Whatever it is she'd driving, the Yatagarasu loves speeding. She loves the thrill and the rush of adrenaline to the point chases – there haven't been many in the past two years, but there were a two or three good ones – are her favorite part of any assignment.
Except that this time no one is chasing her, nor she's speeding to get some thrill out of it. As she rushes past yet another red light – good for her that the streets are almost empty tonight – she tries once again to guess what she'll find when she makes it to Harrison Fire's apartment.
When she was awakened by the loud beeping noise coming from one of her earrings on the nightstand, her first thought was that this Outis had somehow managed to identify the Phantom and went to confront him. After all, that SOS signal is only meant to be sent out in situations of imminent danger.
But she could hear no real sounds of struggle from the transmitter, no voices aside from the Phantom's. Nothing but the muffled noises she'd associate with something very different from a fight: a breakdown.
The communication ended abruptly, with the noise of something, likely his watch, being dropped on the ground. As further attempts at contacting him received no answer, the Yatagarasu had to decide what to do.
She knew what protocol expected her to do should the Phantom send out the SOS signal: she was to contact the government right away, tell them they had a situation, and then go check on him with their permission. Of course, she was also to report what happened afterward.
And, obviously, she'll do neither: she didn't contact them about the emergency call, and she won't tell them that the Phantom had a breakdown. Doing so would mean signing his death warrant and ending this mission in one go, and she won't end this assignment until she knows Lang won't risk his neck to find her. Which also means she'll have to make sure the Phantom will be able to keep playing his role in this.
She parks her car – well, Mary Goround's car; not one she'd pick, and it can't go as fast as she'd like – and is upstairs and before Harrison Fire's door before she can even pull out her copy of the keys from her purse. She does so quickly, thought, and opens the door in silence, not knowing how the Phantom may react to her presence should he still be suffering a breakdown, and steps in. The apartment is dark; the lights are off. Still, she reaches up to take off Mary Goround's mask and let it fall on the ground, just in case: she assumes he may react better to her real face, one he's more familiar with.
Not my real one, the Yatagarasu thinks, because she too had to go through plastic surgery after they broke her out of prison. But it's the one the Phantom has learned to know as hers, and she hopes it may count for something even if he's beyond reason.
"... LaRoche?" she calls out, using his name for the first time since after his surgery. He's been rejecting that name ever since he faked his death, but maybe he'll react better to the familiarity.
At first there seems to be no sound, but when she steps into the living room she can hear something – a sort of low, continuous whine coming from the bedroom. It grows louder as she approaches the bedroom's door, which is ajar. "LaRoche," she calls out again, but she receives no reply: the whine turns into a hitching breath for a moment, but resumes a moment later.
Well, she thinks before pushing the door open, here goes nothing.
She expected to see a pathetic scene, and a pathetic scene is what she gets. The Phantom is huddled on the floor beside the bed, knees drawn up to his chest, rocking back and forth and clawing at the mask on his face. It's like he wants to take it off, but is no longer able to function enough to simply do so and is trying to rip it to shreds instead. The latex has ripped in more than one point, strips hanging from his face like flaps of skin, and he still keeps scratching at it. His movements are slowed down rather than frantic as she'd have expected: it's as though he's moving underwater, and the low, continuous noise is all that leaves his mouth.
All in all, he looks like he's completely lost his mind. The Yatagarasu has no doubt that something is off with this breakdown; he never suffered any breakdown at all in the two years he worked with her. He's been under pressure lately, with Outis after him, but he's used to this kind of pressure and she doesn't think it would be enough to make him crack. The knowledge Blackquill now knows he's alive has certainly added up, with a kind of pressure he can't bear just as easily... but even that wouldn't be enough to break him, not like this.
But then what else may have happened to him?
The dream suppressants, her mind supplies. And it makes sense, it really does: she's been wondering about that for a while, after all.
Don't play dumb. It's not onepill anymore. You doubled the dose, and it's still not enough.
That drug isn't even officially approved. It's still experimental. There is no data at all about possible side effects; let alone long term ones.
Well. It looks like there is some data now.
The Yatagarasu is about to turn to see if the drug is anywhere around, but she pauses when the Phantom finally speaks – a mournful groan that's certainly not meant for her.
