Optimistic


January 31, 2028


The balcony didn't provide much solace.

There was a view, at least, from Aura's apartment, of other concrete blocks with dimly lit shopfronts and names of supermarkets lining the road. Some trees. Pavement. Cars. The air smelt horrendously polluted; winter smog seeped into Simon's nostrils and he wrinkled his nose. It was 8 PM.

8 PM at prison meant evening roll-call and quiet time. So right now, Simon didn't quite know what to do with himself. After the verdict was announced, he'd gone back to the office, filed the case paperwork, gone down to the cafeteria to get an egg salad sandwich for lunch, and then answered some emails. It had all been very methodical until it was time to leave, when he realised he had a place to go back to. He could have stayed, and worked a bit longer, and maybe tried to translate some Borginian documents. But custom, or rather, Edgeworth's new policy, dictated that unless there was a massive conference, the office would be closed after 7 PM.

And so here he was, in his own flat, without a clue as to what to do. He hadn't made dinner, as the egg salad sandwich had sufficed to keep him satiated, so that was off the list of things to do. He hadn't gone shopping because Aura had left plenty of stuff behind. And he hadn't gone to bed yet because...

His phone rang from inside the bedroom. That was why he hadn't gone to bed yet. 8 PM meant evening roll-call and quiet time, so no; no calling at this hour, no texts, no nothing. He moved back into the flat, intending to let it keep incessantly ringing. Still, he checked the caller ID for good measure, and then grimaced.

Athena was ringing him.

He hovered over the button for a moment, hesitant. He didn't mind texting her sporadically, or even meeting up with her on occasion – though they had not done that in at least three weeks – but calling...it introduced something new. There was something about phone calls he didn't quite like; perhaps it was the feeling of being trapped? An intrusion of sorts, being intruded on in his quiet hours...

After the seventh ring, he responded with a tentative "Hello?"

"Hey..." came the voice on the other line, equally as uncertain in tone. "Am I calling at a bad time?"

"No...no..." he mumbled. Yes, it's a bad time.

Athena cleared her throat on the other end. "I wanted to see how the appeal went? You asked me to check in with you."

Simon furrowed his eyebrows.

Did I? Details of text messages weren't something he kept in mind.

"Ah, I see," he responded, not entirely sure of what he was saying.

The line grew silent on the other end for a few seconds.

"...Did you forget that?" she finally asked.

"Hm," he responded, neither indicating yes or no.

"So, how was it?"

"It went fine. We have custody of the Phantom now."

"Well, that's good, no?"

No, it isn't. "Yes. Very good."

"So what now?"

I have to deal with him. "Interpol will take control."

"That's good. You'll meet new people then."

I already have.

"...Simon?"

He realised he hadn't responded to her last statement. This is why he didn't like phone calls; momentary silence meant worry and concern, and he was having none of it tonight.

"I'm tired. I'm going to bed," he announced. Not a lie.

"Oh, okay. Um, good night."

He hung up without repeating the greeting, and set the phone down on the bed. Simon swallowed the growing pit in his stomach. Not that the feeling would go away. Maybe turning off the phone would ease him. He rubbed at his ear, red and numb from the pressure he'd been applying to it. He closed the balcony door that he'd kept open. A loud bang resonated through the room for a second. The bedroom door shuddered behind him.

He padded into the living room. Perhaps, something to read would lull him to sleep. Aura's place didn't have much in abundance, apart from books. It was something of a lifesaver. He eyed them on the bookshelf; Transformational Syntax, he mused, coupled with Morphology and Mathematical Linguistics. Metis' books, no doubt, perhaps from her Master's degree. He quietly removed them from the shelf, heading back to the bedroom, and set them aside on the bedside table.

After stripping down to an old faded t-shirt and boxer briefs, and getting ready for bed, Simon untied his hair, carding through the thick strands; straggly and in need of a brush. But honestly, the temptation was low. So, he climbed into bed, with a book. Linguistics was interesting enough; he'd taken it as a module in university, and found it quite fascinating. Not to mention his mother being a linguist herself. But familial sentiment wasn't necessary.

