References with the word “meat binder”

The Second World War was from 1939 to 1945.  Severe food shortages occurred during the war, but especially towards the end.

From 1946

Reference: Marysville Journal Tribune Mon, Aug 26, 1946.

To ease the shortage of bread, they recommended housewives to substitute bread with potatoes.  This includes potatoes as binder.

Reference:  The Record Thu, Jul 11, 1946

From 1944

Reference:  The Chillicothe Constitution Tribune, Thu, Dec 7, 1944

From 1943 (two months before the start of the War)

The term “Meat Extenders” was used synonymously with “Binder”.

Reference:  Chattanooga, Daily, Times, Fri, Jun 25, 1943

Pre-1943 references to Binders

Reference: Abbeville Progress, Sat, Feb 10, 1940

There are several pre-1943 references to meat binders, but all of them refer to butchers’ twine.  The one I give above is the least clear, but it is easy to see how the reference is not to binders as we are discussing here.

From 1974

By the 1970s, meat binders were being discussed as part of the American meat landscape.  The article below is a good case in point.

Reference:  Fort Worth Star Telegram, Thu, Aug, 22, 1974

The Crucial Year of 1943

The watershed year for the introduction of meat binders and extenders into the USA seems to have been 1943.  Here is an article from that year when a group of women belonged to the Matoy Home Demonstration Club.  These clubs (also known as homemaker clubs, home bureaus or home advisory groups) were a program of the U.S. Department of Agriculture’s Cooperative Extension Service, which had the goal of teaching farm women in rural America better methods for getting their work done.  This meeting, crucially during the war, was probably arranged to introduce ways to deal with wartime food shortages.

Reference:  Durant Weekly News (Durant, Oklahoma), Fri, Jul 23, 1943

Other clubs received training on meat substitutes and extenders during the same time.  Interesting – the fact that meat extenders and substitutes were used in the same sentence.

Reference:  Duran, Weekly News, Fri, Jul 23, 1943

They held yet another club where Miss Pearl Winterveld was doing the demonstrations during this time.

Reference:  Durant Weekly News, Fri, Jul 23, 1943

Another club where Miss Pearl was doing her magic reported on their training.

Reference:  Durant Weekly News, Fri, Jul_23, 1943

Another two clubs reported demonstrations for meat extenders and meat substitutes in the same publication.  This is remarkable!  The photo below, courtesy of the Cornell University Library – shows a meat canning demonstration at a meeting of the Akron Home Economics Club on December 19, 1916.

Meat canning demonstration at a meeting of the Akron Home Economics Club on December 19, 1916 from the Cornell University Library.

The Alexander City Outlook from Alabama reported in 1944 several demonstrations along the same line as listed above at Home Demonstration Clubs.  The Dadaville Record, also from Alabama, reported similarly on demonstrations of meat extenders and meat replacers in that same year at various club meetings.

By 1946 American soldiers started to return from Europe and clubs continued to spread the “gospel of meat extenders and meat replacers”.   In Alabama, the Wetumka Herald of 31 October 1846 reported along exactly the same as in 1943, 1944 and 1945 that demonstrations through the clubs were held at 6 locations.

What were these meat extenders and binders?

An article from 27 March 1943 gives us the detail of what was being demonstrated to the American housewife following that same year.

Reference:  The Salt Lake Tribune Sat, Mar 27, 1943

The author emphasises the fact that knowledge is required to use these meat extenders.  He mentions that meat extenders were, at the time of writing, already a household name in America.  Still, I suspect that it did not extend much further back then, the beginning of the war, and it could not have been generally true if one takes into account the enormous effort that it took to spread the gospel of meat extenders following 1943.

Anyone wondering if the meat extenders included some magical products such as was developed by Carl Lindegren with his wife Gertrude Lindegren and reported on by the same newspaper in August of the same year when he boldly claimed that through yeast cell technology, they were able to produce “synthetic meat” – if you are expecting this, you are mistaken.  The meat extenders that was introduced to America was exactly what we still use today.  The key was vegetable sources of protein which included legumes, nuts, cereals, vegetables, and wheat.  Soya was identified as having the highest protein value.  To the housewife this gave them the option to use dried beans and peas, cooked rice, macaroni and other cooked pastes, nuts and nut butters, fresh or canned peas, corn or lima beans, potatoes, wheat flours, bread and crackers.

If the housewife used extenders with incomplete proteins, it was widely suggested in several newspaper reports to add to the diet elements with essential amino acids.  They suggest that they add eggs and milk products to their diet (which are binders in their own right).

Reference:  The Morning News Wed, Feb 17, 1943

The drive for meat extenders was directly related to the food shortages as a result of the war.  Brands such as Kellog’s All Bran which is a household name to this day, were marketed as meat extenders.

Reference: Council Bluffs Nonpareil, Fri Mar 16, 1945

Summary

The evangelists of meat extenders and replacers in the USA, from 1943 onwards, were the US Department of Agriculture through their program of Home Demonstration Clubs.  It is then because of the war that meat extenders are commonplace in a large part of the world, including South Africa.  I remember a story told by a South African meat master in his own right, Roy Oliver, whose memories goes back to the 1960s, that academics from meat science institutes in the USA regularly visited South Africa and encouraged industry to use meat binders, extenders and emulsifiers on an industrial scale.  They would send him various starches and soya products to work with and call him weekly to check on his progress, particularly taking note of the inclusion of these various emulsifiers and stabilisers.  He had to test this in meat emulsions made in the bowl cutter.

This in and off itself is an important historical clue as I suspect that South Africa was easier to access for many of these academics from the USA because of our historical close relationship with one country in the region I suspect was initially responsible for using serials, grains etc. in meat emulsions, namely Russia.

This sets up the subject of our next article!

References

Foegeding, A. A.. 1988.  Gelation In Meat Batters.  Paper presented at a conference.

Labudde, R. A., Lanier, T..  1995.  Protein Functionality and Development. American Meat Science Association.

Simmons, A..  1796. The first American Cookbook. Dover Publications.  New York.

Abbeville Progress, Sat, Feb 10, 1940

Battle Creek Enquirer (Battle Creek, Michigan), Fri, Jan 30, 1948

The Chillicothe Constitution Tribune, Thu, Dec 7, 1944

Chattanooga, Daily, Times, Fri, Jun 25, 1943

Council Bluffs Nonpareil, Fri Mar 16, 1945

Courier Post (Camden, New Jersey), Thu, Aug, 17, 1950

Durant Weekly News (Durant, Oklahoma), Fri, Jul 23, 1943

Fort Worth Star Telegram, Thu, Aug, 22, 1974

Marysville Journal Tribune Mon, Aug 26, 1946.

The Morning News Wed, Feb 17, 1943

The Record Thu, Jul 11, 1946

The Salt Lake Tribune Sat, Mar 27, 1943

http://www.fao.org/3/x6556e/x6556e07.htm

Protein Functionality, the Bind Index and the Early History of Meat Extenders in America Protein Functionality, the Bind Index and the Early History of Meat Extenders in America Eben van Tonder…

[satireknight]

S01E01: Turtle Tracks Part 2 (Electric Boogaloo)

It was getting kinda long, so I’m splitting it.

The Turtles play hardball with April, confirming that they’ll keep her prisoner until they figure out a solution that doesn’t involve them being chased down and experimented on. That sounds a lot more menacing than it is, because this is what it looks like.

Kind of like people waiting for an important phone call.

Eventually Leonardo comes up with a solution: they find the ninja thieves, and she gets to report on it without dragging them into the limelight. It seems a little pointless considering how instantly recognizable they become later in the series, but for now...

And then we get Shredder, the main villain of the series, who apparently sits around in a chair in a high-tech room. He used to have a kitty he stroked, but those blades on his hands made it very messy. And like the series itself, he’s a lot more serious and menacing here than he would later become. He also somehow knows about the Turtles being... well, turtles. I’m not sure why the mystery since earlier we saw that HE saw them right after they trounced his gang.

“We’re not going to find anything here!” Well, you won’t if you keep fondling the wall instead of checking the floor. 

