"Trucy, are you sure you know what you're doing...?"

"Of course I'm sure! I've been practicing for a long time, in case you missed it!"

"Then why do you have to practice more on me?"

"Prosecutor Blackquill gave me some tips I want to try out. He says I should flick my wrist a certain way. Don't worry, I already tried with other targets and I got them most times!"

"Most times is not enough! Athena, won't you say some- stop grinning like that!"

Athena snickers, a hand pressing over her mouth. There are few things as amusing as watching Trucy forcing Apollo to help her practice her tricks – even when said tricks are... well, potentially dangerous. But then again it didn't happen too often to see Apollo with his back against the wall, balancing an apple on his head and worriedly staring at the throwing knife in Trucy's hand.

"Aw, don't worry. She's good. You'll be safe. Besides, Simon taught her. There is nothing to worry about."

Apollo drops his shoulders, nearly causing the apple to fall off his head. "Are you serious? In my books that's one more reason to be worried. I wouldn't be surprised if he suggested her to hit me on purpose."

Athena brings a hand up to her mouth, pretending to be shocked. Truth to be told, she wouldn't be surprised to know he suggested her to do just that: his sense of humor is more than slightly morbid. "Sacré bleu! The nerve! Are you truly saying he'd be capable of a such thing?"

"Yes."

Trucy grins, twirling the knife between her fingers. "Well, he said something about trying to cut off his antennae with a good throw, really... but I'll stick with the apple. For now."

"How about sticking to a good, old-fashioned target?" Apollo mutters.

"Or we could paint one on your forehead. It's so big and shiny!" Athena suggests innocently, and grins at Apollo's exasperated look.

"You've been hanging with Prosecutor Gavin again, haven't you?" he grumbles.

"Ja."

"Don't you have anything else to talk about? Like, don't know, trials? Evidence? German jargon?"

"We also talk a lot about your hair. And the face you make when you lose faith in humanity. Yup, that one!"

"Enough talking! I've got to practice here," Trucy speaks up, lifting the knife. "C'mon, Polly, keep still..."

"Wha-? No, wait-" Apollo starts, but he's cut off by the sound of the front door opening. That immediately prompts Trucy to hide the knife and do her best to look totally innocent, which is not surprise: Athena knows Mr. Wright is not a big fan of tricks that involve weapons. But it's not Mr. Wright to show up: it's a short girl with brown hair tied in loops and unmistakable clothes.

"Pearl!" Trucy exclaims, and Athena can feel relief coming out of Apollo in waves as she seemingly forgets all about him and runs to the door.

Pearl gives her usual timid smile when she hugs her, and she has barely enough time to say 'hi' before Trucy gives her a quick peck on the lips. Athena doesn't need Widget to register the peak of happiness, either. And it's not like one would need Apollo's gift to notice the blush spreading on her cheeks.

"Hey, Pearl!" she exclaims, standing from the couch. "It's been a while!"

"It's been forever," Trucy proclaims, clinging to Pearl in a way that reminds Athena of a koala.

"It's been just a couple of weeks," Pearl protests, her shy smile melting in a slight frown when she looks around. "Enough for you to stop cleaning up after yourselves, though."

"Hey, don't look at me," Apollo mutters, giving the apple a bite now that it's clear Trucy isn't up to practice anymore. "I've cleaned the toilet all the time. Cleaned it good."

"Well, and I have watered Charley," Athena says quickly. Pearl is adorable most of the time, but she's someone no one would want to make angry. She grins. "Come to think of it, Mr. Wright and Trucy have been slacking off a lot on the cleaning..."

"Hey!" Trucy protests before turning back to Pearl with her best puppy dog eyes. "That's not true! And besides, how can you be angry at your special someone?"

That causes the frown to melt in a child-like giggle. Athena can't blame her: staying angry at Trucy is hard enough even when she's not your girlfriend. Which reminds her... "Say, when are you going to tell Mr. Wright anyway?" she asks, glancing at Trucy.

"In a bit," she says, grinning at her somewhat mischievously. She seems to be getting a lot of fun out of watching Mr. Wright squirm over her vague mentions of 'seeing someone'. Athena finds it a bit cruel, but Apollo doesn't seem to mind: he rather likes it when someone other than him is the butt of the joke.

