A/N: I want to make this clear: I have never played this game. I don't know what it's like, I'm relying on the Ace Attorney Wiki. It's rather adventurous on my part to write a fic for a game that I haven't ever played for myself beforehand, but a while ago I came to know the character Clay Terran, who I immediately found fascinating and inspiring. And then I found he was murdered. And I cried. And then I wrote this for him. And then you clicked on the title. Oh-hohohoho.

He is Not Dead (The Life After Death Turnabout)

Chapter One:

Huston, We Have a Problem

"The soul takes nothing with her to the next world but her education and her culture. At the beginning of the journey to the next world, one's education and culture can either provide the greatest assistance, or else act as the greatest burden, to the person who has just died." - Plato.

When he opened his eyes, there was nothing that Clay Terran felt unfamiliar with. There was the hum of the drives like a pet's gentle purring, the fluorescent lights of the ship that he'd needed to get used to, and the background noise of video monitors and readouts of the teleanalysis instruments buzzing with static. That wasn't anything serious. Clay had inspected the HAT-2 some weeks prior to the launch date and everything was in perfect condition. The static was probably caused by normal interference as he passed the thickest of that tingling ribbon of electromagnetic radiation that kept America connected to the rest of the world.

There was no risk to crossing that river while inside the ship. Spaceships had become bulletproof to that sort of threat since the bill about safe space travel and telecommunications passed after much nagging by the CSC. The International Telecommunication Union had given a big grouchy groan of discontent at having to rewrite a good chunk of the Technical Standards handbook that all nations needed to abide by law, but it was all for a good cause in the end.

Not killing astronauts was a good cause.

Clay got up off the floor. And that's when he realized something wasn't quite… right. First, if he'd gone to sleep inside the ship then he must have gone to his cabin. Because he had one. And why would he sleep on the floor when he indeed had a cabin with a comfortable bed, though it was not as comfortable as the one back in his home, back in Earth. Clay did not know himself to be so lazy to just drop unconscious anywhere. This was a first.

Second, even if he was lazy enough to do something like that, he certainly would have at least gotten out of his suit. Which he was still wearing. One of the gloves was missing though. The right hand one.

Clay reached to touch his head and found his visor in place.

"Wait…" he muttered before a great shock of worry took over. "The samples!"

He looked all around him.

"Damn it! Where are the samples?! Starbuck…!"

The name of the pilot rang hollow against the ship's walls.

Clay glanced all round him in confusion at the silence.

"Starbuck!" he called again. "Hey, Solomon!"

He started walking then. He knew the HAT-2 like he knew his own apartment and got to the control center in a few minutes after checking behind a few doors on his way. A couple of steps before entering the control center he almost felt like after opening the door something terrible would meet him. Perhaps Solomon wasn't in the ship at all, which would mean… what?

When he finally entered he didn't find emptiness, like he thought he would. But he didn't find Solomon either. The person in his seat was a puny girl - the darlingest girl child with a head of bright yellow hair that dangled down to her waist and shimmering black eyes that stared straight ahead into the infinite blackness of space.

Clay was dumbfounded.

"Kid…? Hey kid…?"

The girl peeled her gaze away smoothly, looked at Clay in a way that made him wonder, Had they met before? Except he was sure that wasn't the case. That kid wasn't the type that one would just forget. She had that sort of face that made people wonder what was going on inside her head.

"I'm not a kid," she said. Her voice - raspy and hollow. Was she sick?

"What are you doing here? This is off-limits if you're not a pilot."

"I'm a pilot," the girl responded. "Of sorts."

Yeah, right. Clay gave her a skeptic look.

"Mr. Terran," she began again. "I'm afraid to tell you, you cannot return home."

It took him some time to process some of the nonsense the girl had told him. For one, he was sure that a weakling child couldn't stop him from changing the ship's direction back to Earth. But then he discovered that navigations were shot. The communications unit was inoperable. And any attempt to send a multi-format broadcast message was futile. Nothing worked. He was stranded. Drifting in space. Lost.

"I haven't introduced myself," the girl kept talking at Clay's side, though he had slumped in his pilot's seat some time ago and it was improbable he was listening. "The name that was given to me is Beatrix Burke. But you may call me B.B."

"What's going on?" Clay wondered futilely. "I… I can't even remember boarding… Now that I think about it…"

B.B. shook her head. "You never did, Mr. Terran. I am here to explain things to you. Whatever questions you have, I will answer to my best capacity."

Clay glanced her up and down.

"Who are you?"

"I am B.B.," the girl responded.

"No," Clay reiterated. "I don't mean your name. Who are you? What are you doing here? How did you get here?"

"In order," the girl proceeded, "I am B. B. I am here to be your guide. I am not at liberty to respond."

That was the most ambiguous string of answers Clay had ever heard. But he was smart. Even if it seemed the girl had given him nothing at all, he could surmise that One, he needed to rephrase the first question regarding the girl's identity, because it seemed she took everything quite literally, as if she was socially inept, and that rose a whole different set of queries. Two, the fact that she identified herself as a guide implied that she knew way more than he did, and that was such a vulnerable position to be in that he needed to watch out. And Three, it was implied that somebody else was involved in this calamity.

"OK," Clay took a deep breath, "B. B., who are you to me?"

"I am your guide, Mr. Terran."

Uh-huh.

"How do you know me?"

"I do not know you, Mr. Terran. All I know is your name."

Now that was interesting. The first question - who are you to me? - was answered plain and simple. No extra information added. Whereas the second question - How do you know me? - was also answered in a straightforward way, but B. B. also added that additional answer that all she knew was his name. The way the girl had answered the questions suggested she had a limited sense of basic human cordiality. That was one indicator that she was not human. Either that or she had been raised in a very bizarre environment. But for now Clay was going with the first option.

Her eloquence wasn't through the roof or anything, and though he'd just begun talking to her, it reminded Clay of the obsolete robotic units with limited speech algorithms that he'd seen in a museum once. B. B. though, unlike those relics of the past, was able to detect implied or follow-up questions and saved him time by giving the information 'she' assumed he would want to ask about next.

She wasn't exactly the blinging-and-banging cutedge system type, but she was more than the standard domestic robot norm.

Clay scratched his chin. He decided to test B. B.'s honesty straight away. "Are you human?"

"I am not, Mr. Terran. I am a Placental Decanter, PD. A modified embrio."

Clay shuddered with distaste at all the words. "That's so illegal," he said to her. "You are so illegal B. B. So very, very illegal. Who made you?"

"In order - Clay quirked an eyebrow -, I am outside human jurisdiction, as are you Mr. Terran. And, I am not at liberty to say."

Wait a second. He had asked only one question this time around. But B. B. had answered as if he'd given her more than one question, like before. That could mean she - her input-output system - was kind of goodo but nothing to make the technicians back in the CSC groove. B. B. had detected an implied question in how he had declared her illegal and had responded in the format of answering several questions in one go.

And finally, whomever it was that had sent B. B. to him did not want their identity revealed.

"Where is Solomon Starbuck?" Clay asked.

"He is not here, nor will he be joining us soon."

"But he will?"

B. B. nodded, which indicated she had some knowledge of human behavior. "In due time."

"Anyone else?"

"Everyone," B. B. replied simply. "Everyone joins sooner or later."

A chill. The way she had said that - why did it make him feel such dread?

"Where am I?"

"You are in space Mr. Terran, a projection of it. This is your personal experience of the afterlife."

Hold your frigging horses.

"What?" Clay nearly screamed.

B. B. nodded again. "You are dead, Mr. Terran. You were murdered."