They find a matchbook for “Ninja Pizza,” which delights Michelangelo because it means they can get pizza. Which raises the question, if they’re so inexperienced in the outside world that all their knowledge of humans comes from TV, how the hell do they get pizza? Like, do they sneak it out of delivery cars? For that matter, how do they have any money?

After a crazy old bat aims a gun at them, April buys them trenchcoat-and-fedora disguises that will literally only fool the legally blind. They also manage to repeatedly do and say things that make them REALLY noticeable, like Leonardo taking “cut the cards” very literally, or asking questions about what “humans” do. 

April also has trouble telling them apart, repeatedly calling them by the wrong names. This always makes me chuckle, because when you think about all the animation errors in this series, it almost seems like self-parodying foreshadowing.

This is where the goofy takes over, with a whole district devoted to ninja businesses. This might seem like a plot point, but it’s really not. 

Does Shredder literally have cameras everywhere? He has them in the sewers, he has them in businesses on the street... does he literally just spend all day flipping through different camera feeds in hopes that he’ll see somebody he can harass for eight seasons?

April decides to do the one thing you’re never supposed to do if you’re in even a teensy bit of danger: she wanders off by herself, and immediately gets caught and kidnapped. What did you THINK was gonna happen, genius?

When the Turtles finally finish dinner, they find her wallet and press pass... no, I don’t know Leonardo can recognize her wallet on sight. Then they spot her purse on top of a building.... you know, the purse she didn’t have in any previous scene, and thus they couldn’t recognize. Oops.

To rescue her, they have to fight their way through a small army of ninjas, who fortunately turn out to be robots. I say “fortunately,” because I assume that children’s TV standards wouldn’t allow the heroes to beat the shit out of living human beings, no matter how much they deserved it. Same sort of problem in X-Men, if I remember correctly. 

And yes, in case you’re wondering, Shredder has MORE cameras on the rooftop. And he’s now no longer concerned about whether they’re turtles, which is obvious, but about whether Hamato Yoshi trained them. Well, since you guys appear to be the only Foot ninjas left in existence...

The good guys chase the robots to another building, thanks to Leonardo apparently having a sword made of adamantium...

... and a throwing arm that could make him rich in baseball.

You know, I’d be a little curious if I were Donatello. “Hey, a guy who looks like Darth Vader’s shinier cousin! Ooo, pretty monitor... I lust after high-grade electronics!”

Shredder further confuses me by yelling, “They ARE turtles! Hamato Yoshi’s turtles!” So... first, you didn’t recognize that in any of the many other times you got clear well-lit shots of them? And how did you know about Hamato Yoshi’s pet situation?

He also shoots himself in the foot by commenting that he can’t let them discover his “Technodrome”... and then announcing its existence on the loudspeaker literally ONE SECOND LATER, causing them to immediately want to find out what it is. I’m thinking that Shredder is very literally his own worst enemy... and his own worst spy.

So the robots flood the place, and April and the Turtles run up the stairs to the top of the building, which has literally filled up in a matter of seconds. They also somehow managed to grab the complete outfit of one of the robots... sometime during all this, because they show it to Splinter, who confirms that it’s the uniform of the Foot Clan.

“My old enemy, Oroku Saki, must be nearby!”

It stands to reason, since you two are apparently the only actual people left who were in that clan. Seriously, where did all the human beings go? Did Shredder kill ‘em all and replace them with robots? Or did he just leave the whole clan behind in Japan, and they’re busy doing whatever the fuck they’re doing half a world away?

So it ends on a pizza gag, and a to-be-continued note.

The Verdict

Yes, I ragged on this mercilessly, but I mock because I care. It comes from a place of mocking love rather than hate. THAT I reserve for the Mutant Apocalypse arc.

And really, this episode is a pretty good opener. The animation was almost uniformly solid and consistent, the story was pretty good, and while the characters haven’t been too fleshed out yet, their individual quirks and qualities are already apparent (Donatello’s lust for electronics, Raphael’s snark, Michelangelo being pizza-obsessed and not too serious, Leonardo being a little TOO serious).

Speaking of serious, it also has a more adult tone than the later seasons would often have, with fewer jokes and less goofiness from both villains and heroes alike. Shredder in particular acts like a real credible villain, even though he doesn’t really do much in this episode besides talk to himself and hack camera feeds. 

It also has a more uneasy feel to the alliance between April and the Turtles, with them being all too happy to hold her captive until they can confirm that she won’t expose them, and her willing to throw them under the bus for her story. Really, she was a bitch to them - they save her life, and she decides to ruin their lives because “you’re still news” even if they didn’t commit any crimes? Stone cold.

Anyway, this is only the first part of a five-episode arc, so there’s plenty left to cover.

GRADE: A-

[turntechgodoka]

Whoop, I guess it's April 13th and I already posted my new fic stuff on Sunday. I was hoping to get a couple one-shots done or something, but I've spent the last couple weeks helping a friend prep/recover from surgery and said friend is my primary brainstorming partner t'boot. It's surprisingly difficult to brainstorm with someone who just got out of surgery! I'm like, "yo, should I have John do this thing or that thing?" and they're like "zzzzzzzzzz snore snore just fifteen more hours of sleep first..."

Hmm, so. How about I share one of the relatively polished scenes I've got cooking for Constants & Variables Act 4? (PS: someone stop me from sub-titling this act "R.O.D.: Retcon Or Die." My beta reader is doing the opposite of discouraging this nonsense! Bad beta reader!) CW for violence and a small bit of blood.

* * *

Despite what Auto-Responder and Jake and probably everyone else who knew him assumed, Dirk didn't relish the opportunity to kick his glitchy descendant's ass. If he'd actually found that shit enjoyable, he wouldn't have been so hesitant to take the kid on as a protege.

He doubted anyone would actually believe it, but it was what it was: sending Daveglitch flying across the block was just fucking depressing, not satisfying.

"Stop jumping in on the easy openings, Glitch," Dirk said, lowering his katana without lowering the rest of his guard. "If it's obvious to you, it's sure as hell obvious to me and I'll see you coming five miles away."

Daveglitch climbed back to his feet, taking a deep breath as he steadied himself. "Got it." Under the glitch's influence, the kid was unstoppable, an opponent that even Dirk struggled to match. Without it, he crumbled before Dirk even broke a sweat.

"How exactly do you expect to help the lad by kicking his caboose time and again?" Jake called from the sidelines. He leaned back against the wall and kept his arms crossed as he watched the strifes.

"It's called the 'drop them in the deep end until they swim' method," Dirk said, sliding into an offensive stance and waiting for the perfect opportunity to spring.

All told, for as easy as it was to bat Daveglitch around on a counterattack, it was hard to get the drop on the kid the rest of the time. Daveglitch was faster than Dirk when he wanted to be and he had uncanny observational skills borne from glitch-lent senses.

Still, better to exhaust every angle while in a controlled setting than risk the kid discovering an otherwise unknown weakness while in the heat of a real life-or-death battle.

Dirk shot forward in a flashstep and Daveglitch responded in kind. Their swords clashed in a deafening blow, the echos drowned out by continued strikes. Daveglitch stabbed, Dirk blocked and slid in to land a kick, Daveglitch spun out of reach and slashed at Dirk's back, Dirk ducked and slashed at Daveglitch's legs, Daveglitch jumped over Dirk's blade... Dirk's main goal was to provide a new line of attack as often as possible, changing shit up to push Daveglitch's limits until repetition could take him off-guard again and then Dirk would push him hard the other direction until there were no more damn limits to push.

The main difference between the kid and the glitch's ability in a fight was confidence, and the relative lack thereof. Daveglitch hesitated. He faltered. He questioned himself. The glitch, when it acted alone, didn't have time for such emotional weaknesses, just like the Auto-Responder. Computers were fast. When built right, they had the capacity for perfection, at least when it came to executing tasks.

No organic lifeform could hope to match those levels, not even a kid who'd played host to a digital ghost.

Which was why Dirk didn't have room to go easy on the kid. If Daveglitch was going to survive an encounter with another version of that glitchy asshole from some doomed timeline, he had to be as close to fucking perfect as it got. With any luck, he wouldn't have to trash his flesh identity to do so.

Dirk caught Daveglitch's wrist and threw him into the wall. Daveglitch remained silent, but the wall made a pretty loud thud.