"I'm sorry. It was an accident. I didn't mean to. You were never supposed to know. I'm sorry. I'm sorry. I never meant to- no, no! I didn't kill you, I never- NO!"
The Phantom suddenly stands, his breathing ragged, and in the dim light coming from the window the Yatagarasu can see his bare back heaving before he finally tears Harrison Fire's mask off his face and throws it on the ground. It hits the floor with the peculiar slap of latex on tiles, but the doesn't pay it any mind: all she can focus on is the Phantom reaching up to scratch his own skin this time, taking a few staggering steps forward. He gives a strangled noise that sounds like a failed scream, and she's not going to give him time to scream again. If someone hears him and calls the police now, there may be trouble.
"LaRoche!"
That causes the Phantom to freeze before he lowers his hands and turns to look at her. His face, the face that now he has to call his own, is scratched up and streaked with tears. "I... I didn't mean to," he rasps. He seems calm, but it's the calmness that can precede an outburst. The Yatagarasu knows she must thread carefully.
"I know. But it's okay. Blackquill is fine," she says slowly, her hand reaching in her purse again. It closes on a small tube of mascara. "He will be fine."
"They'll kill him," the Phantom says. "YggdraCorp. Whoever we'll investigate next. The government, if he keeps sticking his nose where it doesn't belong. They'll... they'll shoot him like they..." his voice fails him for a few moments, and he staggers backwards. "We shouldn't have been there. Shouldn't have seen. We did. They shot us. They killed him. And they'll do the same to Blackquill, someone will do the same."
"No one will. We'll make sure of it."
The Phantom shuts his eyes and shakes his head. "They'll kill him. Kill him. I should have died. He'd be safe if I just died. I sentenced him to death. I brought him there. They shot him. He called for me, but I ran away. I left him behind," he says, and the Yatagarasu can tell that now it's Seymour he's thinking of. In his addled mind, Simon Blackquill and Seymour Blaxton are one and the same.
The thought of trying to speak to him further doesn't even cross her mind: she can tell he's one moment away from snapping, and she sure wouldn't want to deal with him when that happens. So she just raises the tube of mascara to her lips and, before the Phantom can react, she blows.
The Phantom lets out a surprised gasp when the dart hits him right at the base of his neck. He reaches up to tear it out and let it fall on the ground, but that's all he can manage to do: the next moment his knees give in, and he'd fall face first on the floor if the Yatagarasu didn't step forward to support him, ignoring the fact his skin is glossy with sweat and feels cold as ice.
Not that she needs to support him for long: Harrison Fire's bed is right behind him, and leaning him down on it is easy. He's out cold before his head even touches the pillow.
The Yatagarasu pulls back and, after smirking a bit as she looks at the dart on the floor – tranquilizers; never leave home without – she walks up to the closet. It takes her little to find what she's looking for: a few blankets to throw on the Phantom, and a belt.
Make it two belts. Or three. No, make it four. Just to be safe.
Through the years of his imprisonment, Simon Blackquill has felt many things.
Grief, anger, despair, helplessness – all of it somehow mitigated by the knowledge that Athena Cykes, at the very least, was safe. There had been fear when he thought she may be convicted despite his efforts and sacrifice. There had been hatred against the phantom who took his mentor's life. There had been gratitude – to the Chief Prosecutor for believing in his innocence and aiding him in his hunt for the Phantom, to Athena for her tireless work to help him in return, to Aura for doing everything in her power to stop his execution at the cost of her own freedom... and even to Bobby Fulbright for being so steadfast in his belief he was not the unredeemable monster most people thought he was.
And then, of course, there had been a sense of complete and utter betrayal when Bobby Fulbright had turned out to be the very phantom he has been chasing for years, the very phantom who took the life of his mentor. He had thought of it as the ultimate betrayal: he had thought no betrayal he could possibly suffer could hold a candle to that one.
He was so very, very wrong: Robert LaRoche's betrayal feels infinitely worse. He had no reason to mistrust Bobby Fulbright; he couldn't know who really was behind the huge goofy smiles, the proclaims of justice, the childish pouts. But he had every reason not to trust the Phantom; he had every reason not to trust LaRoche.
