Simon Blackquill was not so naïve as to not realize that his regained freedom came with a hefty price tag. However, it only gradually dawned on him that he himself would be the one inadvertently driving up this price.
Things began with the celebration at Eldoon's Noodles the very evening on which he had been relieved from his shackles. He had been supposed to prepare himself for his final march, down the hall from his cell to the execution chamber, at this point; instead, he was outside, under the vast night sky, a bowl of steaming noodles in his hands. Everyone around him was laughing and having a good time, including Athena, who had taken a seat next to him. Notably, no one was volunteering to sit on the vacant chair on his other side.
Simon said little, pretending to concentrate on his food, as he was not entirely certain how to join the good-natured conversation. Freedom felt alien after seven long years behind bars, as bizarre as the lightness of his wrists.
Finally, Justice, sitting a few chairs down the merry round, gathered the courage to address him directly.
"So, um, Prosecutor Blackquill…? What are you gonna do now that you're free?"
The insolent smirk which he had always employed in his dealings with others for multiple years now came to his face all but automatically.
"We shall cross blades in court again after tonight, now that my life has been spared – and I would suggest that you stay on your guard, lest I cut you down due to lack of preparation, Justice-dono."
The young defense attorney blanched slightly. "Jeez, I was just asking…"
After Justice had turned away to converse with the Fey girl, Athena surreptitiously elbowed Simon in the side, but deliberately made no eye contact with him when he glanced over at her in surprise. The message was clear: Stop scaring my co-worker.
He let out a huff of breath and looked away. Perhaps his words had been too confrontational, but they had emerged by themselves. Apologies, on the other hand, felt wholly unnatural, like conceding a battle. He had already surrendered in that manner earlier at court, and he was not in the habit of taking back things he said if not under severe duress. Not anymore.
This is who I am now.
Two days later, after the predictable news storm around his exoneration, decided in an unofficial trial forced by a hostage situation, had reached its zenith, Simon had to participate in a press conference called by Chief Prosecutor Edgeworth.
"This is as distasteful for me as it is for you, Mr. Blackquill," his superior confessed just prior to emerging into the large room set aside for this purpose, now filled with journalists. "Unfortunately, this is the only way to attempt setting the record straight."
The record – a pleasantly neutral word for various articles' speculations that Simon's release was just another symptom of the dark age of the law. That he had either managed to manipulate those who had fought for his verdict of 'not guilty,' or that those in charge of the justice system had conspired to keep one of their more useful puppets alive for the time being.
Simon knew his expression to be as grim as Edgeworth's when he nodded. A moment later, the two prosecutors entered the room through a side door, and were immediately inundated by camera flashes.
At first, the Chief Prosecutor spoke alone, guiding the journalists through the UR-1 retrial, which had not been accessible to the press. Every piece of evidence, every step which had been taken in the proceedings, was painstakingly explained.
Finally, the time to open up the floor for questions came, and predictably, one of the reporters spoke up with a question for Simon.
"Prosecutor Blackquill, I'm sure you are aware of the fact that many don't believe in your innocence, and will probably continue to suspect that you escaped execution due to foul play. After all, that technique Ms. Cykes used on you… who's to say that your words on the stand were legit and she wasn't conspiring with you? How is the public supposed to know that you and her weren't pawning off the guilt on a third party? Also, we have no official statement from the so-called 'Phantom,' seeing that he got conveniently shot…"
The journalist never got to his inquiry, as he was interrupted by a bark of laughter. Simon pierced the young man with a penetrating stare, a derisive smirk on his face.
"Hmph. People believe what they wish to believe. Occam's razor dictates that among competing explanations, the one with the fewest assumptions is the true one – but if you and your audience feel differently, let's just say that this, too, works in my favor. Should one convinced of my guilt find themselves involved in a crime which I am prosecuting in court, I assume that they will be very cooperative during their interrogation."
That statement got more than one of the present reporters to swallow nervously.
Now, Chief Prosecutor Edgeworth saw the need to jump into the worried silence which suddenly filled the room.
"I have to agree with Mr. Blackquill's overall assessment of the situation. We can do nothing but present the evidence to you, and hope to allay suspicion in that manner. If members of the general public still choose to see a conspiracy behind everything that has happened, we won't be able to change their opinion."
