Sometimes I wonder about Phoenix Wright.

I sure as hell can never tell what he's thinking. He's always got that insufferable smile on his face, that cryptic grin that tells me nothing. Whenever he speaks, I always get the feeling that there's more to what he's saying, but when I ask he just laughs. He has an adopted daughter that he loves, but they have such an odd relationship. Well, I'm certainly no expert on parent/child relationships, but it seems to me that if you have a teenage daughter, you ought to keep a better eye on her. She performs her act in a place called the Wonder Bar, for God's sake, and he isn't worried about her at all? Or maybe he is, but I just can't see it, because all he ever does is smile and look off into the distance. And what am I doing here anyway? It's late at night, I'm standing outside a bar, I'm cold, and I'm waiting for his daughter.

Well. She is my sister, too. But that just opens up a whole new can of worms-

"Oh, hey Polly. Where's daddy?"

I turn around and there she is, little teenage Trucy. Sixteen years old and the strangest person on the face of the planet. Except for her father of course. And his girlfriend. God, how did I fall in with these people?

"He couldn't make it Trucy," I explain, a hint of resentment in my voice. "He had a big poker game to prepare for, so he asked me to come."

"Oh." She seemed a little disappointed, but quickly recovered. "Well then, that's just more time I get to spend with my big bro."

I smile sheepishly and lead the way down the street. Mr. Wright's apartment is a mile or two away, and I want to get this done over with so I can go back home and get some sleep.

Trucy's making idle smalltalk and humming some catchy tune I've heard before. I'm not really listening. I keep thinking about Mr. Wright and how much I don't understand him.

So he has a poker game to prepare for, huh? And that's more important than his daughter? I mean, I understand the importance of putting food on the table, but why does he always come to me with these 'requests' and 'errands' and 'favors?' Doesn't he have anyone else he could get to do this junk? Of course it would be a different situation if he was paying me for it, but that's certainly not the case. He's always asking 'as a friend, not a boss.' Since when are we friends? Aren't friends supposed to tell each other things? Y'know, share information and not keep secrets?

I sigh. Trucy takes notice. "You okay Polly?" She asks, leaning into my field of view.

"Fine," I reply curtly. "Just thinking about something."

For once, Trucy backs off without pestering me. Usually, she'd ask, "thinkin' about what?" and I'd reply "nothing," and she'd say "if you're thinkin' about nothing, why do you look like you're thinkin' about something?" and on and on and on until I break down and tell her. And then she'd be disappointed because she thought it was some big secret when actually I was thinking about my schedule for the next week.

I recollect my thoughts and find myself confused. Maybe I'm thinking about this the wrong way. Maybe Phoenix doesn't ask me to do these things just because he knows I'll do them, but because he trusts me to do them. And the reason he asks me to escort Trucy home from the Wonder Bar is because he trusts that I'll keep her safe. Maybe he trusts me more than he trusts himself.

Chyeah, and maybe I'm Steve McQueen.

A man steps out in front of me and I don't notice until I'm within arm's reach. He's got a shaved head, a leather jacket, torn up jeans, and fingerless gloves. The kicker is the sunglasses. It's got to be past eleven. Who wears sunglasses at night?

"'Scuse me, sir," he says, and if I wasn't suspicious before, I sure as hell am when I hear his tone. "I was just wonderin' what time it was."

Trucy sidesteps out from behind me and begins to answer. "It's-"

"Time for us to go," I finish, grabbing her by the wrist and turn left. I see another dude in a leather jacket across the street. He waves a little at me. I turn around and decide to head right, down the alley the first punk came from.

It takes me a second before I realize what a bad idea that was.

All of a sudden, punks of all sizes, shapes, and hairstyles seem to appear in all directions, all with leather jackets and fingerless gloves. They were hiding in the shadows, waiting for someone foolish enough to walk down this alley.

We're surrounded.

"Give it up, Justice. You're surrounded."

I spin around. The son of a bitch is right. They've got me cornered. I try to make a break for it through the line, but I'm caught and thrown back into the center of the circle.

"Ah ah ah," he says, wagging his finger. "Not until we've had a bit of fun."

The first punch knocks me down, then it's all kicks. Heels and toes and boots and sneakers digging into my ribs and my stomach and my back. I can't breath. All I can do is curl up into a ball until it's over. I feel worthless. Useless.

Helpless.

I spin around. The man from the street steps toward us. I push Trucy behind me.

"Now now, buddy," he says in that same smarmy, confident tone of voice that makes me want to punch his lights out. "We don't wanna hurt the girl. We just want the money."

"What money?" I ask.

"Don't play dumb. Just hand over all the cash you got on you and we'll be on our way, right boys?" I see nods and hear affirmative noises behind me.

"I don't have any." It was actually true. I don't have much money to begin with, so I never carry more than a few bucks for a couple bus fares. Since I was walking tonight I didn't have anything.

Of course he doesn't believe me. "Don't lie to me, man," he says, stepping closer. "I know by your clothes and your company you must have somethin'. So why not just hand it over and get this over with?"

"I told you," I say, turning my pant pockets inside out. "I don't have any."

He seems a bit surprised by this turn of events, but I already know how this is going to end. Nothing I say or do is going to change it. He can't afford to look bad in front of his gang. He can't let us go without getting something out of us.

"And how about you, girly?" He's getting a little angry now.

"N-nothing." Trucy stutters behind me. I can feel her gloved hand on my shoulder. It's trembling. She's scared, really, honestly scared. It's the first time I've ever seen her that way.

"Leave the girl alone," I shout.

The son of bitch and his gang look up. "Why don't you mind your own busi-"

Then he remembers me. Anger flickers across his face, mingled with a wicked smile. Then he notices the backup I brought.