And yet he did. He trusted him. He believed him human. He believed the emotions he showed – the pain, the despair, the helplessness, the fear he could relate so well to, even the regret he'd show later on – to be real. And, perhaps most unforgivable of all, he had believed the feelings he had showed for him to be real.
What I said was untrue, and rather than calling me out on it you answered with more lies. That's... not how I wanted our last meeting to be like.
Maybe... maybe we should have left it like that instead. Maybe it would have been easier for me to... to walk on the gallows without looking back
Don't forget me. Please, please, don't forget me.
Never.
Thank you. For... for giving me a name, for making me someone. Thank you for for not giving up on me. And... I'm sorry. For what it's worth, and I know it's worth less than nothing, I'm sorry.
But none of it was real. LaRoche – the Phantom – had uttered those words while knowing full well that he wasn't going to die at all. How long had he been plotting his escape while he pretended that he was man enough to face death, that he was human at all? Yet another act from his part, and Blackquill had fallen for it – again. He had even wanted to be there through what he believed would be the Phantom's last night on Earth, and he had even-!
Blackquill lets out a growl, refusing to dwell any further into the memory of what happened in the Phantom's cell the night before the execution – that travesty of an execution – took place. It will do him no good, and he his hatred burns fiercely enough as it is. No need to rekindle it.
"What does it mean, gone?"
His voice is a feral growl, and it's enough to make Detective Gumshoe wince. Still, it doesn't change his answer. "It... it means gone, sir. Everything else about the case is still in the folder, but we couldn't find anything regarding the execution. The prison's own copy is... gone as well, sir."
Blackquill's eyes narrow. "So there is no knowing the names of the agents who carried on the execution?"
"I'm afraid not, sir. It's no one who's still working in the precinct or the prison, though. They must have been transferred at some point."
Somehow, that fails to surprise him. "What of the coroner? The one who claimed the Phantom was dead?" he asks. Since the Phantom still lives, it's obvious that the coroner – or the individual who impersonated one – must have been an accomplice. He remembers vaguely a woman with auburn hair, but nothing else: he was too lost in his own grief, too eager to comfort Athena to pay attention to her.
What an utter fool he had been.
"Same thing. It wasn't the usual one, but we have nothing left to tell us... well, who it was."
Again, Blackquill is not surprised. Of course whoever aided the Phantom's escape must have made sure no record was left in case they found out his death was faked. And they had plenty of time to make it disappear: two years' time, with them none the wiser.
"I see," he all but snarls. Part of him wants to lash out at Detective Gumshoe, but he holds back from doing so. Bobby Fulbright – the real Bobby Fulbright – had been his friend, and Gumshoe had been there for the execution, too. He had been there to see the murderer of a friend receive his punishment, much like Justice. The revelation that said punishment may have never been delivered – no one aside from Blackquill himself and the Wright Anything Agency has the certainty, for they know few would be willing to believe spirit channeling possible, let alone proof – hit him hard. Blackquill won't make matters worse for him simply to find a outlet for his own fury. "Leave me. I'll call for you if I need anything else."
As Gumshoe mumbles something and quickly leaves, Blackquill sinks back on his seat and reaches to hold his head in his hands. The one thing he needs now is the Phantom standing before him, so that he can hack him into pieces . He wouldn't even waste words on him, wouldn't spare a moment to listen to that coward's excuses – he'd cut him down where he stands, regardless the consequences. He wants him dead, gone from this world.
No, a part of him murmurs in the back of his mind, you do not.
Blackquill is quick to smother it: trusting the Phantom – wanting to trust him – was a mistake. That monster has proven through facts how there truly was nothing in him to save, despite Athena's hopes and his own.
I want to believe there may be something worth saving in that abyss he claims he is.
But they were wrong. There was nothing to save there, nothing worth anything. The Phantom fooled him once again... him, and Athena.
Athena, who was willing to believe in him first. Athena, who never denied him her help in finding out what his identity was. Athena, who was willing to defend him, her mother's murderer, at his trial. Athena, who wept for him when the sentence was passed, when he stood at the gallows, when the empty coffin was buried in a grave bearing Robert LaRoche's name.