"Stop going for the predictable hits, Glitch," Dirk said, keeping his sword raised in case Daveglitch got a second wind right away.

"Dirk!" Jake snapped, stomping into the ring and over to check on Daveglitch. "That's too rough!"

Dirk shrugged, but he did lower his weapon. God, he didn't want to flip back to black with Jake, not on top of everything else going down. "He can take it."

Jake glared over his shoulder at him. "That doesn't mean he fucking should!" he said. He knelt to check on Daveglitch and caught his shoulder, gently rubbing it. "You okay, lad? You didn't hit your noggin, did you?" he said, his tone softening.

"I'm cool," Daveglitch said even as he winced. He struggled to climb back to his feet and Jake slipped an arm around his middle to help steady him. "This shit is exactly what I asked for. You don't need to go to bat for me."

"I'm sure you have a lot of moxie, but I think a breather is in order regardless. Don't you, Dirk?" Jake said, shooting Dirk a Look that communicated plain as day that he'd be sleeping alone for a perigee if he didn't relent.

Dirk held back a sigh as he put his katana away. "Yeah, take a break, Glitch. Save straining yourself for when you're in the field," he said, because even if he had to back down, he was at least going to shove in a reminder that Daveglitch's real opponents wouldn't go so easy on him.

Jake rolled his eyes. All those fucking sweeps and he finally grew a backbone. Dirk equally admired and hated him for it -- God knew Jake needed to learn to stand up for himself, but he could have chosen some better hills to die on.

Daveglitch hesitated, still gripping his sword. "I'm not down for the count yet."

"Now, now. Dirk's given the order, so just sit your tush down and take a well-earned break," Jake said, coaxing Daveglitch back to the floor. They sat crosslegged together, Jake ruffling his hair and talking about the newest movie he discovered from the humans' libraries while Daveglitch. The actual Dave would have interrupted a few times, but the glitched up version must have grown used to listening quietly for the five hundred sweeps he and Jake were both captives.

"How is it going?"

Dirk did not jump. That was a thing way too uncool for a Strider to partake in. His head may have turned a little faster than usual, but there was only so much even a dude as awesome as himself could do when some limeblooded pupa literally goddamn teleported next to him with no fucking warning.

Jade just smiled, giving no commentary on his less-than-stoic greeting.

He grunted. "Your matesprit's a slow learner," he said.

"Aww, I am sure he is trying his best! Maybe you could try new approaches?" She clapped her hands together. "Everybody learns best in different ways, you know!"

"Then he could have picked a different teacher instead of coming to me," Dirk said flatly.

TT2: What's wrong, Dirk? Can't adapt to challenging circumstances? TT: Shut up, AR. TT: "Teacher" isn't exactly on my business card. If he doesn't like my unprofessional teaching methods, he can find someone else who actually specializes in it. TT2: Oh, but you're all about manipulating people into doing what you want. TT2: Sorry, I mean manipulating them until they reach their top potential. (And do what you want.) TT: I'll uninstall you. TT2: Yeah, haven't heard that before. TT2: brb, cowering in fear of another empty threat.

Daveglitch's demeanor changed the instant he caught sight of Jade, his drooping indifference dropped in favor of perking up like a lost pupa who just spotted his first sign of home. He scrambled to his feet and hurried over to meet her, Jake following after more casually with a sly smile.

"Hi, TG!" Jade said with a smile so bright that it could probably cause blindness if stared at directly. "How's the training going?"

"Well, you know, we're getting shit done and learning all kinds of mad awesome skills here," Daveglitch said, catching her hands when she offered them to him. "Can I kiss you?" he murmured, almost out of earshot of Dirk.

Jade giggled. "Yeeees, silly," she said, hopping onto her toes and giving him a quick peck on the lips.

It was so fucking chaste compared to the PDAs that Dave partook in with his human matesprit. It was, if Dirk dared admit it, almost fucking cute in all its innocence.

Dirk caught Jake's hand and held it tightly. Jake gave Dirk a questioning look before squeezing back.

"I'm sorry," Dirk whispered.

"Let's skip that old song and dance today," Jake whispered back.

"So what have you guys been teaching TG anyway?" Jade asked, her eyes lit with curiosity.

Dirk cleared his throat. "We've been sparring."

"Dirk was, ah..." Jake said, stumbling on his words even as he spoke quickly. "Dirk was finding his feet with this whole teaching hullabaloo, but I'm sure he's getting the hang of it." He grinned up at Dirk and swung his arm. "Eh, old chap?"

Dirk nodded and averted his gaze. "We'll be slowing down for a while. Making sure the kid can keep up."

"I could keep up just fucking fine," Daveglitch grumbled with a foolish stubbornness Dirk related to, just a touch.

"Well, it's easier for lessons to sink into your sponge if you take them at a steady pace!" Jade said with a smile, leaning against Daveglitch's shoulder. "Can I train with you guys too?"

Daveglitch's eyes widened. "What, for real?"

"With the Striders?" Jake asked, just as surprised. "Jade, you don't use swordkind."

She shook her head. "Nooo, but I'm high enough level that I can diversify my specibus deck!" she said, holding up her deck. "It's a good idea to round out my skills with an option for close combat, right? Besides, it sounds like fun."

Dirk shrugged. "Doesn't hurt or even waste my time, seeing as I'm already training one of you either way," he said. Maybe he'd stay grounded better with her around. "Anyway, she's got a point. The art of sword fighting is a useful skill to possess, especially for an otherwise long-ranged specialist."

She beamed. "Thanks, Mr. Strider!"

He snorted. Jegus Crust, these kids were always finding new ways to surprise him with unnecessary formality. At least she wasn't calling him Mr. Signless anymore. "Dirk's still fine, Li'l Harley. Go pick a weapon and we'll get this show on the road."

"Okay, Dirk," she said. She beckoned to Daveglitch before running over to the assortment of swords Dirk had set up.

"Don't get too rough with my descendant, eh?" Jake said, shooting Dirk a smirk as Jade tested the weight of the swords and showed each one off to Daveglitch. Whatever she picked, Dirk would probably have to correct her later, but he'd let her make that mistake, for now.

"I wouldn't fucking dare." Dirk returned the smirk. "She'd probably shoot me again."

Jake lightly elbowed him in the ribs. "Don't even remind me of that. I think witnessing that took ten years off my lifespan, immortal or not."

"What, you mean you still care, Harley?" Dirk asked, leaning his shoulder against Jake's.

Jake's cheeks turned a light shade of green as he leaned back. "Yes, you big lug, I still give one or two shits about my closest bosom friend."

Dirk laughed, only half bothering to try hiding it. "You call me your what?"

"Oh, shut your trap, Strider," Jake said, but he was still grinning. "Your jabber has its own kooky jargon to it."

"Sorry my dope lingo is too kooky for you, dog."

Jake snorted and made to grab at Dirk's nose, as if he was quick enough to ever get the drop on Dirk. At least Jane had a chance in hell, since she knew to throw her (metaphorical) punches when Dirk was least expecting them, but here Jake wanted to rough house with full warning.

Dirk ducked under Jake's arm and slid in close to him so that their chests were practically pressed together, then he swept Jake's leg out from under him. He caught Jake under his back, but only after he'd fallen a couple of inches and his feet had gone splaying. Dirk smirked and pulled him into a kiss, not minding even an iota when Jake nipped at his lips.

Maybe vacillating a little pitched wasn't so bad.

"TG, don't stare!" Jade whispered.

Oh. Right. The audience.

Dirk made no hurry to break away or show any other sign of embarrassment. He let his mouth linger by Jake's ear long enough to murmur, "Stop by my block later," before he pulled Jake back onto his feet.

Jake pressed his knuckles to his mouth and cleared his throat, as if he could ward off the blush covering his face with a loud enough noise. "Yes. Well then," he said, firmly patting Dirk's shoulder. "I'll, uh. I'll just leave you to it, since you seem to have gotten the hang of it. I should... check on my moirail."

"Right on, bro," Dirk said as Jake scurried for the door. Was it the audience made up of their descendants that got to him, or that they were too flushed for that level of shameless PDA? Ah well. Dirk rested a hand on his hip. "You kids ready?"

Jade quickly stood at attention, a blush the same color as Jake's still resting on her cheeks. "Yes sir!" she said.