The mention of Mr. Wright causes Pearl to suddenly step back, something not too far away from a manic look in her eyes. "That's why I'm here! Mystic Maya will be coming over next week! We need to prepare," she announces.

Athena can hear Apollo start snickering for a moment before he conveniently turns it into a coughing fit. She can't blame him, though – the amount of awkwardness Trucy and Pearl's determination to get Mr. Wright and Maya Fey together has caused in the past couple of years gave them more than a few excuses to have a laugh at Mr. Wright's expenses. While Pearl is adamant in her certainty that Mr. Wright must be Maya's special someone, Trucy seems to be determined to make Maya her new mother.

And neither will take a no for an answer.

As Trucy and Pearl scurry to the next room to discuss their next battle plan to throw Mr. Wright and Maya Fey in each other's arms, Apollo chuckles. "I wonder what they'll come up with this time. I hope it will be better thought out than the time they signed them up for a survival course together."

Athena shudders at the memory. "Yeah, same. Almost dying together doesn't seem really romantic to me," she says before smiling a bit. "Glad Maya is coming over, though. It's been a while," she adds. While they don't know each other that much – as the Master of the Kurain Channeling Technique, she doesn't get to visit them very often; it's actually more likely for Mr. Wright and Trucy to go to Kurain on weekends, really, with her and Apollo going along from time to time.

Still, she likes her... and most of all, she's grateful to her. She gave her something she didn't expect she could ever possibly have, something she never even dreamed of – the chance of seeing her mother again, to talk to her, to hold her. She had cried so much her eyes burned for hour afterwords, but she had also smiled and laughed and then cried some more.

And Simon... well, his stoic composure had broken pretty quickly, really. It would have been impossible for it not to, not with all the emotions raging in his heart; Athena had realized soon enough how much Simon had needed that last meeting, that last goodbye. He had needed it even more than she did.

… Which reminds her, she hasn't heard from Simon in a bit; not since their visit to LaRoche's grave the previous week. She knows he's been busy looking into Stan Doff's murder, but nothing more. Maybe she should give him a call, she thinks.

Just to see what he's been up to.

"... Therefore, with nothing linking Doff's death to his job, I was denied access to any YggdraCorp facility."

Blackquill doesn't truly bother to hide his frustration as he finishes talking: he is frustrated, sure enough, and there is no point in hiding it from the Chief Prosecutor. Who, on the other hand, doesn't really look fazed: he's been just listening in silence, occasionally sipping his tea.

"I suppose this means the investigation is stalled," he says.

Blackquill nods. "Unfortunately, yes. There truly is no other lead to follow, but we don't have any solid proof. There is something odd in the way his body decayed, as Skye's tests have confirmed, but no one can tell precisely what it is and what may have caused his body to rot while he was still alive. As things stand, YggdraCorp is under no obligation to give us any information – much less to let us inside their offices."

"On that you are correct," Edgeworth says, taking his cup of tea away from his lips and back on his desk. "Under normal circumstances and without any clear lead to tell us his job may be in any way involved in his murder, YggdraCorp has every right to keep us out of their facilities."

Blackquill raises an eyebrow, his curiosity piqued. "I take it there is something that could make the circumstances... less than normal?" he asks. He's not surprised when Edgeworth nods.

"Yes. It involves the Interpol." That causes Blackquill to blink, honestly taken aback.

"The Interpol?" he repeats. What does the Interpol have to do with this?

Edgeworth nods. "Yes. I believe I mentioned Agent Lang a few times to you, didn't I?"

He did, and Blackquill remembers it clearly. It was thanks to Agent Lang's intervention that they were allowed to retain custody of LaRoche instead of having to hand him over. In exchange of information, of course, but LaRoche provided it quite readily in exchange for the one thing he wanted – his identity.

If Robert LaRoche could face death as his own person, it's also thanks to Agent Lang.

"Yes," Blackquill says quietly. "I remember."

"I must admit I don't know the details yet," Edgeworth says. "But I know something he was investigating in a country called Reijam leads to Stan Doff. I'm certain Agent Lang will be glad to give your further information as soon as he's here. Which, truth to be told, was supposed to be several minutes ag-"

A knock at the door cuts him off, causing him to chuckle. "I should have imagined this would happen," he mutters before calling out. "Do come in."

