The Phantom is ready to die.
He's had time to prepare himself for it. He thinks he's been ready for years, maybe; a consequence of his line of work, he thinks, that death waits around every corner, behind any accidental revelation of his identity. But this has the weight of inevitability, a sense of justice bearing down on him like a bared sword raised over his neck, until it's almost a relief the morning he wakes knowing that it will be the last he faces in this life.
It's strange, how much calmer he feels now. He can remember fighting the inevitable conclusion, can remember clinging to the persona he adopted not knowing it would be his last: that of one Simon Blackquill, a prosecutor imprisoned on false charges of murder and dedicated to hunting down the actual killer before the conclusion of his own long wait for death. Ironic, he thinks, that he would take on a role so close to his own identity, so inextricably linked with his own path through life; but then he's always preferred to get as close as he can, always preferred to inhabit those persons that are never even considered as suspects by simple virtue of who they are. At least, that what he's been told; much of his history is fuzzy, hazy in his thoughts and shot through with memories he knows are false, that he must have lifted from police dossiers and case files as part of embodying this role in full. But that's part of taking on the part, after all, of truly becoming the person he has chosen to replace; and after coming face-to-face with the real Simon Blackquill, his face a perfect replica of the Phantom's current features, it was far easier to find the gaps in his own recollection, the details of his past he cannot remember while the other Simon, the real Simon, fills them in with the brittle, crystal clarity of a victim restraining their emotions with steel focus to allow nothing but cold distance to show through on the other side.
The Phantom almost admires him for it. He doesn't know if he could do the same, in Simon's place; but that's just a sign of his own psyche finally giving way to too many imprints, to the too-much stress he's put it under for years. Simon has explained to him what he's done, has told him about the people whose places he has taken, about the crimes he's committed, in often excruciating detail; the Phantom wonders where the other's information came from, that he can so clearly recite back the list of crimes that the Phantom himself has no memory of. But then, that's almost to be expected; it would be a liability for himself to carry the actions of his past selves forward into the next role, would be an emotional burden the Phantom is sure he wouldn't be able to bear while still maintaining the facade of whatever latest personality he's adopted. And Simon has been chasing him for years, hunting him with the stoic focus and razor-honed hate the Phantom can see in the set of his mouth, in the clench of his jaw, in the shadows of the other's hair that invariably hide the brittle edge of his eyes from the Phantom's view. He's grateful to that, in some measure; it's a relief, to not have to face the judgment in those eyes, to only hear his crimes recited in that icy voice instead of confronting them directly. He thinks he might break down entirely if he had to do that, might collapse into hysteria far less coherent than the cold tears that track down his face every night as he lies awake in the chill of his solitary cell; and if there's one thing he has left to prize, it's the sanity he intends to carry with him to the gallows.
The room is very still when they lead him through the doors. There's a handful of people, arrayed in rows at a distance from the waiting noose; but none of them are speaking, even in the low, hushed tones one would use at a funeral, and none of them turn to look at him as he's led up towards the front of the room by the handcuffs still heavy around his wrists. The families of his victims make up the audience, he's sure; he recognizes only a few, the young defense attorney he matched swords with as part of his role as the fake Simon Blackquill, and Athena, of course, in the back of the room with her jaw set and head ducked down. Simon - the real Simon - is standing behind her, his hand at her shoulder and his head tipped forward to look at her instead of at the Phantom. The Phantom wonders, distantly, if she will look up at all, or if her presence here is a token of a revenge she would never want, as kind-hearted as he has always known her to be. The thought is uncomfortable - it aches in the back of his mind like a headache, like reaching for a memory too far gone to be retrieved - but he is far past the point of asking for a moment to compose himself. He's being led to the steps to that dangling noose, climbing the solid weight of them while his heart pounds harder in his chest, while he feels every inch of height gained as a further proof of his impending demise.
