"Mr. Warren Peace has already been arrested, and Agent Lang is making sure he's given no chance to escape. The Phantom's testimony to the police seems solid enough," Chief Prosecutor Edgeworth is saying, flipping through a rather voluminous report's pages. "He was able to give plenty of details the Interpol is verifying as we speak. Should they turn out to be correct, then the Phantom's word will be enough for a trial. With Ms. von Karma as the prosecutor, there is little doubt the mole will be found guilty."

Blackquill nods. "One threat removed, then."

"There are still more out there than I'd like, but yes, it is a start. Perhaps he'll cooperate, tell us who killed our poisoner and set up the bomb to spare himself an extremely severe punishment," Edgeworth concedes. "Now, about your request to contact Borginian authorities, I'm afraid may take some time. If we had an exact idea of what we're exactly looking for it would be one thing, but all we know is that something involving two boys may have happened approximately twenty-six years ago in Borginia's capital. It isn't much to go by. And, aggravatingly enough, they won't be giving much priority to such a request coming from a prosecutor from a foreign country."

Edgeworth's words are far from unexpected: Blackquill has known from the start this wouldn't be easy. "I can imagine. However, Athena Cykes claimed she knows a way to get them to cooperate faster. I have no clue what it may possibly be about, but I suppose letting her try won't hurt any-" he says, but is cut off by a yelp of pain coming from outside the door.

"You kicked me!"

"Hey, you had it coming! Now let me through!" a voice that's unmistakably Athena's follows.

Edgeworth raises an eyebrow. "It seems that someone did indeed get hurt. May I ask you to go and let her in before paramedics are needed?" he asks, and Blackquill is up before he can even finish the sentence.

As it turns out, Athena was either entirely oblivious of the fact only prosecutors are allowed there or just didn't care, and one of the bailiffs' attempt to stop her by grabbing her shoulder resulted with her retaliating with a kick in the shins. So much for the little girl who'd happily let herself be picked up, Blackquill muses as she grabs her arm and pulls her toward the door of the Chief Prosecutor's office.

"Are you trying to get yourself charged with assault?" he snarls, shutting the door behind them.

Athena shrugs and crosses her arms. "Hey, he was the first one to get physical."

"He was doing his duty. You're not supposed to be here without an appointment," Blackquill points out, but Athena has already stopped paying attention to what he's saying and is waving at the Chief Prosecutor.

"Hello, Mr. Edgeworth! Mr. Wright wanted me to tell you Trucy's next magic show is this Thursday. You promised to come. Ah, and don't bring your badge with you. Trucy may try to make it disappear and things refuse to reappear sometimes. It took her half a day to get Apollo's badge back out of her panties once."

Edgeworth's lips curl into a smile for just a moment before he nods. "Duly noted. I should hope, though, this is not the reason why you came here uninvited and assaulted one of the bailiffs in the process."

Athena grins somewhat sheepishly. "Not really, no. I wanted to tell you that there are some news with Borginia. They found something that may fit the story the Phantom told Simon, and should send a transcript of the case files as soon as they're done translating."

There is a moment of silence as both Edgeworth and Blackquill only stare at her; Blackquill can tell Edgeworth is every bit as surprised as himself. "How did you manage to get information this quickly?" Blackquill finally asks. "Did you happen to live in Borginia as well? Do you know someone there?"

Athena shrugs. "Yes, but no. As in, yes, I stayed there for a bit, but not much. And I know a few people, but none of them could help. Also, my Borginian sucks. But Apollo could help."

"Justice? Does he have contacts in Borginia?"

"Yup, a singer. She was involved in some trial once, and she writes to him and Trucy from time to time."

Blackquill can feel the beginnings of what's threatening to turn in a headache. "How could a singer help?"

"Hey, she's famous in Borginia. Like, really famous. Her music is great, so no wonder – just ask Prosecutor Gavin, he'll fall over himself to praise her. Anyway," she adds quickly, maybe noticing Blackquill's unimpressed expression, "since she's famous and all, she just had to ask and someone got to work. They looked into cold cases and found an unsolved incident that may be relevant. They say several elements fit – two boys, the age was what you said, the year it happened fits, and it happened in the capital. And a name is the same as the boy the Phantom remembered, too! Also, they were shot in the head. Who does it remind you of?" she adds, tapping her forehead in the place where the Phantom's bullet scar is.