As he started to read, he felt his mind wander, to events of the day. Not just events of the day, but as his eyes scanned the technical jargon, he lost his concentration, extricating himself from the thoughts of meals in prison and the way he'd attempted to read at night with his eyes straining against the dim moonlight. Aura, no doubt, doing the same. The selection of books would probably be much more varied in her correctional facility. Words felt like lead; and Simon didn't appreciate the fact he couldn't concentrate. He set the book down, and turned off the light.

Sleep did not come easy to him. Not that it ever had, given the last seven years and now being brought back into a world outside cells and damp concrete walls. But for just once since he had been released, he wished for sleep to greet him.

Yet, no matter how many times he willed himself into slumber, with his eyes shut and his hands gripping the bed sheets, his mind simply refused to cooperate. He tried to focus on breathing slowly and deeply and on nothing else. But still sleep just wouldn't come. His chest was constricted and his lower body tingled and he tiredly, angrily, pulled the covers off.

Bloody hell.

He dragged himself to the bathroom. Without switching the light on, he fumbled around, feeling for the sink. He managed to turn the tap on, letting the water run to a desirably freezing temperature. He let his hands meet the water as he cupped them, bringing it to his face, freshening him up. He did this three more times, before he breathed a sigh, and steadied his hands on the sink.

Without seeing it, he could hear the water as it sloshed into the sink and continued down the drain, gurgling down the pipes. It gave him momentary comfort to listen to it. Then he switched off the tap and reached for a towel to dry himself. Perhaps having done this, he would be able to get some sleep.


Tomorrow came, and Simon, having managed to catch just a couple of hours of sleep eventually, arrived at the office. He hadn't bothered to get ready properly, opting to shower and shave in the office's facilities in the basement above the underground car park, which housed a meditation room Edgeworth had installed in his tenure as Chief Prosecutor. Something about the need for relaxation in the workplace — another one of his reforms — and a place away from the stresses of work life in a fast-paced firm. Admirable, but Simon wondered whether it was actually being put to use.

Freshened up, face gaunt but the stubble shaved and his hair washed and brushed, he made his way upstairs to his own office. The morning light had only just managed to surface through the fog, bathing his office in its greyness.

A flood of emails awaited him, consisting mostly of press alerts — the hearing had been less than twenty-four hours ago — which he ignored in favour of a particularly pressing one from Edgeworth.

Subject: Morning appointment

Dear Simon,

Please come see me at 10. I wish to discuss yesterday's proceedings with you.

Regards,

Miles Edgeworth

Right, he hadn't managed to meet with his superior yesterday, since he'd holed himself up in his office. Up he went, then.

Edgeworth greeted him with a polite smile, extending his hand to the sofa. Routine as usual.

"Good morning, Blackquill."

"Good morning." he replied, taking his seat. No tea today, just talk, it seemed. The chief prosecutor had already placed a light blue case file on the coffee table.

Edgeworth confirmed as much, as he slipped into discussion. "The Judge's Council, with Chief Justice Chambers' approval, has given the green light to proceed with the interrogation whenever you see fit. Preferably in the first few weeks of February, as the caseloads have shifted and we restart the monthly court cycle."

"I see. In that case, I shall prepare for that. I can arrange a meeting with him, and proceed from there. Whether he is willing to cooperate, will be something to keep in mind."

It was more of a mental note than anything. They had to be realistic, of course, given the nature of international relations. That, and the newspapers prying into every corner. Of course, an international spy would cause a ruckus, he noted to himself.

"Indeed. The trial revealed its own things. Namely, that the Borginians place importance on their national security. The Phantom, or rather Erikh Qvinn, is a threat essentially, regardless of us having custody over him." Edgeworth tapped at the file. "We have to tread lightly. Negotiate, I suppose."

"Yes." Simon shifted in his seat. "I fear...I may not be the best candidate for this, Edgeworth-dono. Given my prior affiliation with the man, and yesterday's proceedings."

Edgeworth eyed him curiously through the rims of his glasses. "Your performance yesterday was fine," he moved to sit down opposite Simon. "I do understand why you may be apprehensive but after all, it was you who came to me to put this matter to bed."

"Indeed," was all Simon had to say.

There was a momentary silence.

"Mr. Blackquill–" Miles stopped himself and shook his head. "Simon, really, how are you?"

Blackquill eyed him.

Surely, I haven't indicated any cause for concern.