But then again, he supposes that in a way it's fitting. Even if he had existed, if there had been on point in time when not all of what the Phantom did or said was an act, the man they had both learned to trust died that day.
Robert LaRoche is gone, but the Phantom is still around... and so is Blackquill. He'll find him, he'll find him and cut him down where he-
His cell phone rings, causing him to recoil. He looks down at it, and stills for a moment when he realizes the caller's ID is hidden. An anonymous call, again. Blackquill clenches his jaw and takes the call.
"Who in the blazes are you?"
There is a laugh from the other side. "Why, good morning to you, too. You sound like you haven't gotten much sleep since out last chat," a man's voice says from the other side. It's the same as last time, no doubt.
Blackquill's grip on the phone tightens. "Answer my question, or keep those lips of yours still!"
"Why would you want me to stay silent?" the man asks, sounding genuinely curious. "After all, I have given you some useful information. You may have not appreciated what you found, or rather what you didn't find... but I believe it would be polite of you to thank me for the tip."
"Why, you bloody-!"
"He knows you're after him."
That causes Blackquill to trail off and fall quiet for a few moments. "How would you...?"
"That's nothing you should concern yourself about. Not yet, anyway. He knows that you know. That must make him nervous, no doubt. It wouldn't have before, but then again he's not the same anymore. You broke him, you and Miss Cykes. I'm afraid I can't quite forgive you that."
Through the confusion – broke him? Can't quite forgive him? What does it mean by that? – Blackquill feels a sudden pang of anger and worry at the mention of Athena. "Remove Athena Cykes from your mind unless you wish me to remove your head," he snarls into the receiver. "Who are you?"
The man chuckles. "No one of any importance. You'll know by the time this is over, trust me. But it's not the right time yet."
"How do I know it's not him, hiding behind another voice as the cowardly dog he is?" Blackquill asks. For all he knows, this might be the Phantom – trying to throw him off himself by making him chase shadows. After all, Blackquill knows he's capable of imitating any voice perfectly. This may not be the same person who told him to check the Phantom's grave.
"You don't," the man says lightly. "But, as I doubt you have any other lead when it comes to the Phantom's involvement with YggdraCorp's business, what's the harm in giving it a try? I have more to tell you."
He has a point there: Blackquill cannot deny that both he and the Interpol are stuck, as no new leads are emerged about YggdraCorp, the Phantom or the Yatagarasu. "Hmph. Enough with your chatter, then. What is it you called to tell me?"
This time, the man doesn't waste time. "There is a cruise ship that will leave the coast next Friday. It's called Thessaly. The Phantom will be on board. With whose identity and what for is for you to figure out. Good luck, Prosecutor. I'll see you soon," he adds, and that's all he says before he puts down the phone.
Blackquill stays still for a few moments, the phone still held up against his ear, but this time it doesn't last more than a few moments: after that he's already dialing Lang's number to tell him of the call he received. While he cannot know the information he was just given holds any truth, the man was right: this is the only trail he has, and he'll follow it to the very end – and, hopefully, to the Phantom.
The sooner he catches him, the sooner he'll be able to sleep again without wondering just how hard that wretched coward is laughing at his expenses.
"Oh, hey. You're awake."
The Yatagarasu's voice is what drags the Phantom back into full consciousness after several minutes of half-awareness, wondering where he is and how come he cannot move. He has to blink a few times before he can put anything to focus, and when he does he realizes he's still lying in bed, with blankets thrown over him... and his hands and legs tied together, apparently. He can't tell what he's been bound with due to the blankets, though. What in the world...?
The Phantom's head throbs, and he lets out a groan before turning to see the Yatagarasu standing in the doorway. She's wearing no mask and she's grinning as usual, but there is something forced about that grin.
"What happened?" he rasps. His throat feels dry as desert. "Why am I bound?"
She shrugs. "You flipped. That's what happened. Good thing it's Saturday. Don't you remember anything of last night?"
He frowns and tries to focus on the previous night, only to grimace when his head throbs. "Little," he finally says, and it's the truth. He remembers what he dreamed; he remembers Seymour was in it, and they... yes, he thinks, choosing to ignore the sudden pain in his chest, he remembers. And he remembers waking up. And then... then everything seems to be a black hole, except for a few words that still echo in his mind.