Blackquill stares at her for another moment, then he smiles. "It seems that Lady Luck may be on our side, after all," he says, a part of him daring to hope they would truly turn out to be on the right track, that the Phantom may truly be close to gaining a name for himself.

Because if he does, then perhaps he won't find himself calling him 'Fool Bright' anymore.

While Athena is no big fan of hospitals and clinics, she has to admit that the Hickfield clinic looks a lot less intimidating than the general hospital. Or maybe, she reasons as she steps inside the elevator along with Simon, she only feels this way because she's not feeling the dread she felt when she ran to the hospital thinking that Simon had been poisoned. This time it isn't nearly as bad: they're there to see a man on the way to recovery... though what they're going to have to tell him is far from pleasant.

Yes, it's a step forward – plenty of steps forward, really – but it's still not a nice tale, and the very thing the Phantom wishes to know the most is still missing from it, along with several other pieces of the puzzle.

"I guess he's feeling a lot better already if they transferred him to this clinic," she says, more to break the silence than because she feels like pointing out the obvious. Simon gives an absent-minded hum, his eyes still fixed on the folders in his hands. Athena bites her lower lip.

"How do you think he's going to take this?"

Simon puts the folder under his arms and looks ahead, at the elevator's door. "It's hard to tell. After what he dreamed – what he remembered – I doubt he'll be expecting anything but a gruesome story, but he'll likely be frustrated when he realizes we're still lacking what he seeks," he says. "I suppose that all we can do about it is using the Mood Matrix on him again once he's recovered enough. There is a gap between the part where his memory ends and the aftermath this report speaks of. We may find out more by filling it."

Athena has to admit that's a good point, but before she can voice her agreement the elevator stops and the door slides open. The room the Phantom is in is easy to tell apart, being the only one with two officers standing on either side. They both stand a little straighter when they walk up to them.

"We're here to see the Phantom," Simon says.

"Uh... there is a doctor in, Prosecutor. Maybe you should wait-"

"Silence," Simon orders, and the man immediately shuts his mouth and steps aside. Athena kind of pities him, but he can understand why Simon wants to get what they're there for over with, so she just gives an encouraging smile to the officer and follows him inside.

The Phantom seems to be doing a lot better, no longer looking like a corpse and with no tubes down his throat and nose as he rests in the bed he's restrained on... or at least the bed he should be restrained to. Both his arms are free and he's half-sitting, chewing on something with clear satisfaction. It's an odd sight, but it's no odder than the doctor standing a few steps from the bed: a middle-aged man with weird pink air who keeps scratching himself as though he's flea-ridden.

"Are you the doctor?" Simon asks, and it doesn't take Athena's hearing to tell he's taken aback. Then his eyes shift to the Phantom. "What are you doing without restraints?" Simon snaps, but before he can say anything else the doctor speaks.

"Hmm, yes... I'm Director Hickfield, yes... Are you here to visit the patient? Hmm... I see..."

Simon frowns. "The clinic's director?" he asks, sounding – if possible – even more skeptical.

"Obviously not," the Phantom says with a shrug, through a mouthful of... whatever he's eating. "If this man is a doctor, then I'm Mata Hari. Worst spy that ever existed, by the way. Speaking of 'worst', the officers let this 'doctor' in here twice. Congratulations for the security, it certainly makes me feel so very safe. Not that it's all bad, since he was nice enough to to untie me and get me a snack from the vending machines. It turns out I have a thing for liquorice strings."

Simon glares at him and seems about to say something, but he's cut off when 'Director Hickfield' speaks again, causing Athena to recoil.

"Oooh, hello, pretty lady," he says, and Athena is less than impressed by the the fact he's leering at her, holding out a hand as if to touch her. "Hmm, yes... you look sick... hmm... let me take a look at- yowch!" he yelp when Simon grabs his arm less than gently, twists it and drags him to the door. "Wait! I have yet to visit-!"