"Who the fuck are you ridin' with?" The rest of his gang backs off. The girl is beaten and crying, but she's okay. Apparently we got here just in time to interrupt.

"Some new friends," I say, gesturing to either side and the five members of the new gang I joined. "Apparently they hate your rat ass as much as I do."

The son of a bitch bares his teeth and growls - actually, literally growls - and the rest of his buddies line up with him. I can see them flexing their muscles, curling their hands into fists, feel the tension in the air between us as my gang does the same. I feel nervous. Scared.

Angry.

"I don't think I believe you," he says, playing out this predictable farce to the letter. "I think we're gonna have to take a look for ourselves."

They start to close in around us. Trucy's spinning around and breathing fast. I hear her ask for help and say my name. Not 'Polly.'

"Apollo!"

The son of a bitch looks at me with his beady eyes, his rat like face, his yellow teeth.

He's going down first.

The first punch his the leader, breaking his sunglasses and hopefully his nose. I hear the rest of them charge forward, yelling or shouting or taunting. I spin and pull Trucy out of the way. I catch a punch meant for me and return it in kind. Another fist snakes it's way past my defenses and nails me right above my right ear. For a second I can see stars and hear a tremendous ringing. It clears up long enough for me to see the kick catch me in the gut. I bend at the waist, clutching my stomach.

It's an all out battle royale. In the confusion it's hard to tell friend from foe, and there's no time to hesitate. Punches and kicks are thrown, makeshift weapons are grabbed from the garbage on either side of the alley. Chains are swung, two by fours are snapped in half, lead pipes are brought to bear.

I don't want to swing widly, don't want to catch one of my new friends in the face. That'd end our little kinship quickly. So I don't see the kick to my jewels coming until it's too late to stop it.

I crumple like a rag doll, right to my knees. The son of a bitch stands over me, the chaos around him momentarily forgotten in his moment of triumph.

"You always were a pussy, Justice," he says, smiling with those yellow teeth.

I decide I've had enough of them.

I rise quickly, too fast for him to see, and nail the punk right under the chin with a devestating uppercut. He falls back, out for the count. Another comes at me from the left, swinging a chain. I'm ready for him. I bring my left arm up and catch the thing in mid swing. It wraps around my forearm, trapped momentarily by it's own inertia. I step in and introduce my right elbow to his face. He falls to the ground, clutching the bleeding lump that was his nose.

Suddenly, I hear a scream.

I spin around and two punks have gotten to Trucy. She's punching and kicking, but they're too big. She can't fight them off on her own.

They're leering at her.

"Fuck you, you son of a bitch!" I cry as I leap to my feet and charge after him. He's brought his mouth up to his face, and he's spitting blood. I don't care. It's not enough.

He throws a punch and it misses. I throw my own but he blocks it. I grab both his arms and pull them away from his face. I slam my forehead into his.

I pull the chain off my arm and run forward, blood pounding through my ears, baring my teeth. I swing it at the nearest punk and the tip collides with his right eye. He falls back and bumps into a dumpster, ending up on the ground clutching his ruined eye. I throw the chain out of rage at the other punk and he catches it in the chest, staggering back. I tackle him to the ground -

- and start wailing on him. He tries vainly to defend himself, but it doesn't help. I punch and punch and punch, my knuckles coming away bloody. Whether it's his or mine I don't know. I don't care.

He's hurt so many of us.

Don't

So many people beaten and bruised and humiliated.

touch

Scarred and afraid, they do whatever he says.

my

No more. His gang's time is up.

sister!

His time is up.

Another punk grabs me from behind and yanks me off him. He holds me up and the leader comes forward. His nose isn't broken, but his lip is bleeding.

"You mother fucker," he says furiously, pulling a switchblade from his pocket, "you broke my god damn sunglasses!"

Someone yanks me off him. I spin around, and it's one of my new friends. "He's learned his lesson," he says, looking a little fearful of me.

I look down at him. He's whimpering and whining, curled up into a ball on the ground. I want to hurt him more, because that's what the son of bitch would do if he were standing over me.

But I'm not him.

I nod and turn around. The rest of my boys made out alright. The other gang, not so much. They wouldn't be hurting anyone again.

Suddenly I hear a desperate, bestial sound behind me. The son of a bitch tackles me to the ground. He's got a knife. He's trying to kill me.

I slam my head backwards and it connects with the punk holding me. Stars flash before my eyes. Somehow I manage to catch the arms of the leader. He's trying to overpower me, get through long enough to stick me with the knife. I'm not going to last long like this. So I fight dirty.

I put my teeth around the fingers holding the knife and bite down hard. The metallic taste of blood fills my mouth as he screams in pain and drops the knife. I throw out an elbow to back him off, then grab the knife on the ground and rush forward. I press him up against the wall. My teeth are bared, my forearm is over his neck, the knife is poised to strike -

"APOLLO!"

I freeze. It suddenly becomes clear to me what just happened. What I'm doing. What's in my hand.

I back off and drop the knife. The leader of the punks collapses to the ground against the wall, clutching at his throat. I turn around slowly. The rest of the punks are laid out, in varying states of consciousness, and with various injuries.

I can barely even remember what happened.

I turn further and see Trucy staring at me. Her jaw is slack, her cape is dirty, and she lost a glove, but otherwise she's okay.

"What was that?!" She asks incredulously.

My mouth opens, then closes. I stumble over an explanation until I realize this is neither the time, nor the place. I race forward, grab her by the arm again, and run for the apartment, dragging her behind me. The pained moaning and groaning of the punks follows me all the way there.