Dirk nodded. "Glitch, go wait for me to initiate another strife while I get Jade set up here."

"On it," Daveglitch said as he returned to the center of the block, though he glanced over his shoulder at them.

Dirk picked up one of the swords and passed it over to Jade. "This one," he said. "The one you picked is too long for you. Hey, don't sweat it," he added when she looked disappointed. "We all make rookie mistakes early on. You should have seen the first piece of shit I fought with. It's a small miracle it didn't snap under pressure."

She giggled. "That is hard to imagine!" she said, placing both of her hands around the sword hilt and holding it up.

"Oh, yeah, believe it or not, I was a noob once too, a couple thousand sweeps ago." He slid behind her and set his hands on her arms, guiding her to an ideal starting pose. "My posture was shit, my stance was sloppy, and I barely even understood what the word 'balance' fucking meant." He nudged her feet with the toe of his shoe until she got the idea and widened her stance. "I was, I dunno, two sweeps old?"

She broke into laughter. "Yooou are still pretty arrogant, you know!"

He smirked. "Oh, I am arrogant as shit, but at least I can make people laugh about it sometimes." He caught her hands and gently guided her fingers into a better grip. "Here, careful not to put too much strain on your wrists," he said.

Jade nodded, following along without any complaint. "It is true, Striders are pretty funny guys, even if you also take yourselves a little too seriously," she said, shooting him a wry smile. Once she had the right pose, she held it well, but he wouldn't have expected less from a highly skilled fighter whose greatest weakness was training in the wrong weaponry.

"Nah, we don't take ourselves seriously." He released his grip and stepped around to survey her from a distance. Daveglitch also watched their progress, though Dirk ignored him for the time being. They'd get back to work in a moment. "That's just an ironic act. We really don't give a shit about anything."

"I do not think I believe you," she said, her eyes following him even as she kept her stance. Yeah, given practice, she could unleash hell with that blade.

"My moirail doesn't either," Dirk said, stepping beside her and catching her beneath an arm. "I'm gonna show you some basic blocks and strikes now."

She let him guide her arms through a high block, a medium block, a low stab, and a medium slash, just for starters. None of them were particularly impressive moves or even anything remotely resembling the techniques he practiced in an actual fight, but they covered the body movement well enough for beginners.

"All right, try them out without my help," he said, though he didn't have much doubt that she'd do fine on her own. He watched her block once, twice, and begin her stab before he flashstepped away.

He shot behind Daveglitch and swung his katana, bringing it to an abrupt halt when its edge was half an inch from Daveglitch's neck. Only then did Daveglitch raise his weapon, but Dirk flung his arm around him and pinned Daveglitch's arm to his side.

"Too late," Dirk said, gripping Daveglitch's wrist as he rested his blade on Daveglitch's shoulder. "You can't let your guard down when you're in enemy territory, Glitch. If this were real, you'd be dead now." Dirk lowered his voice and murmured directly into Daveglitch's ear, "Tuck that away deep in your think pan and learn from it, because you got a lot of people who want to see you come home safe." He released his hold on Daveglitch and pulled his sword away.

Daveglitch stumbled forward and spun on Dirk, his sword at the ready though his eyes were still wide from the shock.

"You ready for this again, kid?" Dirk asked, lowering into a defensive stance.

Daveglitch caught his breath, keeping his gaze locked on Dirk and his katana. "Hella ready, bro," he said.

Dirk nodded. "Keep practicing those moves, Li'l Harley," he called to Jade, both to assure her that she hadn't been forgotten and to remind her not to waste time gawking at their strife. "I'll give you some new ones so you can change it up in a bit, but you want this stuff wired into your muscle memory until they come to you as easily as walking."

"Will do!" she called. He'd have liked to have turned his head long enough to make sure the event hadn't startled her out of her perfect technique, but what kind of role model would he be for Daveglitch if he let his guard down for even a second?

Daveglitch inched to the side, always facing Dirk and keeping his sword raised. He took a deep breath and closed his eyes.

God dammit. Dirk had wanted to start going easy on the brat, but how the hell could he overlook a mistake that blatant? It wouldn't do anyone any good to let Daveglitch get away with that. Dirk charged, ready to hold his blade back at the last inch again.

Daveglitch's eyes snapped open and he blocked Dirk's attack with a shockingly sudden twist of the arm. He'd wiped the surprise and uncertainty from his expression, replacing it with a perfect poker face that might as well have been a mask for as little as it allowed even a wince.

Dirk smirked. That was more like it. He weaved away from Daveglitch's counterattack, slipping in to try a new strike. It was only a little frustrating that Daveglitch blocked it again, compared to the satisfaction that the kid was actually learning a thing or two.

They traded blows back and forth, remaining in a near constant state of flashstepping in order to keep up with each other. Daveglitch wasn't having much luck at driving Dirk back, but he wasn't letting his guard down. Dirk would have been happy to call the lesson accomplished with only that, until Daveglitch made for another way too obvious attack.

Dirk adjusted his weapon. In a real battle, he could have sliced Daveglitch in two for such a reckless strike, but as it was, he'd just shove him with an elbow and follow it with another goddamn lecture that was getting too repetitive.

It was a feint. Daveglitch ducked sideways, holding his sword with his non-dominant hand, and struck on Dirk's freshly unprotected opposite side. A sharp pain shot up Dirk's side and he clenched his teeth to prevent crying out as he felt blood leak down his skin and stain his shirt. It wasn't deep, but even papercuts could smart like a motherfucker.

Daveglitch's poker face crashed, replaced by a startled grimace. "Fuck!" he said, yanking his sword away from Dirk. The edge of it dripped in bright red blood.

Jade dropped her sword and hurried over, her eyes wide with concern. "Are you okay?"

Dirk waved her off. "I'm cool. It's just a surface cut." He lifted his hand to show off the wound. It was a fair amount of blood trickling down his shirt, but he'd had worse. "I'll have Jane look at it later."

Daveglitch shuffled back. "S-sorry," he said. "I didn't mean to hurt you and shit. Again. Fuck."

"Nah, don't apologize that I failed to stop you." Dirk raised his fist and Daveglitch started back, ready to go on the defense again, before he recognized it wasn't another strife initiation. They bumped fists and Dirk nodded. "You did good work tonight, Glitch."

[famedubaitravl]

Clive Eksteen to charge CSA with unfair dismissal

TROUBLE FOR CSA

Former South Africa left-arm spinner, Eksteen, said he would bring a case for unfair dismissal. © Getty

Clive Eksteen isn’t going quietly. Sacked as Cricket South Africa’s (CSA) sales and sponsorship head on Saturday, the former left-arm spinner hit back on Tuesday with a promise to take the matter further in a saga that, if his claims hold up to scrutiny, can only add to the beleaguered organisation’s woes.

Eksteen said he would bring a case for unfair dismissal at the Commission for Conciliation, Mediation and Arbitration (CCMA), South Africa’s statutory body for deciding on labour disputes. Part of his evidence, it appears, will implicate senior CSA executives and lead to further cracks in the corridors of increasing uncertainty where seven senior staff members have been suspended since October.

That befell Eksteen, along with Corrie van Zyl, then CSA’s interim director of cricket, and Naasei Appiah, the chief operating officer, on October 29. CSA said at the time they had taken action against the three over the non-payment of an agreed fee of USD160,000, at the prevailing exchange rates, to the South African Professional Cricketers’ Trust for the commercial rights to use the players’ images to promote the 2018 Mzansi Super League (MSL).

The South African Cricketers’ Association (SACA) – who administer the Trust – expressed surprise that CSA had pinned the rap on those three stooges. Then SACA chief executive Tony Irish explained why in a release on October 31: “SACA didn’t deal with Appiah on this issue and in its dealings with Van Zyl and Eksteen over many months they both expressed a strong desire to resolve the payment issue, but it eventually became clear that higher approval to do so was necessary.”

Whose authority? “We think it’s highly unlikely that [chief executive Thabang Moroe, who was suspended on December 6] would not have been aware of this ongoing issue,” Irish said. “He was undoubtedly aware of payment obligations as he had signed the agreement.”