"Silence," Simon snarls, then he just slams the door open and throws him out before glaring at the two rather confused officers outside. "And you truly believe this is a doctor? Imbeciles. Call the department and have someone else sent here – you're not fit to keep watch on a plant," he snarls, then the door slams shut and the turns back to the Phantom. Who, on the other hand, is still leaning back and bringing another liquorice string to his mouth. "You must be restrained. Put your hands back in place," he says coldly, causing the Phantom to sigh.

"Oh, allow me a break. I spent a week in bed, eating hospital slop and with a catheter in," he says through a mouthful of liquorice.

Simon snorts. "You nearly crossed the Styx, Phantom. Are you truly complaining of such trivial matters after making it back from its banks?"

"We'll talk about this again when you're the one with a tube up the urethra," the Phantom says drily.

"Put your hands down now," Simon repeats, more than a little threateningly. Athena can see where he's coming from: the Phantom has proved himself to be unstable in several occasions, and they have no way to predict whether or not what they're going to tell him will bring up any memories... and how he may react to them. It's much safer if he's bound; safer for them, and for him.

The Phantom rolls his eyes, but he does as he's told. Simon puts the folder he's been holding on the nightstand so that he can use his hands to bound his wrists again, and Athena can see the Phantom's gaze shifting to the folder as though he's just now noticed it. "Have found anything?" he asks very quietly, just as Simon finishes binding his right wrist and steps back.

"As a matter of fact, we did," he says, and reaches to take the folder and open it. "Borginian authorities dug up a very old case that has quite a few details in common with what we gathered so far. What I have here is a summary of what all the reports say."

Athena can hear clearly the Phantom's heart speeding up for a few moments before he regains full control and the heartbeat slows back to normal. The level of control he has on himself when he's lucid is amazing, she muses – but all that control is harder and harder for him to maintain, and slips away quicker and quicker.

"What does it say?" he asks, gaze shifting from Simon to the folder and then back to Simon. He doesn't have to wait for long: Simon begins reading the next moment.

"On December 28, 2001, two boys around fifteen years of age were found in a ditch at the outskirts of Borginia's capital. Both had been shot in the head, though the lack of blood around them made it obvious that the actual scene of the crime was somewhere else; however, it was never found. One of the boys, identified as an orphan called Seymour Blaxton due to a library card he had on him, was declared dead at the scene. He had several broken bones in addition to the fatal shot in the head. The other boy, who had also a wound on his left leg and a broken arm, was not identified and is referred to with the monicker of 'Jean Dupont' in both police and medical reports; their own version of 'John Doe', it appears," he adds, his lips twisting in a faint smirk at the irony.

The Phantom says nothing: he keeps silent, his expression blank, waiting for him to continue. And yet Athena can once again hear his heart rate changing, sense the dismay he feels as the implications of what he just heard sinks in – that 'Jean Dupont' was him, that he still has no name, that the closest they found to one is a monicker for unidentified people.

Simon, who paused for a moment to gauge his reaction, looks back at the sheet in the folder and resumes reading. "This 'Jean' was still alive albeit in critical condition and was rushed to the nearest hospital. Some rather advanced brain surgery was needed to save his life, but it was successful and he pulled through. Meanwhile, no one reclaimed him and no one whose description even vaguely fit him was reported missing; it was soon assumed he was one of the numerous war orphans who lived on the streets, much like the other victim. The police waited until he was able to speak again to interrogate him about what happened – but when he began talking again, it became clear the boy remembered nothing. The hospital records speak of a complete memory loss of all events prior to his awakening. The boy could not recall even his own name, and further investigation led to nothing," Blackquill adds, and looks back up from the folder.

For several moments, the Phantom says nothing: he only stares at Blackquill, and then turns to Athena. A horribly fake smirk curls his lips. "Are you listening to the voice of my heart, Cykes?" he asks, his voice flat. "Do tell me, what do you hear? Because I... I don't know what it is. I don't know."