The door opens, and Blackquill recognizes the man who steps in right away. They never met in person, but he's seen his picture in a couple of reports from the Interpol. Of course, he wasn't wearing those curious sunglasses in any of them. "Agent Lang," the Chief Prosecutor greets him. "It's been some time."

"Mr. Prosecutor," Lang says, bringing his hands together and briefly bowing his head in Edgeworth's direction before he walks up to the desk and comes to stand next to Blackquill. "Looks like fate brought us back together. A shame you'd rather sit behind a desk rather than joining the hunt this time around," he adds.

Chief Prosecutor Edgeworth chuckles. "I have other duties to perform, I'm afraid, but it matters not. I'm certain Prosecutor Blackquill will be up to the challenge. He's currently investigating Stan Doff's death."

That causes Agent Lang to turn his attention to Blackquill for the first time since the moment he stepped in. He stares at him with a frown for a few moments, then his frown melts and turns into a smirk. "So we finally meet; I've heard much of you," he says, and bows his head slightly. "A man willing to put his life on the line to protect his mentor's pup is one deserving of respect. I'm certain we'll get along, you and I."

Blackquill finds himself returning the smirk. He doesn't instinctively like many people, but Agent Lang seems to be one of the exceptions. "I'm sure we will. May I ask what has brought the Interpol on this case?"

Lang's smirk melts into a serious expression. "It's a long story. Mind if we put that nice couch you've got to use, Mr. Prosecutor?" he asks, turning to glance at Edgeworth. "I've been up and running for a while now. Lang Zi says: keep your limbs strong and ready to leap for the kill."

Edgeworth gives him an amused look. "I'd have offered you a seat even without Lang Zi's endorsement, Agent Lang. Do make yourself comfortable and explain us the details."

And explain he does. Blackquill listens in silence as Lang speaks of a long investigation to uncover and bring to an end the wide-spread use of humans as guinea pigs to test dangerous substances in several countries.

"We believe all these tests are aimed to test something dangerous. By all means not a medicine," Lang says. "We knew the experiments happened, but we couldn't figure out who was truly behind it all. We found our first solid lead in the Republic of Reijam; a local politician was likely to be involved. But before we could get to him, he died... oddly."

"Define 'oddly'," Blackquill says, but he's starting to guess what it may be about.

"There was no wound on him. None at all. It could have looked all the world like heart failure, hadn't his body been as rotten as his soul. But he had been seen alive only a short time earlier; not enough time had passed to explain his body's state of decay. Does it sound familiar, Prosecutor Blackquill?"

It does, of course. It sounds very, very familiar. "Stan Doff's body presented the same problem," he says. "Someone in our precinct's forensic squad has brought up the possibility his body may have started to rot while he was still alive. But how would you know that? This is a local crime. How did the Interpol find a connection so quickly?"

Lang gives a barking laugh. "Sharp as a fang, this one," he says approvingly. "The short answer is, we didn't. We found something else that connected this case to ours; finding out how Mr. Doff died only made the connection more obvious to us."

Now that's interesting, and good to know. The more they find to connect Stan Doff to the Interpol's case, the more chances there are that YggdraCorp will have to yield and allow them to take their investigation to their offices. "What did you find?"

Lang scowls. "We found a facility," he says. "One of those where humans were experimented on. We knew that was what happened in there. But by the time we got there, there was no one left in. No one, and nothing. They left the place taking everything they could move with them."

"Do you think they were warned of your arrival beforehand?"

Lang seems to hesitate for a moment. "Perhaps," he says, then turns back to Edgeworth. "She was there before us. We found traces of her DNA in there. Hell knows what she may have been up to."

That causes Blackquill to blink in confusion. Wasn't this about Stan Doff? "Her?" he repeats, gaze moving from Lang to Edgeworth and then back to Lang. "Who's her?"

Agent Lang turns back to him with a bitter scowl. "A snake in a woman's body, that's what she is," he mutters. "She used to be my second in command, once. My trusted right hand. My trust was horribly misplaced, however; she was a mole sent to infiltrate the Interpol. Failing to realize that is still my greatest failure. She escaped the clutches of justice years ago; I won't rest until I catch her again," Lang says, and gives a faint smirk. "I suppose it's useless to tell you, of all people, how little her betrayal was appreciated."

Blackquill nods at him. He can understand, and how. He knows more then he'd like of broken trust and betrayal. He knows how deep it can cut: it cut him to the bone, after all.

