Full summary: The UR-1 retrial was only a stepping stone for what would become a significantly more complex battle, on personal and professional levels for those who had become involved in it. In the weeks following Simon Blackquill's release and Phantom's detainment, a mysterious organisation known as SEIL steps in to call for the spy's extradition. The Prosecutors' Office and Interpol agree to collaborate to solve a series of international mysteries and figure out Phantom's identity and origin. But some things are best left alone, unsolved, as they race against time to salvage the truth lain in the past.
Author's Note: Just to note, I write in standard British English so where applicable, some spellings may differ from what you may see in-game or in American English, and I'll be using metric units too.
Rated M for terrorist elements, discussions of mental health issues, and implied sexual content.
Cover art credit: Holey on Tumblr.
I'd also briefly like to note that any feedback is appreciated. I'm aware this is quite a niche story, so any constructive criticism or comments would be helpful. I've not embarked on such a project as this before, to extend canon and write a multi-chapter story of this calibre. If not in review format, then feel free to drop me a PM - I do like hearing what my readers think. Thank you, and enjoy reading!
Prologue: Videotape
December 2, 2027
The sounds of an apartment door clicking shut and a happy relieved sigh ricocheted off the paper-thin walls, bouncing off the grey-scale gradients painted orange and yellow by the dim hues of sunlight struggling to dip down the horizon.
Bobby Fulbright had had a good day; he'd helped a little old lady with her groceries first thing in the morning, and Chief Gumshoe had said he was pleased with his conduct, and he'd closed that robbery case with one of the rookie detectives.
Except…
Bobby Fulbright was dead.
Eagle River had claimed his body a year ago, swallowed him up whole. He was never, ever going to be found again.
'Bobby Fulbright', on the other hand...Well, he was exhausted from his long but productive day, and he felt deserving of a nice bubble bath and some Chinese food. He had served justice today, after all!
Justice...and yet he was still nowhere close to finding Blackquill's psychological report on him. And...he was fast running out of time, because Prosecutor Blackquill was going to be executed in—
But 'Bobby' didn't dwell on that! Work was left in the workplace, and home stuff...at home.
'Bobby' looked around his tiny cramped apartment. It was about the size of a postage stamp, with cracks in the walls and palm fronds brushing against the cheap window panes. Good thing Bobby Fulbright no longer had to worry about supporting a family on his meagre salary.
He scampered into the bathroom and turned on the taps, drawing a bath. Steam rose from the tub, fogging up the windows and mirrors. It was now that 'Bobby' could feel comfortable in undressing; he did not know — nor want or care to know — what lurked behind this face. Perhaps one time he did have a face to a name and a name to a face, but that was far off in the past, abandoned somewhere, sometime.
He peeled off the silicone and then off went the platform shoes and the too-white suit, leaving him with an unremarkable, pale figure. This was all that was left from a time long gone, and even then, the human body could always be modified with exercise or overeating, porcelain or dark skin, battlefield scars or flawless features.
That dastardly scar on his hand was certainly still there somewhere though.
'Bobby' turned around, coming face to face with a record player perched on a rickety shelf beside some toiletries. He brought the needle to the record, and jazz began to spill out, cello thrummings and saxophone melodies curling about the bathroom, licking at the tiles, lapping at the ceramic furnishings.
Bobby Fulbright had liked to collect jazz records — Duke Ellington and such — and play them in his apartment at full blast, if his surveillance had been anything to go by. Bobby Fulbright had greatly enjoyed music, had been the life and soul of the party…
Bobby Fulbright was still very much dead, and there wouldn't be a funeral for him anytime soon.
Well...there would be one, if 'Bobby' could get his hands on that damned psych report! Maybe he should get a stay of execution to—
No!
He would not think about that right now.
But...maybe 'Bobby' would enjoy the last moments he would have with Blackquill, regardless. Blackquill was being uncharacteristically nice lately, and he was allowing him to visit him in his cell and stay till very late at night...
It was just for work, of course. Work, which meant prying into Blackquill's private life, trying to tear down those high concrete walls around his heart, peeling back that facade…
Blackquill wasn't very forthcoming there though, and 'Bobby' could only gather so much from their meetings.
Oh well.
'Bobby' turned the taps, and stepped into the scalding water. Then he picked up the rubber duckies — another thing Bobby Fulbright had loved to collect — that lined the tub and threw them into the water with him.