His flat voice almost cracks at the end, and Athena can see why: what the Phantom's heart is crying is a whirlwind of contrasting emotion, so overwhelming it's no wonder at all he cannot understand. It's easy to to sense all of them even without the Mood Matrix to help. "You're surprised, and glad. You didn't expect to come this far. You're glad to know more. But you're also angry. We don't have a name yet, and there seems to be a dead end ahead. And you're sad. I think... he was your friend, after all," she adds, suddenly feeling so horribly sorry for that Seymour, for that long-dead boy she only knows of through the Phantom's muddy memories.

The Phantom gives a low, throaty chuckle. "My friend? No anymore. I didn't even remember him until these dreams started."

Athena shakes her head. "The heart never really forgets."

"Heart is not where memories are stored, Cykes," the Phantom spits. "Pumping blood is its only use."

"I was speaking figuratively," Athena points out, crossing her arms, then makes an effort to soften her voice. "You did remember him eventually, didn't you? It means the memory was there. He was there, all along. Just buried deep within. And if the memory never truly faded, then what you felt for him didn't, either. That's why the sadness is there."

For a few moments the Phantom only stares at her, his expression – very much unlike his heart – absolutely unreadable. Then he turns to look back up at Simon, who has listened to their exchange in silence.

"Are you absolutely certain that other boy was me? It may have been... someone else," he says. It's unlikely – too many details fit, too many to be a coincidence – but not impossible.

Then again, they have some further proof Simon has yet to tell him about.

"I'm rather sure, especially since there are more elements that fit," he says, and pulls a second sheet out of the folder. "We received a few of the reports from a psychologist who visited 'Jean' through his stay in the hospital. She noted a distinct lack of emotional response to his situation, even to the fact he couldn't recall who he was, and a lack of empathy whenever the boy who was found dead with him was mentioned. A consequence of the brain trauma, most likely. His behavior would sometimes change drastically depending on who he was dealing with; she noted it was as though he acted different parts on a whim, with no apparent effort, but wouldn't stick to any in particular for long. He was described as 'unpredictable', and attempts at getting a clear picture of his personality failed. The visits were cut short, though."

The Phantom draws in a deep breath. "Why? What happened to him?" he asks, and it doesn't escape Athena how he has yet to entirely accept it's him they're talking about: he would have said 'what happened to me' otherwise.

If Simon noticed – but of course he did, it's such an obvious thing! – he doesn't show it, and just replies to the question. "A few months later after being found, having almost entirely recovered, 'Jean Dupont' vanished from the hospital. His room's window was open, and since it could only be opened from the inside local authorities were led to believe he left on his own will. A search was started immediately, but he was never found again. Vanished like a ghost at the break of dawn," Simon adds with a chuckle. "It appears you were good at disappearing even back then. Or do you still think that this was not you, that it's all a coincidence, a jest of fate?" he adds, and before the Phantom can say anything he pulls something else out of the folder – two small photographs, one taken by the police and one by a doctor in the hospital 'Jean Dupont' was brought in.

Athena isn't looking at them now, her eyes fixed on the Phantom, but she did look at them first. Neither is a pretty sight. One shows the dead body of a boy with face and black hair matted with blood, a gaping hole in his forehead and wide open, glassy gray eyes; Seymour Blaxton's death was no a pleasant one. The other picture is somewhat less gruesome, for the subject's head is covered in clean bandages that barely let a few wisps of blond hair show, but there is something unnerving in the flat expression on that face, in those pale blue eyes staring at nothing in particular.

And now those same eyes are staring down at the pictures Simon silently put down on the Phantom's lap.

"It is you," Simon says quietly. "Either that, or the resemblance is uncanny. They took fingerprints in the hospital, but of course those are of no use since you have long since burned them off your fingertips. But to clear all doubt, tell me – is the other boy the one you remembered about? The one you saw in your dream?"

The Phantom stiffens for a moment before he lets out a long breath, his eyes never leaving the pictures. "Yes," he finally says. "Yes, it's him."

"Are you certain?"

The Phantom turns away from the pictures and stares at the wall. "Yes," he says flatly.