None of which was why Eksteen was fired, it seems. His statement says he was cleared on three charges relating to his suspension and on a fourth, which dealt with, Eksteen wrote, “a sponsorship deal concluded between a sponsor and a broadcaster (to which CSA was not even a party)”. He alleges that what cooked his goose was CSA’s allegation that he “concluded a sponsorship deal between a multinational company and CSA for an amount less than had been approved by the CSA [executive committee], as a consequence of which CSA ‘suffered financial loss, reputation and image’ (sic)”.

Eksteen quoted from the judgment handed down by the chair of the disciplinary inquiry on that charge: “I do not find that the employer established that CSA suffered reputational or image damage in relation to the conduct of the employee and whilst there was no financial loss in the true sense of the word for CSA, revenue was lost, as testified by the witnesses. CSA accordingly lost revenue in the amount of USD100,000, even if it was for lesser rights.”

Eksteen holds that “the chair’s finding that revenue was lost was directly contradicted by the evidence of CSA’s employees, evidence she ignored”. He disputes the findings on the fifth charge because “the sponsorship agreement was signed by my superior, not by me; no evidence was presented of [the executive committee] having mandated a final amount for the sponsorship; and my superior in her evidence failed to mention that she had read a message from me to her, prior to the [executive committee] meeting, in which I had told her of the current offer on the table from the sponsor”.

The superior Eksteen refers to is Kugandrie Govender, CSA’s chief commercial officer. Asked for her response, she told Fame Dubai: “It is difficult to for me comment on any cases that require a degree of confidentiality towards our employees, whether still employed or not.”

Eksteen says he was found guilty on April 17 and that he lodged his appeal with Jacques Faul, CSA’s acting chief executive, a week later. Faul referred the matter to CSA’s board, who brought down the axe on Eksteen’s tenure at a meeting that ended late on Saturday night.

“The general perception … is that I have been dismissed on account of the SACA charges, when in fact I have been dismissed after being found guilty of one completely unrelated and lesser charge, in circumstances where I should not have been dismissed at all, let alone found guilty,” Eksteen wrote. “One charge cannot properly be described as ‘transgressions [of a serious nature, as CSA said of Eksteen’s conduct in a release that landed after midnight on Saturday], yet CSA chose to do so.”

Now outside CSA’s sagging tent and armed, he feels, with licence to relieve himself into it, Eksteen would seem intent on doing exactly that: “My reputation and integrity have been severely questioned and tarnished, and I believed the disciplinary process would allow me the opportunity to lay out the facts around my suspension as well as the subsequent allegations levelled against me.

“The perception that has been created … which is still prevalent, is that I was in some way involved in ‘suspicious’ dealings, and therefore subject to an investigation along with other CSA officials. Nothing could be further from the truth.

“In addition, I am in possession of evidence which exculpates me, which has come to light after the conclusion of the disciplinary inquiry, which evidence was known to CSA at the time.”

He did not expand on what that information might be, but wrote: “All of the evidence presented at my disciplinary inquiry, as well as the additional evidence which has now come to light … will be laid out before the CCMA. My attorney and I are totally confident that I will be vindicated in due course. Unfortunately, I believe I have been made a scapegoat for the shortcomings of others and I believe further that relevant evidence has been ignored or overlooked.”

Eksteen kept his head below the parapet in his almost 18 years as a senior cricketer, in which he played seven Tests and six ODIs. That was how most slow bowlers in South Africa conducted their careers in an era when spin was regarded if not suspiciously than as the last resort of players who could neither bat, keep wicket nor bowl seam-up.

He also stayed out of the limelight during his time at CSA, which started in 2015, save for his appearance on social media in photographs with spectators at St George’s Park in March 2018. The fans wore masks meant to denigrate Candice Warner, the wife of David Warner. That was in retaliation to Warner’s verbal abuse of Quinton de Kock, on and off the field, at Kingsmead in the previous match. Warner’s barrage escalated when De Kock apparently made disparaging remarks about the Australian’s wife.

Eksteen was suspended along with Altaaf Kazi, CSA’s then communications head, who was also in the photographs with the masked men. Two months and an investigation later Eksteen was back at work. By then Kazi had resigned, perhaps wise to machinations geared to rid CSA of figures who were less loyal than required to a regime that lurched from one crisis to the next before Moroe was suspended.

Eksteen stayed on throughout that tumult, a fact that could be used against him in his protestations of propriety. His defence, no doubt, would be that he was trying to do his best for a game he knew had been hijacked by dangerous dolts and robber barons.

Either way, he is no longer the quiet left-arm spinner he was in whites. Now freed from his suit, his voice booms with the authority of someone who knows where the bodies are buried. And is brandishing a spade.

© Fame Dubai

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New top story from Time: We Watched Every New Show on Quibi. Here’s What to Watch—and What to Skip

Like it or not, Quibi is here. The new streaming platform, launching April 6, offers short-form content—”quick bites,” hence the portmanteau, that run 10 minutes or less. These shows are designed to be watched exclusively on your phone, whether you’re on the subway heading to work or sitting in the waiting room at the dentist’s office—places, in other words, that most people won’t be able to go for some time yet in the era of social distancing. But despite the fact that very few people are, for the moment, on the go, Quibi has held fast to its planned debut, launching, by our count, 50 scripted series, documentaries, reality shows and news programs on April 6 with plans to roll out 175 shows over the course of the year.

Quibi is casting a wide net to court various types of viewers: there are soothing cooking shows designed for the boomer crowd, while celebrity-studded reality series aim to lure Gen Z off of TikTok. Television critics have been busy debating whether the Quibi model signals the end of quality television or the wave of the future. But it’s clear the platform is hoping sheer star power alone will entice some quarantined television lovers to download the app. Jennifer Lopez, Idris Elba, Lebron James, Chance the Rapper and Chrissy Teigen are among the celebrities set to star in Quibi content, and filmmakers like Steven Spielberg, Catherine Hardwicke, Paul Feig, and Guillermo del Toro have content on the upcoming slate.

The streaming service, which also features proprietary new technology that allows viewers to switch seamlessly from landscape to portrait viewing, will cost $4.99 per month with ads and $7.99 without ads, though a 90-day free trial is available if you sign up in April.

Quibi gave journalists a glimpse at some of their content launching on April 6. We watched everything available to screen in advance (in most cases, around three chapters; “Daily Essentials” like news shows were not available in advance as they will cover news as it breaks). If you’re thinking of subscribing, here’s what you should watch and what you should skip.

What to Watch

Gayme Show! (unscripted)

Gayme Show! has a deceptively simple premise: it’s a gay game show. That’s it! Hosted with with aplomb by comedians Matt Rogers and Dave Mizzoni, each episode features two straight contestants competing in gay-themed challenges in an effort to be crowned “Queen of the Straights.” The jokes are plentiful, and if you’re not well-versed in gay Twitter—references to Dua Lipa, Laura Dern’s salmon button-down from Jurassic Park and Cynthia Nixon’s wife whiz by—you might have to Google to catch up. But even if you don’t get every joke, it’s hard not to let out a guffaw watching contestants like Demi Adejuyigbe prance around the stage in a unitard during a game called “notice me father”—actually a bespectacled Rogers softly weeping. The conceit is goofy, silly and exactly what you want it to be—and that’s a great thing. —Kelly Conniff

Nightgowns (documentary)

Lately it seems like everyone who’s ever come within 10 feet of RuPaul’s stage is getting their own show, but don’t hold the deluge of drag content against Sasha Velour, a Drag Race winner who stands out even from that talented pack. While her gender-fluid performances can be transgressive, Velour, who takes a big-tent approach to drag, has a heart of gold. As she adapts her Brooklyn-born revue NightGowns for a bigger stage, this docuseries profiles the queen and an inclusive troupe that features performers with a wide range of identities and styles. Each episode of the show—the only Quibi title I screened that feels particularly suited to the medium—ends with a beautifully shot production number that does Velour proud. —Judy Berman

Prodigy (documentary)