You ran away. You left me to die.
You sentenced me to death.
Hallucinations, he thinks. He must have been hallucinating... and he doesn't wish to know more. It's probably for the best that he cannot remember most of it, especially if it was bad enough to cause a breakdown serious enough to make the Yatagarasu restrain him like this. Speaking of which...
"What are you doing here?" he finally speaks again, turning to glance back at her again.
The Yatagarasu blinks. "What, so you don't remember that? You called for me. You sent out the emergency signal with your watch," she says. "It was a little past two in the morning. You were, well, stark raving mad. I put you to sleep and tied you up. Just in case. You were hurting yourself."
"Ah," the Phantom says. He has no memory of doing so, but then again he supposes she wouldn't be here now if he hadn't. He gives the belt restraining his wrists a tug. "Release me."
He expects her to laugh, or make him ask again, or tell him to say please – her usual childish antics. But, to his surprise, she just nods steps closer to pull the blanket off him. With it out of the way the Phantom can tell he's been bound with four separate belts – one binding his wrists, one binding his ankles, one around his torso to keep his arms pinned by his sides and a last one just above his knees.
"I'm surprised you didn't muzzle me as well," the Phantom says drily, but something in his stomach clenches. Just how badly did he lose it if she had to tie him up like this?
That causes the Yatagarasu to chuckle as she starts unbuckling the belts to release him. "I was kinda tempted, really. Hannibal Lecter style. Ask me if the lambs have stopped screaming."
"No."
"Hahaha! Still no sense of humor, huh? Good thing I have enough for both. Nice underwear, Dr Lecter."
The Phantom fails to see what's so noteworthy about a pair of white boxers, but he doesn't remark on it. As soon as she's taken the last belt off him he sits up and rubs his wrists, only to pause when his gaze falls on the empty mask on the floor. Harrison Fire's mask. "Why did you take it off me?" he asks. He doesn't like the idea of anyone but himself removing the masks he wears – even people who already know what's beneath.
She shrugs. "I didn't. You did. And I sure hope you have an extra mask of that guy, because you tore this one to sheds to get it off. Why do you think I restrained you?"
"... I see," the Phantom says, not wanting to dwell into the pathetic scene she must have walked into when she reached the apartment."There is no need to worry. I do have another mask."
The Yatagarasu raises an eyebrow. "No need to worry, sure. Are we not going to talk about the fact you broke down and completely lost it?"
"No."
"It was the dream suppressants, wasn't it?"
The Phantom can't deny it. Saying otherwise would sound even worse and make it look like he's entirely losing his mind. Not that it isn't a possibility. "It appears so."
She sighs and rubs her temples. It's an exasperate gesture that looks oddly wrong on her. Usually, between the two of them, it's the other way around. "See? I told you it would be trouble. You must stop taking it."
"... I stopped already. A week ago," he says. "As a result, I'm left dealing with both dreams and... and hallucinations. Although none has reduced me to the state you've found me in."
"Whoa, whoa, slow down. There have been hallucinations and you didn't tell me?"
"There was no reason to. I could handle them. No one noticed."
"So it was daytime hallucinations?"
The Phantom keeps his gaze fixed on the wall ahead of him. "As I said, I could handle it."
"You sure couldn't handle this one."
"Then be glad there were no witnesses but yourself."
"The bigwigs would want me to report about this."
"But you won't," he states. He knows for a fact that she will not: they have been through this. If he's deemed unable to keep doing his work – and perhaps even terminated – this assignment will be over with for her as well... and with it the chance to have her odd brand of fun with Lang's involvement.
He expects her to laugh, but – once again – she does not. "... Fine. As long as you don't pull one of these stunts at the wrong time. Where do you keep the masks?"
"In the closet. Fire's mask is in the upper left."
As she goes to fetch him the mask he needs, the Phantom stands. His head hurts some, but it's nothing he can't simply ignore. What makes him pause is a look at the mirror on the opposite wall: his face–
not his face this is not his face his face is gone
–is crossed by a few scratch marks. It's like he tried to take this face off as well after shredding the mask.
But I can't. I'll never be able to take off this mask. Nothing but flesh and bone beneath. No more face.