Simon nods, and picks up the pictures to slide them back in the folder. "Very well. It's safe to say we've come a long way."

The Phantom gives a humorless chuckle. "Such a long way, and I still know nothing. Such a long way to find out I was a nobody even then. Such a long way to find out I was a John Doe. Yes, we have come a long way. The long way around and then back to the start," he adds bitterly.

"That's not true," Athena says, crossing her arms. She can see just why the Phantom is so frustrated – she's certain she'd be, too, in his place – but now he's getting just annoying. She's not going to let him wave off all that they uncovered as nothing. "We know so much more than we did at the start! We know when you were born and where, we know more about who you were, and now we know what kind of accident took your memories and hindered your emotional spectrum. It's a lot, okay? And the more we know, the more we can find out. You need to remember more, that's all. There is a hole between your memory and what happened next, and you can never know what information retrieving the missing parts may give us. We'll get to work with the Mood Matrix as soon as you can leave the clinic. We're so close. And besides," she adds, slamming a fist into her open hand, "if you dare give up now after all Simon and I had to do to get to this point, then I'll have to kick your into next Tuesday. Fair warning."

The Phantom turns to look at her, tilting his head on one side. "I killed your mother," he says, his voice flat, "and tried to have you convicted for a murder. Are you seriously telling me that this would be the straw to break the camel's back?" he asks, and shakes his head without waiting for a reply. "I don't understand you, Cykes. I don't even understand why you're still trying to help now that I'm giving the information you want already. Blackquill..." he pauses, then turns to Simon – who's been listening to the whole exchange in silence, his expression unreadable. "Prosecutor Blackquill," he says quietly. "May I ask to be left alone with Miss Cykes for a few minutes?"

Simon hesitates, then looks at Athena. She nods, though not quite knowing what the Phantom may want to ask. "I'll be okay. I mean, he's restrained and all," she says, and she's relieved when Simon doesn't insist to stay and simply nods.

"I'll be outside. No mind games with her," he adds, looking down at the Phantom. "Although there is no doubt in my mind she wouldn't fall for any I still advice you not to even try, or your punishment-"

"... will be swift, yes," the Phantom says with a sigh, gaining himself a glare from Simon before he nods at Athena and leaves the room.

She draws in a deep breath and tries not to feel nervous once the door closes they're alone in the same room. She reaches up to toy with her earring as she speaks. "So, what is it?"

The Phantom stares back at her. "I don't understand," he says. "I don't understand... many things, I suppose, but what I want to know now is why you're even here. You don't have to be. Blackquill does, or so he thinks, because he gave me his precious word," the Phantom says, throwing up his hands as much as straps will allow him, which isn't much. Still, Athena is paying a lot of attention in such things – to his gestures, the tone of his voice, tastes and quirks that didn't belong to Fulbright and that were not there before. Small things that are extremely telling to her: they're small details that show a personality, a self starting to come together... or starting to come back.

Unaware of her musing, the Phantom is still speaking.

"... but you never gave 'your word', as far as I can tell. Now that I'm giving the information you all wanted from me from the start, now that I lost the one bargaining chip I had, there is nothing forcing you to come back and use the Mood Matrix on me. There is nothing forcing you to help."

It is nothing Athena hasn't asked herself, and it's nothing she hasn't answered to; Simon asked her almost the same thing, too. "It was never just for the information. I wanted to know, true. I wanted some closure for my mother, and Clay, and Detective Fulbright. But I also want to know who you are, so that... so that I can give my mother's murderer a name," she finishes.

There is something else, too, but it's something she could only feel comfortable sharing with Simon and that she cannot bring herself to say before the Phantom. So she doesn't tell him what she told Simon as they both watched the him fighting for his life in the intensive care unit.

I want to believe there may be something worth saving in that abyss he claims he is.

And maybe, she thinks, maybe there is... is there? "Now that I answered, I have a question of my own," she hears herself saying. "I tried to ask once, but I put it the wrong way, I guess. I'll tell you what I think now, and I want you to answer either yes or no. That's it. A yes or a no will do."