"No, you don't," he finds himself saying. "I fully understand. I'll give all the help I can so that she can be apprehended. But I need to know – how does Stan Doff figure in all this?"

The scowl on Agent Lang's face fades slightly, but not entirely. "We found a finger print," he says. "They didn't wipe every surface accurately enough, and a few prints stayed. Most of them couldn't be identified, but one was – and it belongs to Stan Doff. The print places him in a facility where, we strongly suspect, human beings were experimented on against their will. Not only that, but his death bears striking similarities to that of a man we know was involved. There was more than enough to link the two cases."

"And you believe YggdraCorp may be involved," Blackquill says. It's easy to see why: they're dealing with experiments on human beings, and a man involved worked for nanobiology company that's already proved itself less than willing to cooperate with the law enforcement.

Lang gives a somewhat feral smile. "You bet we do. Now, Mr. Prosecutor here told me you were having trouble investigating YggdraCorp's LA offices," he says, smile widening. "I can put a remedy to that."

Well, isn't that good news. "That would be most appreciated," Blackquill says. "I have to warn you, though – they'll try to cling to even the smallest rule in fine print to keep you out. Are you certain the Interpol's authority will be enough to make them yield?"

The other man throws back his head and laughs. "Oh, it will be. If it was enough to make a country's ruler strip their war hero of his ambassadorship, you can bet it will be enough to make YggdraCorp open its doors," he says, and smirks again. Blackquill notices for the first time how similar to fangs his teeth are. "Just leave it to me."

Outis doesn't mind long flights at all.

He finds them relaxing, actually. While his way of life requires him to be connected and all too aware of what's going on around him – you don't last for long if you're not, after all – long flights are a much appreciated break. A World War could break out beneath him and he wouldn't know at all until landing, so there is no point in worrying about anything at all. It's like putting reality on hold for a time.

Not bad.

Outis sits back with a satisfied sigh and, after giving a polite nod at the woman sitting next to him and a warm smile to the child on her lap, he turns to glance at the clouds outside to proceed forgetting all about the situation at hand. At least for a time, until the plan lands in Los Angeles and reality calls him back to work, he can allow himself the luxury and indulge into fond memories.

He supposes most people wouldn't precisely call them fond memories, but then again he's not most people.

Undisclosed training ground, 2011

The man – who goes by Umber, for now; he's had many names and he'll have more in the future, no doubt, but this one works right now – quite likes watching the newest recruits fight.

Hand to hand combat is one of the first things they teach, and a good basis to determine who is going to make good spy material and who's doomed to fail. While it's not the most important skill for a spy, being capable in combat – any kind, from hand-to-hand to weapons – is still something they value... and good to evaluate the subject's attitude. Quick-thinking and versatility are both very important for a spy, after all, and a fight was the best way to see whether or not a candidate had either.

The ones who're fighting now are evenly matched for now, both of them fast and fairly capable for people who had little to no training until a short time ago; for a while it seems like a dance, as they come together and move apart, weaving and circling each other, looking for a weak spot and trying to exploit it before spinning away to circle again.

This won't do in a mission, of course. Spies are not supposed to get into long fights: when taking down someone is necessary they're supposed to do so as quickly as possible, even without weapons. But there is time to teach them how to do that: for now, what he really wants to see is what potential they have.

Although, he has to admit, there is one in particular he's interested in. Umber leans a little on the balcony he's standing on and looks a little further down the yard, where what are referred to as 'the new ones' are standing in two separate lines, watching the fight as well.

Johan – not his name, but he can't remember his own and it's the one he was using when he was taken in, so it will do for now – is standing right at the front of one of the lines. He'll be next, but he shows no nervousness. Actually, he shows nothing. As usual.

He seems to unnerve his fellow trainees, but that's no surprise: he unnerved some people on higher positions than Umber's, actually.

"You were supposed to kill him, if anything," one of his superiors had told him after calling him to his office, Johan's evaluation papers in his hands. "Not to recruit him."

Umber had laughed. "I couldn't resist, I'm afraid. He's an interesting case. I think he has plenty of potential."

"Plenty of potential to backfire on us," his superior had grunted. "We know nothing about him. Nothing."

"Neither does he, for the matter. Isn't that interesting?"