It's horribly exposed atop the gallows. The whole construction is solid, made of steel and iron instead of the flimsy wood he might have merited in the old days, when justice was a personal matter and not a bureaucratic one. But then, it's personal now too: the room of people in front of him speaks to that, all those eyes lifting to gaze at him without any mark of sympathy anywhere in their faces. The Phantom wonders, briefly, if any of them are from his parent organization, if there isn't an assassin waiting silently in the handful of people with a bullet in their pocket; but then, without any memory of his past, surely they can't be afraid of what he has to offer by way of information, and it's too late to change anything anyway. His feet carry him forward at the urging of the hands at his back, his body moves mechanically towards the outline of the trapdoor under his feet, the square marking out the space where he'll breathe his last; and then he's being turned outward, to offer the face of the man whose life he ruined for the audience to look upon as the guards draw the rough weight of the noose over his head and around his neck. It's something of a struggle to get his hair free - they haven't cut it since his true persona was revealed, and whatever he did to change his appearance was permanent enough to leave no seams to pick free no matter how he searches - but then the dark weight is falling heavy over the line of the rope, and a guard is cinching the fibers in close around the Phantom's neck, and the Phantom can feel his heart skid itself into overdrive in his chest with terrified anticipation of what is to come.
"Last words," one of the guards says, more as a statement than with any of the encouragement of a question.
The Phantom takes a breath; he can feel the pressure of it inside his lungs, can feel the details of his continued existence pressing with painful clarity against his awareness, as if he's suddenly become aware of the feel of his clothing, the beat of his heart, the clammy sweat at his skin, all the specifics of life that are usually so easy to forget cast into sudden, stark relief by their impending loss. His mouth is dry. He has to lick his lips twice before he can find the moisture to speak.
"I'm sorry," he manages; but it's soft, so quiet he's not even sure if the guards hear it, is certain none of the audience staring up at him will catch the words. Maybe they don't even see his lips move over the struggle for sincerity, over the attempt to express some measure of the bottomless guilt in him, the knowledge that worst of everything he has done to them he can't even find the recollection of his crimes inside his broken mind.
"Right," the guard says, and then he takes a step back and the Phantom starts to hyperventilate, his body flooding with adrenaline as if to squeeze every last moment of awareness from his life before it is cut abruptly short. There's the sound of footsteps behind him, the motion of the guard moving towards the handle that will open the floor under the Phantom's feet, that will drop him a short foot before the rope at his neck snaps taut; everything seems to be happening very slowly, with agonizing delay and impossible speed at once. The Phantom doesn't know where to look, in that sea of faces in front of him, the bowed heads and angry eyes alike fixed on him with such intent that they cease to have separate existences, that they merge into a single wall of furious judgment. His gaze slides back, over the heads of the strangers, past the faces he doesn't know and can't recognize; and at the back of the room, as if he had called his name, Simon is lifting his head at last, raising his chin to let the light of the room hit his features with full illumination. There's a flicker of light, the harsh glow of fluorescent white sliding across the weight of dark hair so like the Phantom's own; and then the other's eyes come into focus, and even from across the entire distance of the room the Phantom can feel his blood go cold, can feel his breath catch and stick on sudden, unavoidable horror in his chest.
There's nothing behind Simon's eyes. They're flat, blank, as empty as an unused mirror, shedding focus like water slipping over an oiled surface. There's nothing of justified anger behind them, no trace of the icy, shaking horror that the Phantom heard in all those conversations, no indication of even a fraction of the bitter satisfaction he might expect the other to feel. They're calm, cold, distant and calculating and unreadable as if the face surrounding them is a mask, and it's then that he realizes.
"Oh," Simon Blackquill gasps past horror-chilled lips. "No-" and the floor drops out from under him, the weight of his body sending him into free-fall for a brief, stomach-dropping second before there's a sharp jerk at his neck, a crack of bone snapping cleanly at the sudden force, and whatever he was going to say is lost to black.