Edgeworth, noting the forcefulness of his question and the discomfort, elaborated. "I mean, settling in. I worry I've thrust this entire matter into your hands without a proper discussion."

The second person of the week to express concern over his well-being. But this time he couldn't extricate himself from the situation as he had been able to last night.

He hadn't spent much time at Aura's flat, granted, with the sleepless nights and the work-filled days forcing him out of there. Aura was just as spartan as he was. After all, that was what she knew after the death. There would be no more...no more shared flats with joint leases. They weren't a sentimental pair, even with the keychain on the apartment keys that she'd bought in Japan on a trip with Metis — back when they'd been engaged ㅡ and the silver ring and photograph tucked away in the bedside drawer. And there would've been an alternate universe where they'd've been happy. But such a universe did not exist — seven years of his prime spent rotting away in a dank cell.

"...Simon?" Edgeworth's concerned voice pulled him out of his reverie.

"It's alright, Edgeworth-dono." He hated the honorific now. Hated the distance. Hated the solitude he'd surrounded himself with, when he buried himself into his work.

Work is all you know now, after years of incarceration out of your own choice for your...niece.

"I shall tend to the Phantom," he whispered as he rose, referring to the earlier conversation. He didn't look at Edgeworth.

"Have a good day, sir," was all he said in the end, with a stiff nod before leaving the office.


The dank interrogation room was depressing to return to.

Aside from being an overall bleak room, with cement walls and tiles that had not seen a mop and bucket in years, with the grime poking through the dips in the tiles, and a smell not dissimilar to chloroform, it acted as a holding pen for memories. Of long-gone prisoners, who'd been visited throughout their sentences, not entirely sure of when they would be executed; or of prisoners who were innocent and were wasting their lives inside; or of...sporadic visits, as in Simon's case. Sporadic visits and conversations with Edgeworth behind bars, when he'd peered at him through his glasses, the same look of concern etched on his face as he'd done so this morning.

And of...that Fool Bright with his booming laughter.

But he'd never truly met Fulbright. No. And try as he might to conjure up an image of a man truly passionate for justice and rehabilitation, he was left with the destroyed mask in the courtroom in December.

His leg bounced. He hadn't been back here since the day he left. The day he hadn't expect to leave, with the noose around his neck, pulling the life out of him. With his neck snapping much the same way as the door on the other side opened.

The chair legs scraped horrendously. Simon winced.

"Hello, Prosecutor," he said in a voice. Not Fulbright's. He had adopted a transatlantic accent. "What do you want?"

Qvinn raised his head at those words. Sallow cheeks, bald, and bloodshot eyes; dark circles under his eyes streaked purple and black, and his skin pale. He looked sick.

Simon cleared his throat. "I have to come discuss the terms presented yesterday in court," he laced his fingers together. "As you would recall, you are now in the custody of Interpol, with the prospect of interrogation. The judge has concurred that now is a suitable time to question you, for your actions in this state, and to a larger extent, your occupation."

Qvinn did not react in any manner. A salt pillar could have replaced him in the few seconds Simon had spoken.

Simon slowly continued. "...While this shall...be approached through legal means, I would like to ask you myself as to why you have willingly placed yourself in this current predicament as opposed to scurrying off to some godforsaken corner of the world."

Again, salt-pillar-man sat there, not looking at anything in particular. Then he shrugged at Simon.

"I have no reason."

Blackquill opened his mouth to ask another question, but Qvinn continued. "The other day I woke up, and I ate some disgusting yoghurt. As I ate breakfast, I thought to myself, that I would betray my superiors. I just decided there was no need to it anymore."

There was a brief pause after the sentence passed between them, he leaned back in his chair, drawing circles on the table with his finger. "Mr Blackquill. This was the same way I decided to betray you too."

Simon swallowed, training the man with an unreadable expression. Qvinn shrugged again.

"For those two actions, I did not have orders. So I exercised free will." Qvinn paused and then nodded. "Yes, that is the right phrase."

"So nothing in particular prompted you to accept your current situation?"

"No."

Qvinn inspected his palms now, some imaginary freckle proving quite interesting.

"Can I ask something."

It was phrased more as a statement than a question.

"What is it?"

"Are you the right person to be questioning me."

And again, before Simon could ask, Qvinn continued, "I read your case file, you know that."