"And dangerous."

"For whoever we set him against, yes. He was a killer for hire; he won't shy away from murder when it's needed. He was skilled enough to go unnoticed for quite some time. A master of disguise, and he did it all on his own. If properly trained, he'll become the perfect spy."

"That's what you say."

"Have I ever been wrong on a recruit so far?"

There was a moment of silence, then the other man had sighed. "There is always a first time. Have you seen his psychological evaluation? It's basically one damn huge question mark. No past. No emotions. Nothing. The closest they got to define him was, and I quote, 'a textbook sociopath'; and even that isn't quite correct."

"I could tell as much without psychological evaluations," Umber had said dismissively.

"Why did you pick him?"

A shrug. "You could say he piqued my interest. He's unlike anyone else I've met. Wouldn't you agree?"

His superior had sighed again, putting down the paper and leaning back on his seat. "You're supposed to choose potential spies, not to pick up monstersfor your amusement."

"This will be our monster," Umber had said, although he meant that only partially. He had found him... and, if the suspect that had slithered its way in his mind turned out to be true, he may as well have made him. As far as he was concerned, this was his monster.

"Monsters aren't as easily controlled as we'd like."

"I will be easier than you may think. He's a creature of logic; that makes him more predictable once you understand his mindset."

"That's the point. We don't understand it."

Umber had grinned. "I believe I do. You say he's empty, and that's true. He's a hollow shell, cold logic in a human hide. Each and every other recruit – each and every of us, even – has a past and a name they learn to conceal and emotions they learn to control. But this one... this one has none of it. The others must be taught to reshape themselves when needed; he is emptiness ready to be filled with something. And that something can be anything we wish. Let me train him," he had added, causing his superior to blink.

"Train him? You? But you don't usually-"

"I'd like to make an exception, sir. Once his basic training is done with, let me supervise the rest. I'll make the perfect weapon out of him. He'll be a masterpiece."

My masterpiece.

His superior had stared at him for a few moments before letting out another sigh. "Very well. If he's found fit to pass on to further training, he'll be yours to deal with. Just make sure this... toy of yours doesn't turn around to bite your hand. Is that clear?"

Umber had smiled. "Crystal."

"ENOUGH!"

The shot coming from the yard snaps him from his reminiscing. Umber looks down to see that the fight is over at last, one of the opponents on the ground and holding his bleeding nose. He doesn't stay on the ground for long, though: he stands and, with a grimace of pain, goes to stand on the back of the row along with the winner. A gesture of the woman who's supervising them, and two more step forward: a tall young man with dark hair... and Johan.

He and his opponent seem to be rather fairly matched when it comes to size, the other man only slightly taller than him. That's intentional: this is meant to see how they take on someone whose strength roughly matches theirs, after all.

Umber leans a little forward, staring at Johan intently. He's showing nothing at all, as always, and Umber can tell it's because he's feeling nothing at all: nothing there but the cold logic Umber finds so fascinating. He doesn't even move when the other starts circling him, nor he bothers to take a defensive stance of any kind.

He stands there, arms relaxed down his sides and no expression, waiting.

And then his opponent charges, kicking up dirt and dust, arm pulled back to deliver a powerful right hook – or at least what would be one if his fist hit its intended target. It doesn't, because just one instant before the impact Johan dodges, snake-quick and not having even bothered to bring up his hands for defense; had he been just a fraction slower, the punch would have smashed in his unprotected face.

He was too confident to even doubt for a moment that he would be able to dodge the blow, Umber realizes, and smirks to himself. Confident, and fearless. He doesn't feel fear. He feels nothing.

Our monster.

His opponent must have expected him to dodge, and he's remarkably quick to turn and try to reach for his neck, using the failed blow's momentum to try catching Johan in a choke-hold without making himself vulnerable to a counter-attack. But that attempt fails, too: he's fast, but Johan is faster. He dodges the second strike as well... and then the next, and the one after that.

Soon enough, it's clear that Johan has no intention to try striking back just yet. He keeps dodging each and every attempt at hitting him, barely breaking a sweat; his opponent may as well be trying to hit mist. It's not blind luck, Umber can tell as much: Johan can read his opponent just as well a Umber can. A tilt of the head, a subtle glance, a shift of weight – all telltale signs of what the next move is going to be. They may be invisible to most... but not to him, and not to Johan. Not to cold, calculating Johan; not to someone whose mind isn't touched by the heat of the fight.