The Phantom seems both curious and somewhat wary, as though he doesn't know what to make of her, but he nods. "Fair enough. What is it?"

There goes, Athena thinks, and drives in a deep breath. She doesn't have the magatama this time, but no matter: she has to try, at least. "When you tried to convict me for Clay's murder, you must have known there was a strong chance my mother's murder could be brought up again. You must have. You knew Simon had confessed to the murder because he believed it may have been me. No, don't speak," she adds, causing the Phantom – who had opened his mouth as though to speak – to fall quiet. "Just answer to me: was your goal having me convicted for both murders, and saving Simon from execution?"

The Phantom's frame stiffens. "I-"

"Yes or no," Athena cuts him off, her voice sharp. She'll take no other answer but a clear-cut one that leaves no room for mind games, no room for changes of subject or blurred lines. A yes or a no, and she'll know if he's lying: his heart will tell her.

And he must know, too, for he makes no attempt to lie. He looks down and speaks quietly, as though he fears Simon may be listening from outside, but his voice is still perfectly audible to her. "... yes."

She's not surprised: it's the answer she's expected for quite a while now. "I see," is what she finally says, her voice softening a little.

"Don't tell him," the Phantom says, still not looking up at her; a striking detail to her, for he used to have no trouble at all holding her gaze. He doesn't sound like he's pleading, but he's not too far away either. "Don't."

He already knows, Athena thinks, but she doesn't voice her thought. "I won't. But what were you planning to do if your plan worked and I was convicted in his place?" she asks. There is no point in asking why he wanted to save him: at this point it's clear enough that the Phantom had grown attached to Simon, whether or not he was aware of it.

He bites his lower lip. "We settled for 'yes or no' questions," he says tightly.

Well, Athena thinks, if he thought that was going to stop her he was so very much mistaken. "Were you planning to keep Fulbright's place? Keep the act up, keep working as his detective?"

Did you ever wish you could be Fulbright?

"I... for a time," the Phantom says, his voice somewhat strained. He's trying and failing to regain full control of himself, and Athena means to keep pressing on before he has a chance to.

Did you think that if you tried hard enough, kept the act up long enough, then you could truly be him?

"How long?"

"That's not-"

"Another year? Two? How long would you keep that mask up? How long would you have kept standing by Simon's side? How long would you-"

"As long as it would be fit!" the Phantom snarls, causing Athena to trail off. Her heart jumps in her chest for a moment, but she refuses to let it show and just looks back at him in silence. He's the first one to turn away. "I don't know. Is this what you want to hear? I don't know," he adds, hanging his head as though he's just admitted to something shameful. "I rationalized. I told myself I had reasons. That I needed to find the psych profile, that I could keep a close eye on him and his investigation to make sure he didn't make it too close to the organization, that I could get important information from a position in the police. Was it all true? I suppose it was. But maybe I had also... grown to like it where I was. Maybe I would have kept finding excuses to postpone the day I'd shed Fulbright's mask and leave. Maybe I wouldn't have left, after all."

For a few moments Athena says nothing. There is something so incredibly sad about all of this, about how he would have been willing to live someone else's life because it was a life, so unlike the nothingness he came from. "It wouldn't have been real," she finally says softly. "It would have been a lie. Like this past year – only a lie."

The Phantom shakes his head, gaze still lowered. "Not all of it, no. Blackquill – he was real, like everyone else.I was... the only lie," he adds, and for a moment his voice trembles. He swallows and shuts his eyes, trying to regain control, and after drawing in a deep breath he finally looks back at her. Much to her relief, his eyes are dry. "You asked your questions and had your answers. Ask nothing more. Please."

Athena nods, fully aware that she's pushed him as far as he can go. She's rather amazed by the extent of the Phantom's admissions, how much he lowered his defenses and for how long. "Alright."

"Don't tell him about... about this."

"I won't," Athena promises, and she means it: she doesn't think telling Simon any of what she just heard would do him any good, not like this. If he's to know, he has to know it from the Phantom himself. It occurs to her that by opening up like this the Phantom gave her a potential weapon, knowledge she could hurt him with, and he's aware of it as he's aware of the fact there are very, very good reasons why she could want to hurt him.