They stared at each other for a moment; the tug of a smile on Qvinn's lips that was always so chilling. Eyes trained on him. It was a haunting scrutiny; the very same every night outside his cell door; the eyes that always watched as he pored over papers. His leg bounced again.

"Anyway," Qvinn started, the smile pulling up further to the corners of his mouth. "I am willing to share information provided my identity isn't compromised."

He splayed his hands out in front of him. "I am an open book."

Yes, in justice we trust indeed.

"I see," Simon mumbled. "You will be sent a copy of the terms of your interrogation procedures to your cell later this week."

The smile disappeared from Qvinn's face. "You are not questioning me today."

"No." The chair scraped; Simon rose. There was no courtesy of eye contact this time around. "This meeting is over."

Salt-pillar-man was back; Blackquill heard as he rose silently, and complied to the cuffs being placed on him again. He heard footsteps and then the clang of the door as it shut behind him. He let out a long breath from his nostrils, before stepping outside himself.

When he got out of the room, Simon had made a beeline for the bathroom. Past the urinals, and the cubicles and straight for the sinks. No soap dispensers - he didn't need them. Tap on. Let the water run. Cup his hands. Wash his face. Rinse and repeat three times. Tap off.

No paper towels. Only hand dryers. He shook his hands to remove excess water, rubbing them on his trousers as well, for good measure. Then he left the bathroom.


Simon was halfway back to the office when his phone rang on the bus. He checked the caller ID. Detective Skye. It was 12 PM now, which meant work at the prison, two hours before phone calls began. It was work now. This call was at the right time, and he had been meaning to contact her.

He picked up. "Biscuits, how have things been progressing?"

"Hey to you too, Blackquill," he could hear rustling on the other end. Snackoos probably. "Just wanted to let you know what's up with the murder case."

"Yes, go on." The bus moved again, and he steadied his hand on the handle, thumb hovering close to the stop button. Three more stops.

"Right, so as you know we've hit a bit of a dead end, but Agent Lang has just informed me that gaining custody of Qvinn means that we have access to Hawthorn's casework simply because of the circumstantial nature of the motive at the moment. He said it's not normally protocol but y'know, he was happy to give database access."

Simon hummed in agreement over the line, Skye continued. "Because of yesterday's court day, I decided to look into things. Most of the stuff's redacted anyway, but from what I've managed to get, Hawthorn's work covered a major organisation, alongside some other international incidents. He was rarely, if ever, in town. He worked with another law firm in Frankfurt."

"Any details on this organisation?"

"You probably know more than I do. It's called Skande Espionage and Intelligence Locators. SEIL, for short. Pronounced like 'seals', the animals. It's a Borginian company."

Simon eyes widened. He pressed the stop button. He lowered his voice. "Now, why would an international lawyer be prying into Borginia's secret service, pray tell?"

"That, you'd have to give me more time on. It's basically marketed as a shell company on any web searches if you try and search for it."

"I do hope we're not implying what we're implying. If that is the case, then we find ourselves…" Simon trailed off, and the bus doors opened. He got out, greeted once again with the smog of polluted Los Angeles. He changed tack. "I was aware of his work on intelligence services in Borginia but I was not aware of this close connection to this particular one."

"Yeah. Exactly. I mean, all the other organisations were y'know, just IT companies or those that dealt with armaments. Espionage. But not like this."

"Indeed," replied Simon.

"Look, we're gonna have to tread lightly and legally here. You dealing with him?"

Him. He swallowed the growing lump in his throat. The pit in his stomach rumbled again. "As far as Edgeworth-dono's concerned, I suppose...I am."

"Okay. Just remember to fill in the paperwork for that beforehand. The guards there in solitary can be really anal about that."

"Duly noted," and before he could forget, "Ah...Thank you for keeping me apprised, Biscuits. I shall work on that now."

"Sure. I'll swing by later and put the casework in your tray. Or if you're not there, then the cubbyhole."

"Cubby...hole?" He remarked, trying out the words on his tongue. He had never heard of such a thing in a workplace environment. Yes, certainly, he recalled as a child using cubbyholes he'd purchased from a massive furniture retailer, to store his clothes and toys in. But Scandinavian ergonomics aside, the word eluded him.