Why, he likes the young man more and more by the minute.

It goes on for a little longer, any attempt at hitting Johan failing one after the other as he almost dances right out of reach. If his opponent is growing frustrated, he's good at hiding it; he's good, Umber has to admit, but will need more training to make him stop giving his moves away so clearly before he even strikes.

But he isn't devoid of cunning, and his next move makes it clear: the man steps back with his right foot, his left fist pulling down low for an uppercut aimed up under Johan's jaw. An easy enough blow for Johan to sidestep... except that it is a trap: it doesn't escape Umber's trained eye how his other arm pulls back slightly, fist tightening. He instantly knows that if Johan steps on his right he'll be blindsided by a vicious right hook on the side of the head.

Except that he doesn't: instead of stepping aside he drops in a crouch just as his opponent's right fist moves. The punch goes well over Johan's head; the momentum drags his opponent in a half-turn, balance broken, his right arm still outstretched – and that's when Johan finally strikes, quick as a snake. He springs back up and, in the blink of an eye, his right hand has grabbed his opponent's wrist just as his other arm shoots up to hit the outstretched arm from below – right on the elbow.

The resulting cracking noise is perfectly audible even from the balcony Umber is standing on, and is immediately followed by a howl of pain. As his opponent collapses, holding his right arm and crying out, Johan simply steps back and stares down at him in silence, no expression at all on his face.

Perfect, Umber thinks as he quickly walks down the stairs to reach the training grounds – where the man's cries are now covered by the instructor's yells on how he wasn't supposed to break anyone's arm during this training. A bit too much whining for Umber's tastes: an arm can heal, and at the moment he's too pleased by what he has seen to give it any thought.

Not a single hit taken, no hesitation: one strike, one broken elbow and a finished fight.

It's perfect.

"I was told we were to incapacitate our opponent. You said nothing on how we should achieve that," Johan is saying flatly as Umber walks up to them, not unfazed by the cries, the angry yells or the looks he's getting.

"He has a point there," Umber speaks up before the instructor can, reaching out to put a hand on Johan's shoulder. "If they didn't receive clear instructions, that is your failure. But what's done is done, don't you think?" he adds with a friendly smile. "Get the poor guy at the infirmary and carry on with the training. I'll take him with me for a while. Hope you don't mind," Umber says.

He doesn't wait for a reply, nor he bothers to pay any of them more attention: he simply starts walking away, gesturing for Johan to follow. And he does follow him, sure enough. For a few minutes they only keep walking and say nothing.

"You did well," Umber finally speaks up when they're far enough from anyone's ears. He turns to look straight at the younger man, who looks right back at him with no expression: he acknowledges the praise with a nod, and that's it. "Where did you learn?"

"Nowhere in particular. I learned."

"It must have been useful when you killed people for money."

"Not very often. I avoided fights. I'd usually try to get the deed done before they realized I was even there."

"The mercy of a quick death?"

"Less of a hassle for me."

Umber chuckles. "I should have known," he says. There is no place for a concept like mercy in this one's mind. His gaze falls once again on the bullet scar on his forehead. "You told me you don't remember being shot," he finally says. "That the very first memory you have is of is waking up in a hospital."

"Yes."

"Where?"

"I already gave you that information."

"Not to me directly. Do so now, if you'll be so kind," Umber says pleasantly. He knows what the answer is, but he wants to hear it from him – directly. He remembers being told that Johan had some trouble answering the question when asked and needed to think it over for a while... as though he had nearly forgotten.

Johan nods, and speaks after what seems a moment's hesitation. "It was in Burgundine. Borginia's capital."

"I see. Approximately ten years ago, you said. You were about fifteen at the time, were you not?"

"So it was estimated."

Umber nods and reaches to grasp Johan's chin. "Let me take a good look at you, will you?" he says, tilting his head up, towards the sun. His grip is strong enough to hurt, but Johan doesn't give any sign of being bothered: he simply narrows his eyes against the sun's glare and keeps still as the man's eyes carefully scan his face and then stop – yet again – on the bullet scar on his forehead.

His gaze stays there for a few moment before moving back down to the rest of the face. It's a rather generic face, to be sure... but then there are the eyes, a pale blue that's like dirty ice. They convey nothing now, no emotion, but it wasn't always like this. Oh no.