"... He doesn't have to die, you know." The Yatagarasu's voice snaps him from his thoughts. She's browsing through his masks, an oddly thoughtful frown her face.
"Die...?"
"Blackquill," she clarifies. "His death is not a given. Don't bandage your head before it's broken," she adds before walking up to him and handing him the mask and a bottle of spirit gum. "Here. Need any help?"
He doesn't, obviously, and she would have to be an idiot to really think otherwise, but he doesn't remark on that. "No. I'm fine," is all he says, walking past her and to the bathroom to start putting on the mask.
"See that you don't flip like this at work. You'd be a goner. And even if they didn't kill you, I would have to. Wouldn't be fun," she calls out after him one moment before he shuts the bathroom door behind himself.
When he comes out again a few minutes later she has already left, and Harrison Fire's weekend clothes are already laid down on the bed, ready for him to put on.
Outis is humming to himself as he ends the call and leans back against the bench he's sitting onto. It's quite a lovely Spring day, and he decided to spend some of it outside. The perks of not having an office job, he thinks as he slips the phone back in his pocket and looks at the other end of the small park. There seems to be a hot dog stand there and he wouldn't mind getting one... but he doesn't quite feel like getting up, either.
Thankfully, the solution is right by: there are two girls sitting together on a bench rather close to his own, one of them with a blue top hat and the other with brown hair tied in loops. They're clearly enough a couple, holding hands and speaking very quietly to each other, the shorter one blushing from time to time.
The very portrait of young love, he thinks. "Hey. Sorry for interrupting, but would you like a hot dog?"
That causes them to stop talking and turn to stare at him. The smaller one with the hair loops seems a bit intimidated; the other one just looks baffled by the random question. She frowns a bit. "... Are you one of those maniacs who walk around in parks?"
The question causes Outis to give a genuine laugh. "Oh my, no," he chuckles. "I meant an actual hot dog. There is a stand right over there and I'd love to get myself one, but my back hurts some and I don't really feel like getting up. Would you mind getting one for me? I'll give you the money to treat yourself to a couple of hot dogs as well, of course."
"... Oh," Top Hat says, looking a bit embarrassed by her assumption. "Heh. Sorry. Sure, we'll get you one!"
Outis smiles. Good kid. "Thanks a lot," he says, handing them a couple of bills. The hot dog issue solved, Outis turns his thoughts back to Blackquill.
Good luck, Prosecutor. I'll see you soon.
He smiles to himself. Oh yes, they'll see each other very soon. He has no doubt that Blackquill will move mountains to be on that ship... not that he'll likely need to, with the Interpol to back him up.
Of course, his presence along with the Interpol is very likely to cause a lot of trouble to YggdraCorp. Why, it may even destroy the company – a shame, considering that their paycheck would have been a generous one... but as things are it makes no matter. Nothing truly matters aside from getting his hands on good old Robb–
Johan
–and have a good talk with him before he puts him out of his misery; him and Prosecutor Blackquill both, if he's lucky. Once he's accomplished that and put a remedy to his worst mistake, it doesn't truly matter whether he lives or dies. Not that he'd mind living, of course... but it isn't necessarily a requirement.
"Here's your hot dog!" Outis is snapped from his thoughts by Top Hat's voice. She's standing right before him with a smile and no hot dog at all, while Hair Loops is standing on the back, one hot dog in each hand.
He raises an eyebrow. "Does my hot dog happen to be invisible?" he asks, and that causes her grin to widen.
"Not for long!" she says, and the next moment she pulls something from one of her pockets: a large pair of panties. While amused, he has to admit he's slightly puzzled. He's about to ask if she is a maniac after all, but then Top Hat moves her hand quickly over the panties, flicks her wrist... and then, in a puff of smoke, there's his hot dog. "Here you go!" she exclaims. The trick causes Outis to laugh.
"Hah! Good one there. You got me good. How did you do it?" he asks, taking his hot dog.
Top Hat clicks her tongue. "Magicians don't give away their tricks. Sorry!"
"Oh, it's fine. I understand. I truly do," Outis says, taking a bite of his hot dog. Not bad, not bad at all. "Thank you for the hot dog. Have a lovely day."