You don’t have to be a sports fan to appreciate this docuseries, which covers a different young elite athlete in each episode. With artful cinematography and well-paced storytelling—especially compared to the frenetic quality of many of the platform’s other shows—Prodigy is less concerned with the specific athletic achievements of its subjects (no. 1 ranked high school basketball player in the U.S., five-time national junior boxing champion) and more focused on the sacrifice and singular dedication of these athletes’ family members. If you cried during that Procter & Gamble Olympics commercial thanking the moms who drove carpools and gave pep talks so that their children could get a shot at the podium, this one is probably for you. —Eliza Berman

Punk’d (unscripted)

This third revival of MTV’s prank show has been winningly updated for millennial and Gen Z sensibilities: it’s slightly more absurdist, slightly less cruel and involves way more animals. YouTuber Liza Koshy ruins a bat mitzvah; rapper Megan Thee Stallion gets attacked by a gorilla. Chance the Rapper—who in the wake of Netflix’s Rhythm & Flow, has rebranded his once-innocent persona to include a mean streak—brings a mischievous energy to hosting duties, and his laugh is infectious. —Andrew R. Chow

The Sauce (unscripted)

Dance—particularly street dance—doesn’t get enough mainstream respect. The Sauce has something to say about that. Each episode pits two dance groups against each other, judged by talented dance duo Ayo and Teo, with the lure of a $25,000 cash prize. The lack of polish is endearing, as is the raw skill on display; you’ll wish you could spend more time just watching these young athletes move their bodies in ways that have no respect for the laws of physics. Kudos to executive producer Usher and the hosts for making sure to explain regional dance styles, as it’s high time these art forms got their due. Constant camera cuts and stylized editing seem best suited for the TikTok generation, but it’s a joy to watch these dancers in motion in any format. —Raisa Bruner

Shape of Pasta (documentary)

Now this is my sort of short content. I’m a devoted Bon Appetit Test Kitchen subscriber, Alison Roman Instagram story watcher and Anthony Bourdain worshipper. So, yes, a show about a chef traveling across tiny towns in Italy to discover forgotten pasta shapes is my jam. I can’t get my head around the tone of this show—it’s extremely self-serious, so much so that it’s maybe supposed to be making fun of other food shows? Or perhaps it’s just one of them. No matter. The show has many nonnas teaching Felix Trattoria chef Even Funke how to make pasta in shapes you’ve never thought of but are centuries-old traditions in picturesque Italian towns. It’s delightful! —Eliana Dockterman

You Ain’t Got These (documentary)

Lena Waithe takes viewers on a thoughtful, well-researched and star-studded tour of the world of sneakers. As the show conveys, sneaker culture is about much more than style. “Your footwear is your ID now in the black community,” Carmelo Anthony tells her; Nas, Run DMC, Hasan Minhaj and a cultural historian reflect on the legacy of icons like Michael Jordan and the relationship between hip-hop and commerce. Questions about branding, exploitation and value are tackled head-on. For sneakerheads it might be mostly recap, but it’s still fun to hear Rev Run reminisce about securing his Adidas deal—and for everyone else, it works as a solid introduction to a foundational part of contemporary American culture. —Raisa Bruner

What to Try

Chrissy’s Court (unscripted)

In this ode to Judge Judy, Chrissy Teigen rules over petty cases brought by local randos. Each episode is extremely dependent on the personalities of the plaintiff and defendant. Most of the “contestants” are actively awkward (or actually mad, which is bizarre given the TV show’s unserious premise), and Chrissy and her mother Vilailuck Teigen (as bailiff) have to work double-time to counteract their discomfort. The humor often feels forced. Chrissy’s Instagram is more entertaining—at least there, she has total control over the cast of characters, namely her husband John Legend and their two kids, all of whom are way more natural in front of the camera. That said, if you like Teigen and are already churning through her Instagram stories every day, this is a fine way to get some more. —Eliana Dockterman

Fierce Queens (documentary)

Reese Witherspoon narrates mini wildlife documentaries made with BBC Studios Natural History Unit, each focused on the female members of a species. Some of the lines veer into cheesy girl-power territory: “Getting that belief in yourself and gaining confidence: that’s what growing up is all about. These big cats totally nailed it. Walk tall, fierce queens!” she sings out after a surface-level episode about adolescent cheetah sisters. But thanks to truly beautiful footage and surprising subject choices—unless you already know all about the life cycle of the ruthless, cannibalistic queen honeypot ant?—viewers who want a quick hit of nature and some new fun facts about animals will be satisfied. —Raisa Bruner

Flipped (scripted)

After one episode, this one looked like it would fall squarely in the “skip” bucket: two incredibly annoying self-anointed visionaries, a married theater director (Will Forte) and Home Depot-esque associate (Kaitlin Olson), are both deservedly fired from their jobs for asserting their own artistic purity over things like appropriate subject matter for tween thespians (in his case) and customer service (in hers). (Think the kind of kooky, self-serious characters you’d find in a Christopher Guest movie, minus the great ensemble to balance them out.) But a hastily paced sequence of events—they decide to try to be house flippers, buy a foreclosed-upon property and find stacks of cash in its walls, which turn out to belong to a drug cartel—leads to the introduction of Broad City‘s Arturo Castro as an organic-apple-eating overlord, which might just elevate this bonkers ordeal from grating to promising. —Eliza Berman

Gone Mental with Lior (unscripted)

The mentalist Lior Suchard lacks the theatricality or scale of other famous magicians like David Blaine or Criss Angel, making him perhaps the perfect match for a low-stakes platform like Quibi. It’s agreeable enough to watch him catch basketballs while blindfolded or exactly guess the number of coins in Ludacris’ hands, but his tricks won’t haunt your dreams, either. —Andrew R. Chow

I Promise (documentary)

By all accounts, LeBron James’ I Promise School in his hometown of Akron, Ohio, has been a resounding success: Its students, who were picked to attend after underachieving in the city’s public school system, are testing better and seem to be thriving in their new environment. This show, however, comes off as a surface-level feel-good advertisement for the school. —Andrew R. Chow

Run This City (documentary)

Jaseil Correia grew up with the dream of becoming the mayor of his hometown, Fall River, Mass.—a city of around 90,000 most famous as the home of Lizzie Borden. At the remarkably young age of 23, he achieved it. But what sounds at first like an uplifting story of millennial striving turns dissonant when Correia is indicted on fraud and extortion charges. It’s an intriguing story that could have made for a fascinating hourlong documentary. Unfortunately, the Quibi format requires director Brent Hodge (I Am Chris Farley) to chop the saga into equal-sized, eight-minute “bites” that drag in the middle before ramping up to exaggerated cliffhangers. The result is a micro-docuseries whose rhythm always feels a bit off. —Judy Berman

Singled Out (unscripted)

I like host Keke Palmer. I like Joel Kim Booster, who serves as the Jenny McCarthy to her Chris Hardwick. I like that all three episodes I watched had queer contestants but didn’t feel as though they were pandering to an LGBTQ audience. The best one featured a fully decked-out, super-charismatic drag queen looking for a man who could handle her at her most femme. But the best thing about the original MTV show was the unscripted banter, both between the hosts and among the competitors. And there just isn’t room for that in an already-rushed seven-minute show. —Judy Berman

Thanks A Million (unscripted)

There’s not much here that you can’t already get from watching YouTube clips of Ellen DeGeneres giving out life-sized checks on behalf of name-that-corporation, or soldiers coming home to reunite with their spouses/children/dogs. But if you’re going to subscribe anyway and want a cathartic cry in two-minutes flat, watching celebs like Jennifer Lopez, Kevin Hart and Nick Jonas give deserving people $100,000, then watching the recipient give half of it to another deserving person, and so on, should do the trick. If you think too hard about it, the magic starts to fade—how much of this will get eaten up in gift taxes, and how many phone calls is this person going to get asking for a loan after receiving such a large sum on, well, if not national TV, whatever Quibi is? Yet seeing an apparently kind, hard-working person get the chance to pay for infertility treatments, or a house, or more resources for their therapy dog program, is far from the worst way to spend six minutes. —Eliza Berman

What to Skip

&Music (documentary)

With its sweeping landscape shots, ambient background score and pseudo-philosophical ramblings, &Music seems to want to be the Chef’s Table for the random-dudes-connected-to-the-music-industry set. The show spends each episode with a behind-the-scenes collaborator of a star: there’s Ariana Grande’s choreographers and Martin Garrix’s light guy. But while there are one or two poignant and revealing moments, the show is mostly slick, overproduced and vacuous. There are plenty of music documentaries that are far more worth your time—and that you can watch on a big screen with proper speakers. —Andrew R. Chow