"It's on the first floor. It's where we detectives put documents that you need, out of hours. Have you seen the rows of basically cupboards down next to the reception? It's like a safe basically. We slot in documents and you open it up with a code. Basically a tight-security mailbox. It's in the lobby, with all the armchairs to meet clients. And those really ugly orchids."

He couldn't recall such a location in the office. Well, maybe the 'really ugly orchids', as the detective had so elegantly put it. Miserable plants, was what Simon always had in mind when confronted by them. Perhaps an Edgeworth-era policy the man had installed. Ergonomics and meditation. Whatever else Edgeworth had installed, he'd soon find out for himself. "I cannot say I was ever aware of it. But, yes, I suppose you might as well place it in there."

Skye chuckled on the other line. "Guess you learn a new thing everyday. Alright, I'll do that."

"Yes, very well then." Simon allowed himself a small chuckle. "Good day, Biscuits."

"Good day to you too."

As soon as the call ended, Simon found himself in what was apparently the lobby. The detective had described it correctly. Ugly orchids and all intact. The sofas were of a burgundy shade and Simon mused that it appeared his superior had added his own interior decorations into the workplace. Truly a fascinating character was Miles Edgeworth.

The row of cubbyholes beckoned to him, lined with what appeared to be letterboxes, precisely as the detective had described. As though they had been removed, screws and all, from an apartment building's lobby and placed them in this office, simply with a few hundred rows lining two walls. Alphabetically by surname as well, he noted, as he saw his name marked close to the door, just surpassed by a few surnames. He'd need to acquire the code...or key for them. The sunlight streamed through, bathing the room in an orange hue. It was getting late. He hadn't eaten today yet.

Acquiring what appeared to be some sort of bento box from the cafeteria, he climbed up the stairs two steps at a time to his office and slammed the door shut, dropping his satchel and lunch, he leaned against the door. He stood there, letting his arms fall to his sides as he concentrated on breathing. Closing his eyes, he tried to focus on white noise. But alas, to no avail. He pushed himself off the wall, picking up his satchel and lunchbox again.

Upon sitting down at his desk, Simon noticed the blue folder in his in-tray. Not Detective Skye; she had mentioned the cubbyhole just now. This would have to be Edgeworth's secretary. Sure enough, it was, as he leafed through the pages. It was a dossier on the rules and regulations surrounding interrogation conduct. A copy of which he would have to give Qvinn later this week. He set to work.

The next few hours consisted of Simon underlining various key notes, scribbling onto the legal pad notes on interrogation conduct. He also made a mind map of Hawthorn's death, drawing a straight line between the victim's name and SEIL. A strange coincidence. He munched through his rice and chicken, occasionally alternating it with salad and vegetables. It had been a while since his last encounter with Japanese food that hadn't consisted of just salty shochu ramen.

Work and food had made a welcome change nonetheless. By the time he had signed off the last piece of paper of the interrogation forms to consent to his role as interrogator, he could definitely say he felt calmer than he had last night. The paperwork to hand in to the guards was also complete.

He concluded his day by closing the folders, and placing them in his satchel, before turning off the light. As he reached the lobby, he paused for a moment at the cubbyholes, before deciding against picking up what Skye would have dropped off by now. Tomorrow then.

It was 8 PM again when he got home. Evening roll-call and leisure time. This would mean dinner time now.

He rummaged around in the fridge; some of Taka's jerky in a box, and some vegetables. Mushrooms and bell peppers. If there was perhaps some form of...tofu, then he could consider a stir fry. Aura didn't seem the type to keep such a product in her house, and he hadn't done much shopping for the flat since he'd signed it over into his name. He checked the cupboards. Flour. Sugar. No pasta or rice.

What on earth does Aura eat?

He sighed, closing the cupboards and the fridge door. No dinner tonight then. He would have to go shopping...for food and other items. Household items. It was a concept that eluded him, what with the...three square meals a day and his thin mattress he had grown accustomed to. He almost missed the damn routine.

But right now, he could not think anymore. He could not think of food, or toiletries to purchase, or meetings to attend. Right now, Simon wanted this day very much over, and he would not let his insomniac state invade him this evening. He stripped down to his boxer briefs, brushed his teeth, and collapsed into bed. Sleep soon followed, gluing his eyes shut and his mind stopped racing, instead categorising in his subconscious. Finally asleep.

Midnight blue had engulfed him.