As the girls leave, chattering and eating their hot dogs, Outis takes another bite and lets his thoughts turn back to the Phantom. While this game of the cat and the mouse is quite amusing, he knows he should find out just whose place he has taken among the people he's been dealing with at YggdraCorp... but it has to be in a way that will make his identity know to him alone, with no one else from YggdraCorp nor the Phantom himself knowing that he knows. He'll keep that for himself until he has to reveal it: after all, few things are as amusing as watching a clueless prey walking into a trap.
He'll have to make him reveal himself without realizing it. Good thing he knows exactly how to do it, Outis thinks, and smiles again. He'll simply have to offer some food to all the people from YggdraCorp who are to come on board, and then watch; it will be enough.
Before it became clear how mistaken he had been in judging 'Johan' – how flawed he truly was – there was something else he had been aware of: a tiny, seemingly insignificant flaw that had come out thanks to the medical tests required from recruitment. A detail even 'Johan' could do nothing about, one that couldn't be corrected, for there is no effort of will great enough to fix that kind of flaw.
A very specific food allergy.
As much as he dislikes being laughed at, Robb can't help but think that Seymour's attempts at staying serious somehow sting more than laughter could. He scoffs and pulls the covers well over his head.
"Just laugh if it's so funny," he mutters, his voice muffled by the blanket. A small snicker reaches his ears, but aside from that Seymour doesn't let his amusement show. Much.
Then again, it's better to see him amused than upset. When Robb woke up that morning covered in itchy hives, they both got kinda scared. Seymour, mostly, because despite being alarmed as well Robb could tell he didn't feel sick; it took some time to convince Seymour that he wasn't just trying to hide some sickness not to make him worry. Not that being covered in hives and red blotches and itching all over is fun, but he doesn't seem to have fever or anything.
"Want some more caviar?" Seymour asks. Robb can almost feel the smirk that's surely on his face. He scoffs.
"Shut up," he mutters sulkily. At this point it seems pretty obvious it was the caviar he stole and brought there the previous say to make him break out in hives. And to think he was so proud of getting his hands on it! Neither of them had ever eaten it before, and he was really curious to try it out. They both liked it, but now it looks like eating it wasn't such a bright idea after all.
"Why didn't you get any hives?" he mutters, the covers still pulled over his head. He twists a little to reach back and scratch himself between the shoulders.
"Because I'm not allergic to caviar, apparently."
"This is not fair."
"Hey, I'm allergic to chocolate. You don't get to tell me what's fair and what isn't."
Robb thinks about it for a moment. "... Fair enough," he finally says. "But you're still a dick."
"I'm not even laughing!"
"You want to!"
"Well, you do look funny..."
"Then don't loo-"
"Peep!"
"Make that duck shut up!"
"Peep! Peep!"
As Seymour gives in and just laughs, Robb grumbles again and gives up on trying to scratch his itchy spots: there's just too many of them. He's just going to curl into a tight ball under the covers and sulk. Sulk a lot. That will make Seymour feel bad, and then he'll have to say he's sorry, but he won't forgive him until he's spent at least a hour scratching his back with a brush or something. Yes, he'll do just that. It's a good plan.
Except that the next moment Seymour makes his next move, and it's not one Robb can counter: he lifts a corner of the blankets Robb is huddled under and slips something right next to his face – a brown paper bag filled with his favorite liquorice candy. Damn him, Robb thinks, he just knows him too well. He doesn't even try to resist: he knows he won't be able to anyway.
"I hate you," Robb proclaims before taking the paper bag and sitting up, the blankets falling off his head. Seymour is crouching right before the mattress, the duckling sitting precariously on top of his head. He half-expects Seymour to laugh again – because he does look weird, with the hives and red botches on his skin – but he just chuckles before he leans forward to give him a quick peck on the nose. The duckling almost falls off his head and, as it peeps in protest, Robb blinks.
"Aren't you gonna catch the hives or something?"
"Nope. Allergies are not contagious."
Robb grins. "Oh. How about kissing it better, then?" he says, popping a piece of candy in his mouth before he leans forward a bit. He did just that for him when he hurt his nose, after all.
And Seymour seems to be very much okay with returning the favor.
"A cruise ship? Is that what your mystery man said?"