A voice, that of a long dead man who didn't last very long in the business, rings out somewhere in the back of Umber's mind.

Who the hell is he?

No one, he had said back then.

A monster, he thinks now. No name, no past, no emotions – all of it stripped from him with the pull of a trigger and the blast of a gun. One moment and whoever he had been was gone, leaving this behind.

His monster.

Umber was never one to believe in much of anything, let alone in fate, but he has to admit that he's almost tempted to believe in it now. Perhaps it's only fitting that he lived so that their paths would cross again, so that he would be the one to fill that void with something.

He gives a shark-like smile and lets go of the younger man's chin. "You have so much more potential than you ever realize," he says, the smile not leaving his lips. "We'll get on well, you and I. I'll supervise your training personally soon enough. Try not to kill any of the other recruits until then."

Johan stares back at him blankly, nothing indicating that he realizes that was a joke; no amusement at all shows. "I have no reason to," is all his says, his voice blank. It barely sounds human.

Umber quite likes the sound of it.

"So we went from impersonating a married couple to impersonating a pair of co-workers who also happened to be lovers. I've got to wonder if the bigwigs are trying to tell us something."

The Phantom snorts, brow furrowed in concentration as he keeps working on his watch with the tiniest screwdriver he could get his hands on. When she asked what the problem was, he only muttered something on how his old one was better and wouldn't break so often. "It was convenient, that is all," he says. "We'll take two different positions that will allow us access to key information, and we won't have to worry about any lover realizing we're not them. Don't go looking for hidden meanings where there is none."

She laughs. "Man, you're a story and a half. You wouldn't recognize a joke if it tackled you."

He hums, but he doesn't take his gaze away from his work. He's been even less talkative than usual later, but then again they've both been busy learning all they could about the people whose place they'll have to take. The Phantom's next persona, one Harrison Fire, is the chief of staff of YggdraCorp. Very convenient for them, since he'll be in the right position to access to plenty of information... but it also means that the amount of things he must learn to know all about in a short time is staggering.

There is no doubt in the Yatagarasu's mind that he can do it – she's been working with him for two years now and she knows exactly what he's capable of – but it's no wonder that it took him quite some work.

Her role should be easier: Mary Goround is a lab technician, and unlikely to be closely observed by those who matter... but those most pay no attention to are often the one who can better access to vital information.

The Yatagarasu gives a quick glance at her notes, but she puts them down almost right away. She doesn't think there's anything she's missing, but if there is... well, there is one way to find out quickly. She leans back against the couch. "So. Favorite food?" she asks aloud.

The Phantom doesn't look up at her, but he replies without missing a beat. He's gotten used to those sudden questions about the person whose identity he's about to take, and he always counters with more questions.

"Grilled T-Bone beef steak. Medium rare, potatoes on the side. Eggs sunny-side up and bacon for breakfast," he says flatly. "Favorite movie?" he counters.

"The Butterfly Effect. You graduated from...?"

"Ivy University, 2011. Favorite drink?"

She grins. "Vodka martini. Shaken, not stirred."

"Incorrect."

"Aw, c'mon. Give me points for the reference."

"No. Favorite drink?" he repeats dully, not taking his eyes off the watch. She sighs.

"Strawberry Caipiroska. Dr Pepper when no alcohol is available. Have I already told you you're no fun?"

"Is that your next question?"

She blinks at him. "... Was that an attempt at joking?"

The Phantom doesn't lift his eyes from the watch. Picks up another tool. ".. No."

She laughs and pats his shoulder, causing the tool he was holding to fall from his hand, and ignores his glare. "You're actually growing a sense of humor! Or is that LaRoche's sense of humor coming back?"

"Your imagination is far too active for your own good. Either use it to ask more questions or quit wasting my time," he says coldly, finally putting down the second tool and picking up the watch again.

She sighs again. She knows there is a sense of humor somewhere in there – LaRoche had some, even if it was mostly sarcasm – but the Phantom seems determined to pretend it's not there at all. "Health issues?"

"None of much importance. Allergic to fur," he says. "Speaking of which – pets?"