He sat in the bathtub until his fingers became pruney like raisins and his voice grew scratchy and hoarse from the stupid tale he was enacting with all his rubber duckies; Prosecutor Mallard had provided the court with decisive evidence, aided by Detective Duck and the pathologist, Doctor Quack, which allowed Judge Fowl to render a guilty verdict.
There was some method to the madness; Bobby Fulbright had apparently relaxed in this manner, if his surveillance had been anything to go by.
Of course...Bobby Fulbright had also had children who had been young enough to know the joy of rubber duckies and a wife who had loved jazz.
Not that 'Bobby' would know anything about those things.
The record stopped, and he got out of the tub. 'Bobby' watched as the soapy water disappeared down the drain, sucked into an underworld that was all too familiar to him. He then dried off, dressed in loungewear, and padded into the living room where he ordered Chinese takeout.
The food came quickly — orange chicken and egg rolls — and he sat to eat on the sagging red leather couch, watching some mindless episodes of some mind-numbing reality TV show about rich housewives in Beverly Hills with boatloads of money whining about trivial matters.
All throughout, something nagged 'Bobby' in the back of his mind; he had something to do.
He knew he had something to do, and he'd been putting it off, much like a disillusioned teenager would procrastinate on their school assignment out of dislike for their teacher or the subject.
He was procrastinating because it was another assignment, interfering with his current tasks. It just added to the pile but… 'Bobby' was being paid quite handsomely for it.
His dinner finished, he moved into the small box-like bedroom, where his suitcase lay. He closed the blinds and began his preparations.
He set up a camera with a tripod by the door, scattered the takeaway boxes on the tiled floor — why Bobby Fulbright had chosen to live in an apartment with such furnishings, he would never know — and then, the pièce de résistance, he put on his trusty Noh mask.
Well, it wasn't his Noh mask, but oh, how he could picture the expression on Blackquill's face if he turned up to work like this!
'Bobby' could very easily remember those bright brown eyes, those deft fingers drawing for a sword and—
Metis Cykes slumped on the operating table. Dead to the world.
An unfortunate liability.
An unfortunate liability and yet he had inherited an excellent mask, its craftsmanship second to none. And that katana — now residing in some evidence locker deep in the precinct's bowels — had been absolutely exquisite; it had cut through her like butter!
Such glee was unbecoming of him. It was probably Blackquill's impending death that was causing him to reminisce like this.
'Bobby' turned on the camera and moved to sit cross-legged on the floor.
It was recording now. So he schooled his features behind the mask into a serious expression.
Now he was no longer 'Bobby'. Now he was…
Someone. Anyone. No one.
Somebody. Anybody. Nobody.
He cleared his throat, and began to speak, the words flowing out crisp and clear.
"This is to be a short recording. I do not intend to take up much of your time, dear viewer. I'm just here to deliver a message: we cannot go on like this.
"And when I say 'we', I mean we as a society cannot go on like this. This world is sadly a corrupt, polluted, and miserable place. Ordinary people have become disillusioned with the status quo; with elites making decisions for them, and parliamentarians rubber-stamping decisions made by military governments, crippling whole regions in a vicious never-ending cycle of arms races and mutually assured destruction.
"You may say I am a paranoid populist for airing my concerns here. Of course, I am also being purposefully vague here, but certain individuals will know precisely what I'm talking about. I will divulge that I am a member of an organisation that, on paper, does not exist. An organisation that has fought for a just cause: to destroy the old guard so that we may pave way for the forces of new.
"I admit it has not been an easy feat, especially for a little man such as myself who has had to resort to certain extreme measures. But...I am an optimist.
"You see, there is a proverb that I heard once, long ago, in a time and place I can no longer recall: one swallow does not make a summer. So, naturally, I do not expect progress to be quick and efficient.
"But…let us just say there are ways to speed up that process. And that is for you to find out, and for me to know. When that time comes...you will know what to do. After all…"
He thrust his fist at the camera.
"In justice we trust!" he boomed out.
The camera beeped rapidly, like a bomb about to detonate. The recording was over.
'Bobby' pulled off the mask and let out a tired exhale. Done. Now all that was left was save it on his computer and upload it. Then...his next orders would come, just as soon as he was finished with his current assignment.
Whenever that was to be. He really hoped he wasn't too late.
The palm fronds outside smacked against the window panes. A loud thump-thump, somewhat akin to those stories about things that went bump in the night, stories that Bobby Fulbright read to his children at about this hour too.
He rose, padded to the door, and switched the room light off.
Back he went to his jazz records, his threadbare couch, and his terrible TV shows.
Back he went to being Bobby Fulbright.