Dishmantled (unscripted)

Dishmantled is a cooking show, minus the main ingredients that make cooking shows so satisfying: interesting and empathetic contestants to root for and, much more fatal to the whole endeavor, the cooking itself. Hosted by Unbreakable Kimmy Schmidt‘s Tituss Burgess, the show invites two blindfolded chefs into a small chamber where a mystery dish is blasted into their faces; they have to taste the exploded shrapnel, figure out what it might be, and make a dish replicating what they think they’ve eaten, to be judged on both taste and accuracy by celebrity judges like Dan Levy, Antoni Porowski and Jane Krakowski. But the quick format makes this far from a nutritious meal; viewers don’t have time to get to know or get invested in the contestants, and the cooking itself sails by without any attention to technique or ingredients. The most drama you’ll get here are lines like: “This all comes down to…is this a zoodle or is this a noodle?” —Eliza Berman

Memory Hole (unscripted)

Will Arnett makes fun of terrible pop culture moments from history that nobody remembers for a reason (like that time Alan Thicke appeared in a corny tribute at the opening of a Canadian superdome). It’s unclear who this show is for or why it exists. The references are so obscure that even people who lived through them will have forgotten and the quips feel like something you’d hear at a high school open mic. I spent the entire time watching this show thinking about another, much better show, BoJack Horseman. In that Netflix animated series, Arnett voiced a washed-up ’90s sitcom star struggling to stay relevant in Hollywood. Memory Hole feels like a project that an investor in Quibi would have blackmailed BoJack into doing after BoJack accidentally threw up on him during a bender at a wedding. —Eliana Dockterman

Most Dangerous Game (scripted)

This show is so obvious, it’s almost funny. These are the exact roles SNL would cast Liam Hemsworth and Christoph Waltz in for a skit—cancer-ridden former athlete with a pregnant wife and an evil billionaire who wants to pay said former athlete to be hunted by rich people. Since each episode is seven minutes, these are not character revelations that slowly come out over time. They are blatantly spoken by the actors to one another in every scene. Don’t come to Most Dangerous Game expecting The Game-esque twists or any subtle dialogue. What you expect is exactly what you will get. Unless you expect fun. You won’t get that. —Eliana Dockterman

Murder House Flip (unscripted)

Despite the name, there’s nothing original about Murder House Flip. The series is essentially two types of reality shows unceremoniously jammed together: one part home redesign show hosted by two perky designers with a surfeit of canned jokes; one part true crime docuseries filled with the requisite pan and scan over vintage photos and newspaper clippings. This uneasy juxtaposition results in awkward episodes that often feel like a Saturday Night Live parody, especially when one of the hosts brightly announces: “Our goal was to take this murder house and turn it into a happy home.” And a focus on the grisly nature of the crimes reflects the worst parts of a genre that too often obscures victims. Is there a world in which this show could have managed to strike the right tone? Possibly. But as it stands, Murder House Flip is too flip. —Kelly Conniff

Nikki Fre$h (unscripted)

“Wellness has a new voice. A black voice,” Nicole Richie’s rapper alter ego says in the first episode of Nikki Fre$h (and then immediately clarifies that she’s referring to herself). The resulting show is part poker-faced satire of the goop lifestyle and part honest assessment of organic produce and artisanal honey. Her attempts to draw attention to food waste and the plight of bees are well-intentioned, but cameos from the likes of Bill Nye can’t save the show from falling flat; Richie helped pioneer awkward reality TV on The Simple Life with Paris Hilton, but Nikki Fre$h lacks that show’s schadenfreude appeal. —Raisa Bruner

Skrrt with Offset (unscripted)

If you like looking at nice cars, you might get a kick out of Skrrt with Offset. Otherwise, there’s not much point. The show has a thin premise (the Migos rapper Offset does stuff with cars) and is executed with even less imagination. When his wife Cardi B shows up for an episode, overflowing with sass and charisma, you wonder why they didn’t just give the whole show to her. —Andrew R. Chow

Survive (scripted)

Before watching the first five episodes of this thriller about a disturbed young woman preparing to kill herself on the flight home from a mental institution, I might have said something like, “I’d watch Sophie Turner do anything.” Well, Turner is great in Survive—but neither her performance nor the impressive production values manage to redeem a story that, whether intentionally or not, revels in the bloody, nihilistic aesthetics of suicide. A twist (one that’s “spoiled” in the trailer) that has the plane crashing and Turner’s character teaming up with an obvious love interest (Corey Hawkins) to, yes, survive only heightens the absurdity and introduces plot holes. —Judy Berman

When the Streetlights Go On (scripted)

It’s the summer of 1995—a stiflingly hot one—when things start going wrong in sleepy Colfax, Ill. That fall, a beautiful high-school mean girl (Kristine Froseth) and the teacher she’s been sleeping with (Mark Duplass) get carjacked, forced to strip and gunned down by their masked assailant. The weirdo sister (Sophie Thatcher) she used to bully wanders around unmoored. A jock sometimes-boyfriend (Sam Strike) is brought in for questioning. Narrating this murder mystery is the student journalist (Chosen Jacobs) who found the bodies. Period signifiers like Nirvana and ck one abound. Every once in a while a show formed entirely out of genre tropes and nostalgia for the recent past is executed well enough to exceed the sum of its parts (see: the first season of Stranger Things). But after three trite, predictable episodes, I’m not holding out much hope for this one. —Judy Berman

Other Shows Headed to Quibi

The titles below are Quibi’s “daily essentials,” more information-oriented programming covering news, sports, weather and entertainment. Screeners were not provided in advance for these series:

Around the World by BBC News Weather Today by The Weather Channel Morning Report by NBC News Evening Report by NBC News Saturday Report by NBC News Sunday Report by NBC News The Replay by ESPN NewsDay by CTV NewsNight by CTV Sports AM by TSN Pulso News by Telemundo For the Cultura by Telemundo Close Up by E! News Fresh Daily by Rotten Tomatoes Speedrun by Polygon Pop5 by iHeartRadio No Filter by TMZ: AM No Filter by TMZ PM Last Night’s Late Night All The Feels by The Dodo The Daily Chill The Rachel Hollis Show Sexology by Shan Boodram The Nod with Brittany & Eric Trailers by Fandango

via https://cutslicedanddiced.wordpress.com/2018/01/24/how-to-prevent-food-from-going-to-waste

[maxwellyjordan]

A “view” from the courtroom: Justice Kennedy’s Master-pièce de résistance

It’s the first opinion day of June in this very busy term. The court has 29 argued cases to finish, many of which are in the blockbuster category.

Both the bar section and the public gallery are full. As it turns out, some general-public seats are being taken up by part of a large cohort of Harvard Law School alumni who will be sworn into the Supreme Court Bar at the end of this morning’s session. Other groups being sworn in today are from the Illinois State Bar Association and the Phi Alpha Delta law fraternity, although those contingents are fully contained in the bar section of the courtroom.

The bench, with Justice Breyer absent, as Justice Kennedy announces opinion in Masterpiece Cakeshop (Art Lien)

When the court takes the bench at 10 a.m., Justice Stephen Breyer is absent. On Friday, he was at the graduation ceremony for the New York Law School, where he received an honorary degree and delivered an address. As we watched online, we kept hoping someone would straighten out the wrinkles and twists in the academic hood that administrators had placed around Breyer’s neck, but no one did.

Breyer spoke eloquently on several topics, including his discussion of Albert Camus’ “The Plague” as a metaphor for French resistance to the Nazi occupation of France. We wondered whether Breyer, a known Francophile, has read Camus’ work in the original French, as we were required to do in high school, both for “The Plague” (“La Peste”) and “The Stranger” (“L’Étranger”). “Pensez en français,” Mademoiselle Dominique would say. If you’re going to start thinking in a foreign language, why not start with something easy like an existentialist, metaphorical work.

Chief Justice John Roberts announces, in English, that Justice Sonia Sotomayor has the court’s opinion in Lamar, Archer & Cofrin LLP v. Appling, about what constitutes “a statement respecting the debtor’s financial condition” under a provision of the Bankruptcy Code.