"The Yatagarasu absentmindedly glances out of the window. "A ferret named Dumpster and a couple of canaries. Kept well out of the ferret's reach, of course. Bet that if your ex had a ferret he'd have to keep it safe from that hawk of his, huh?"

There are a few moments of complete silence as the Phantom simply stares at her. His expression is absolutely flat, but his eyes flicker for a moment before he speaks again. "I can't see how any of it is relevant," he says, and she can tell he's willing his voice to stay perfectly controlled; bringing up Blackquill never fails to get that reaction.

She grins. "Come to think of it, you never say anything over me calling him your ex."

"Because the mere notion is too asinine to deserve an answer. You don't see me assuming there was anything going on with Prosecutor Faraday."

Faraday.

She hasn't thought of Byrne Faraday in years, and the thought of him catches her unprepared – and it stings, it really does. And the Phantom noticed, she can tell as much, because he's looking straight at her and his blank gaze has changed into a more intent one.

"Pfft, hahahaha! Look at you, so serious all of a sudden," she laughs, but he just blinks at her, and she can tell he can see right through the act; she let her guard down, and he didn't miss it.

Suddenly, this isn't funny anymore.

"I killed him, in case you missed it," she says, her voice suddenly colder. She wants him to stop staring at her; it's unnerving, if anything because nothing in his expression is giving her any indication of what he may be thinking. "Stabbed him through the heart."

"Which is why I never implied anything," the Phantom says, his voice flat. "You had your orders, after all. You followed them. It's not like you had a choice in the matter."

A smile curls her lips, but this time it's a bitter one. "Yes. No choice," she murmurs.

"This has to end. The Yatagarasu has to end. Faraday is the real threat; it is him you have to get out of the way. Afterward, you'll return here. We'll give you a new identity and place you somewhere else."

"This isn't necessary. I'm certain I can retrieve the key and make both Faraday and Badd direct their suspects elsewhere. There is no reason why we cannot-"

"I'm afraid that it's up to me, and me alone, to decide which steps are necessary and which are not. And, things being as they are, my order is to end Mann before he can testify, retrieve the key, kill Faraday and make your 'Calisto Yew' persona disappear. These are my orders. So, before I give you further instruction, do tell me – are you going to obey, or are you not?"

"... Yes. I am."

A long silence follows. The Phantom doesn't say a word – but he doesn't look away, either, and she finds herself speaking again almost without realizing it. "That old fool. Faraday didn't need to die. I tried to tell Alba as much, but he wouldn't listen. I could have kept the Yatagarasu going on for years."

"... You would have wanted that, wouldn't you?"

Another bitter smirk. "Would you have wanted to keep working with Blackquill with Fulbright's mask?"

The Phantom looks back down at the dissembled watch. "You know the answer to that."

There is another brief silence before she speaks again. "I liked it where I was," she says slowly. "Faraday and Badd... what a pair of utter fools they were. But they trusted me. They weren't half bad, really. We... had a nice time. I had a good time in the Interpol, too. Agent Lang – that idiot – trusted me just as much as Faraday and Badd did. Hah. Good thing I didn't have to kill him too, huh?" she adds, but this time she doesn't even bother to force on a smile. The Phantom is not even looking at her anyway. "... It was exciting, too. Sometimes, if I tried hard enough, I could pretend it was real. I'm sure you could, too."

The Phantom's jaw clenches for a moment. "And it nearly cost me my life. It wasn't real, and it could never be. I was the lie. You were the lie. We can't allow ourselves to forget that."

"Pffft...!"

The laughter that comes unbidden to her lips feel good, real good. It's almost liberating, and she can even believe that what's prickling her eyes are tears of mirth. "Hahaha! Oh man. You're hilarious, you know," she says, and laughs again, slapping a hand on his shoulder. "I like you. I sure hope I won't have to kill you someday!"

The Phantom looks up at her, then his lips curl as well in the shadow of a smile. "You should hope so, yes. I'm rather hard to kill."

"Oh, I know. You probably cost a sniper his job. And an assassin didn't get his fee, from what I heard. Don't even get me started on the guy who got killed because he failed to kill you with poison!"

"... Shall I write them a formal apology?"

The Yatagarasu laughs again, and this time it's out of genuine amusement. The Phantom doesn't laugh – she managed to make him laugh along with her only once, and even then it was a very bitter laugh – but he doesn't make remarks, either, and she knows that's about as good as it gets.