Blackquill nods. "Yes. A ship called Thessaly, due to leave our coasts next Friday. According to the caller, the Phantom will be on board. And, since he implied in a previous phone call that he's somehow involved with YggdraCorp, I assume this may very well be a lead for you as well."
That much is true, Lang has to admit... still, there are a few things about this whole issue that makes the hair on his neck stand on end. The first thing is, obviously enough, the fact the lead comes from an anonymous call. The fact they have to act entirely based on information coming from hell knows who is more than a little unnerving... but, as Blackquill pointed out already, a dubious lead is better than no lead. Shady and risky as this may be, it's better than nothing.
It wouldn't be the first time he's had to follow some anonymous tip, anyway.
Another thing that unnerves him is the knowledge that both the Phantom and Shih-na – whatever her true name is – seem to be involved. While he never had to deal with the Phantom, at least as far as he knows, he knows all too well how tricky and dangerous he can be; as tricky and dangerous as Shih-na herself. Two masters of disguise with no conscience and no remorse, both of them broken out of prison with inside help.
It's hard for him to believe that the fact they both seem involved with the same company's shady business is a coincidence. It seems that Shih-na has sunk to a new low, after all: from smuggling and murder to cooperating with a company that carries on unethical experiments on human beings.
She'll pay for this. For this, and for everything else.
"It seems that we'll need to see what country this ships hails from," Lang says slowly. It seems fate that he has to run into this particular problem time and time again.
Blackquill guesses the problem right away. "Extraterritoriality," he says.
"Precisely. I know more of it than I'd like thanks to a certain old bastard. If we want to get on board to investigate, we're going to need permission from the captain," Lang says. "But how do we know the captain is not involved with... whatever will be going on on that ship? He may very well be on YggdraCorp's payroll We'll need to mingle with the passengers without anyone knowing," he adds.
That obviously means he'll only be able to bring a handful of men with him; a hundred men would be too noticeable. And he knows Blackquill will be among them, too – because he can tell no force on Earth will be enough to keep the prosecutor off the ship, just as no force on Earth will keep him away now that he knows Shih-na may be on it as well. Not that Lang has any intention to get in Blackquill's way.
Lang Zi says: never stand between the wolf and its prey.
Blackquill gives him a knowing smirk, even though his gaze is still dark. "I believe we may have a chance to bypass the captain," he says. "I took the liberty of gathering some information on the ship myself before I called for you. It seems to be a Cohdopian cruise ship. And, unless I'm mistaken, the Chief Prosecutor knows someone who could help. An ambassador who could vouch for us to be allowed on the ship without even the captain knowing."
Lang stares at him for a few moments, then he feels a grin spreading on his own face. Why, he thinks, isn't this just perfect. "Ambassador Palaeno," he says, and throws back his head to laugh. "Hah! It looks like he'll get to show us his gratitude in a productive way, finally," he says. "Speaking of which, would you like-?"
"Thank you, but no," Blackquill cuts him off with a half-smile; strained, but still a smile. "Prosecutor Edgeworth has been handing over those coupons to everyone here for years. I have enough of them to cover my apartment's walls."
Lang sighs. "Ah well. It was worth a try," he says. A hundred men working for him, and he never seems to get rid of all those coupons quickly enough. "Mr. Pros- the Chief Prosecutor and I will have a talk with Ambassador Palaeno. I'm certain I'll be able to get you, myself and some of my best men on that ship. Needless to say, we'll need to use fake names. We don't want to be seen on the passengers list."
"Of course."
"It goes without saying," Lang adds, his tone and expression now deadly serious, "that this may become very dangerous. My men and I are trained to handle critical situations in a way you never were; that is a fact. I'll welcome any help you may give us, Prosecutor Blackquill – but I'll need you to know when it's best for you to step aside and let us handle everything. A pack works as one; one stray in the way may ruin the hunt."
For a moment Blackquill says nothing: he simply stares at him. Then he gives a lopsided smirk and reaches to stroke the head of the hawks that's been resting on his shoulder all along.
"Don't be concerned, Agent Lang. I won't hinder your work," he says.
It doesn't escape Lang how he doesn't downright promise to step back if the situation gets critical, nor it surprises him.
Blackquill isn't one to make promises he's not certain he can keep.