After describing the background to the case, Sotomayor says, “Sounds boring, doesn’t it?” There is some nervous chuckling throughout the courtroom. She writes for a unanimous court that the language of the statute makes plain that a statement about a single asset can be a “statement respecting the debtor’s financial condition,” and the lower court ruling in favor of a debtor is affirmed.

Justices Clarence Thomas, Samuel Alito and Neil Gorsuch do not join part III-B of Sotomayor’s  opinion, and although there is no explicit explanation, that section is about legislative history.

Justice Anthony Kennedy appears to be reading over some papers during Sotomayor’s brief summary. And, indeed, he has the next opinion, in Hughes v. United States. This is a case about the federal sentencing guidelines in which the justices also asked for briefing on how the lower courts should interpret a previous on-point sentencing decision with no majority opinion in light of the Supreme Court’s general principle, announced in 1977 in Marks v. United States, that in splintered decisions with no majority, the holding of the court “may be viewed as that position taken by those members who concurred in the judgments on the narrowest grounds.”

Naturally, some court observers were hoping that the court would be so splintered in Hughes that lower courts would have to rely on the narrowest concurrence to interpret a decision about interpreting decisions. But today, there is a majority for the underlying legal question in Hughes that had escaped the court in the earlier sentencing-guidelines case, 2011’s Freeman v. United States.

That makes it “unnecessary to discuss how Marks should be interpreted,” Kennedy says. A total of six justices agree that the petitioner in this case, Erik Lindsey Hughes, is eligible for relief, though it will be up to the district court to decide if he actually will get any. Roberts has filed a dissent, joined by Thomas and Alito. (Sotomayor joined Kennedy’s opinion but filed a concurrence.)

Now, for the second time this term, the court will depart from its normal practice of announcing opinions in reverse order of seniority, but with good reason. (The first was on April 24, with two related patent decisions, one announced by Thomas, in Oil States Energy Services LLC v. Greene’s Energy Group LLC, followed by one announced by Gorsuch, in SAS Institute Inc. v. Iancu, that was dependent on a holding of Oil States.)

Alito has the opinion for a unanimous court in Koons v. United States, which references Hughes and holds that five convicted criminals do not qualify for sentence reductions.

The chief justice then says that Kennedy has the opinion in Masterpiece Cakeshop Ltd. v. Colorado Civil Rights Commission. It seems that everyone in the courtroom, from Harvard Law alumni to everyday tourists, recognizes this case caption and shifts in their seats a bit.

Kennedy is one justice who hesitates to announce the outcome right off the bat, and today is no different. He briefly outlines the background of the case about baker Jack Phillips, who refused on religious grounds to create a custom wedding cake for the reception of same-sex couple Charlie Craig and David Mullins.

The case “presents difficult questions as to the proper reconciliation of at least two principles,” Kennedy says from the bench. The first is the authority of a state and its governmental entities to protect the rights and dignity of gay persons who are, or wish to be, married but who face discrimination when they seek goods or services. And the second is the right of all to exercise fundamental freedoms under the First Amendment, including the freedom of speech and free exercise of religion.

It is “unexceptional” that Colorado can protect gay people in acquiring whatever products and services they choose on the same terms and conditions as are offered to other members of the public. “Our society has come to the recognition that gay persons and gay couples cannot be treated as social outcasts or as inferior in dignity and worth,” he says.

But Phillips argues that he has to use his artistic skills to make an expressive statement through the custom cake sought by the same-sex couple, “a wedding endorsement in his own voice and of his own creation.” Such a request implicates his deep and sincere religious beliefs.

Kennedy keeps teetering from principles favoring one side or the other. “The court’s precedents make clear that the baker, in his capacity as the owner of a business serving the public, might have his right to the free exercise of religion limited by generally applicable laws,” he says.

“Yet,” Kennedy adds, tottering to the other side, “the baker was entitled to a neutral decisionmaker who would give full and fair consideration to his religious objection.”

And this is where the teeter-totter comes to a rest.

“The delicate question of when the free exercise of his religion must yield to an otherwise valid exercise of state power needed to be determined in an adjudication in which religious hostility on the part of the state itself would not be a factor in the balance the state sought to reach,” Kennedy says. “That requirement, however, was not met here. When the Colorado Civil Rights Commission considered this case, it did not do so with the religious neutrality that the Constitution requires.”

He continues a bit before concluding with language from near the end of his written opinion. “The outcome of cases like this in other circumstances must await further elaboration in the courts, all in the context of recognizing that these disputes must be resolved with tolerance, without undue disrespect to sincere religious beliefs, and without subjecting gay persons to indignities when they seek goods and services in an open market,” he says.

He explains the lineup, as is customary, not by listing all who have joined his opinion, but by noting concurring and dissenting opinions. So there is the concurring opinion of Kagan, joined by Breyer. Gorsuch filed a concurring opinion, joined by Alito. Thomas filed an opinion concurring in part and concurring in the judgment, joined by Gorsuch. Justice Ruth Bader Ginsburg has filed a dissenting opinion, joined by Sotomayor.

Ginsburg has donned her dissent jabot today, but she does not read any part of her dissenting opinion in court.

The nuances of the opinions in Masterpiece will be plenty challenging to contemplate, even thinking in English.

Marshal Pamela Talkin announces, after bar admissions, that the court is adjourned “until Monday next.”

As Mademoiselle Dominique would say, “À bientôt.” (See you soon.)

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[jurek-art]

Va. state senator files suit against Forest Service in support of pipeline protests

In the upper left is the platform where Theresa “Red” Terry has camped out for weeks on her family’s land near Roanoke, Va. On April 19, state and local police stand by ready to arrest her if she comes down. (Michael S. Williamson/The Washington Post)

A Virginia state senator filed suit against the U.S. Forest Service on Wednesday, claiming that federal officials are illegally blocking access to a road in the Jefferson National Forest where several people are protesting construction of a natural gas pipeline.

State Sen. Chap Petersen (D-Fairfax), who is a lawyer, filed the suit at the federal courthouse in Roanoke after being prohibited from using the road to reach the protesters last week.

His action opens another legal front in the fight over the right to protest the Mountain Valley Pipeline, a 303-mile project that starts in West Virginia and crosses through Virginia’s southwest mountains.

A separate set of tree sitters was in federal court in Roanoke on Tuesday, as EQT Midstream and other companies behind the pipeline argued that Theresa “Red” Terry, her daughter Theresa Minor Terry and other members of the family are illegally blocking a stretch of the planned pipeline through their land. The builders of the pipeline want a judge to hold the Terry family and their allies in contempt.

Petersen’s suit is aimed at a site on Peters Mountain in Giles County along the West Virginia line. There, a protester identified only as “Nutty” has been living suspended from a pole, or monopod, since March 27, blocking efforts to clear trees.

On April 7, the Forest Service closed a gravel access road to the public but continued to allow Mountain Valley Pipeline trucks to use it, saying it was unsafe for outsiders to be around the construction zone.

But Petersen said Wednesday that he didn’t believe that explanation. His suit argues that the purpose of the closure is to “prevent persons to reach ‘Nutty’ or bring her provisions, as she is running short of food.”

Because the road is on public land, closing it “is a violation of the First Amendment,” Petersen said. “People have a right to be there. This is a political act that’s taking place, it’s political expression.”

He filed the suit on behalf of three local residents who use the road. Petersen said there is no effort to seek money, only the opening of the road. And he said the suit is not specifically about getting supplies to the protester — although, he added, “if we get up in front of a judge I’m happy to go there.”

A spokeswoman for the U.S. Forest Service said the agency would not comment on pending legal actions.

In the other court matter, lawyers for the Terry family argued Tuesday that the pipeline company should be held in contempt because it is continuing to cut trees past a March 31 deadline.

The pipeline had until that date to finish cutting trees in sensitive bat habitats. The company argues that it was only certain trees that could not be cut past that date, not all trees.

Its lawyers want the judge to order federal marshals to forcibly remove “Red” Terry and her daughter from the trees they’re occupying on family property on Bent Mountain, south of Roanoke.

The judge took the case under advisement and could rule soon.

Source Article

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