Simon nodded sharply after his superior had ended the rephrasing of his initial statement, knowing that Edgeworth had attempted to soften his words. However, he was also perfectly aware that the press would not go easy on him, no matter what he said. He had been a perfect story hook for years, first as a major headline, then increasingly as fodder for slow news days, but the bemoaning of the 'dark age of the law' had always featured him as one of its causes, as well as a primary symptom. To hope that they would buy into his innocence now would have been optimistic to the point of feeblemindedness.
No reporter addressed him for further statements, and when they finally left to get back to their offices, the downturned corners of his superior's mouth told Simon that this press conference had not gone as well as Edgeworth had expected.
A week passed. At the moment, Simon was living at a hotel near the prosecutor's building, which was commonly used by those of his profession who were in a marital dispute or could not return home for other reasons. Chief Prosecutor Edgeworth was well-acquainted with the proprietor, apparently a former bellboy at the prestigious Gatewater Hotel, and had convinced him that his charge posed no danger regardless of the scandal-mongering rubbish the papers had printed after the unfortunate press conference.
Finding a landlord who did not share the misgivings the coverage had reaffirmed proved to be difficult; Simon suspected that he would depend on this hotel for a while yet, until the general public realized that he would not suddenly cut someone down in cold blood. Only time would provide sufficient proof for this.
He was beginning to feel more at home at the office than at his current dwelling, which caused him to work late hours and weekends, bringing him into frequent contact with his colleagues who did likewise.
Of these prosecutors, Klavier Gavin ended up in quiet conversations with him more than once. Simon had not thought particularly highly of the blond rock star back in the old days. When he had first joined the prosecutor's office after passing the bar, Gavin had already been working there, hailed as a prodigy for prosecuting his first case at the age of 17 and almost unstandably smug due to constantly being in the limelight, buying into his own hype. However, in the last two years, multiple factors had put a damper on the younger prosecutor's attitude. For one, there had been the fact that his almost-win back then had been made possible by forged evidence Gavin's brother had commissioned and planted, and for another, the Gavinners had been disbanded after the guitarist, Daryan Crescend, had been found guilty of murder. At this point, Gavin was surprisingly down-to-earth, earnest, and, most importantly, not intimidated by Simon whatsoever. Perhaps this was why he found himself talking to the German on a regular basis, even if their conversation topics were not always the most intellectually stimulating.
Tonight, Gavin was prattling on about his regular visits to a nearby fitness studio, which had opened recently.
"It's a 24-hour place, state-of-the-art machines, running track, indoor basketball courts, and an Olympic-sized pool in the basement. Would you care to join me one of these days, Herr Blackquill?"
Simon let out a cynical huff. "And be treated to the other patrons hiding behind the exercise equipment at the sight of me? Don't be ridiculous."
Gavin's facial expression became surprisingly grave in an instant. "Ja, that situation is probably hard to avoid at first…"
He understands. Simon was taken aback. Perhaps notoriety always led to the urge to avoid others, regardless of how it was achieved and how it manifested. Perhaps he had misjudged what lay underneath the tanned and stylish façade for far longer than he had surmised.
And maybe, just maybe, letting himself be seen in a commonplace setting, accompanied by another person who did not cower before him, would eventually return normalcy to his life.
A small smile crept onto his lips. "… I might take you up on your invitation at a later time, Gavin-dono."
In return, he was treated to a megawatt version of his own smile – and a hand on his upper arm.
Barely hearing the platitude Gavin uttered (something like "I'm glad to hear that," though he would never be entirely sure), Simon tensed and growled under his breath, "Unhand me at once, if you would like to remain in possession of your fingers."
He regretted his words right away when the other man drew his hand back as if burned, a somewhat shocked expression on his face.
It was an unfortunate reflex, learned over more than half a decade of imprisonment – in the clink, physical contact between inmates was met with sanctions in most contexts, as a handshake could hide drug transactions, and a harmless, inadvertent push could snowball into a major confrontation. The only people who had touched Simon during this time had been guards and the counterfeit Fool Bright, to lead him to the visitation room, to the warden's office, to the courtroom. Touch meant an assertion of power from everyone but Athena, as her hand on his arm reminded him of that of an 11-year-old, quiet girl. Gavin was many things, but a guileless, preteen child, he was not.
No words of apology would come until the moment to utter them had passed.
Simon silently turned and strode away, closing his office door behind him.