But she won't do it, can't do it; it's just not how her mind works. So in the end she just changes subject. "If we're done, then we should call Simon back in. He's probably chewing some officer's head off for mistaking that creep for a doctor. And we should decide when we should have the next session. "

The Phantom nods at her words, and looks away again. "You have my thanks," he says quietly.

Athena can't think of anything to say, but then again she doesn't think he expects an answer.

It takes almost a week for that session to happen; before then he needs to wait for the clinic to release him, and then he has to testify against Warren Peace to the police. Only then the session is finally allowed to take place.

As much as he's looked forward to it, when he finds himself sitting before Blackquill and Cykes once more – this time only shackled to the bolts on the table, as the authorities seem to have established he's not going to try eating them alive unless he's tied down so tightly he can't move an inch – the Phantom cannot tell whether he feels ready or not.

But that doesn't truly matter, does it? This must be done, and he must hope they'll uncover something this time, something that may give him a name. It's all he needs right now, all he wants, and he must be ready.

I will not be afraid.

"Ready?" Cykes is asking, clearly unaware of his thoughts – or perhaps all too aware. Why shouldn't she be, perceptive as she is to the slightest chance in his heartbeat?

"Probably not entirely," the Phantom says, "but that's hardly a reason not to try."

As she nods and sets the Mood Matrix ready, the Phantom looks at Blackquill. With a stab of something uncomfortably close to nervousness, he finds himself hoping Cykes kept her word of telling him nothing of what she heard that day at the clinic. In hindsight, he knows he shouldn't have allowed himself to admit so much... but then again, what does he have left to lose? His dignity? He forfeited it in court, when he broke down utterly. And not Blackquill, certainly; he never really had him to begin with.

A lie, all of it.

"How is the investigation going?" the Phantom asks, more to fill the moment of silence than because he truly cares. Blackquill smirks and reaches up to rub his chin.

"Rather well, I'd say. Mr. Peace tried to deny the accusations, but your testimony and further proof the investigation uncovered were more than enough to clip his wings. After a little... confrontation with Prosecutor von Karma, he agreed to cooperate. He gave us some rather interesting details, including the name of some other bad elements in the Interpol and the name of the man who killed the poisoner and set up the bomb in his apartment. He's being searched for as we speak, and I have no doubt he'll soon be caught."

He sounds perfectly normal, and the Phantom's worry Cykes may have told him everything goes down a notch. He's about to say something when Cykes speaks up.

"All set up. Ready when you are."

I'm not ready, a part of him wants to say, but he ignores it and forces himself to focus on what he dreamed as he lay in the hospital. He starts talking slowly, from the very start – from the moment he and that boy, Seymour, were walking on a catwalk in the dark with flashlights as their only source of light. He speaks of their banter, of everything he can recall either of them saying, and it doesn't take long for Cykes to find something.

"Here!" she exclaims, pointing at something on the screen. "Right here. When you said 'careful there, there's a gap' and 'the catwalk is rusted through', there was fear."

The Phantom frowns. "Fear? That's... odd. I was not afraid back then. I'm certain I wasn't – I said so, even boasted that I'd never fall," he says. He doesn't argue that there must be a mistake, though: the Mood Matrix has proved him wrong too many times for him to believe it. The explanation must be another.

"The fact you were not afraid then doesn't have to mean anything," Blackquill says, looking down at the screen as well. "You may have had a reason to be afraid in another moment; after this one, but of course before now. Memories of the past often are muddled with thoughts and feelings of what comes next."

"Let's keep going," Cykes suggests. "It may make more sense later."

The rest of the memory doesn't bring up anything much, however; some surprise when he saw what was going on in the huge storeroom beneath his feet, fear when he saw those armed men standing against the opposite wall, but nothing unexpected. When he reaches the moment the memory ends and the nightmare begins, he stops. "This is... this is all I can remember," he says. "Last thing I can recall is that we began heading to the air vent to get away. Then nothing more."

Blackquill frowns. "Based on what we know, it's obvious those men must have spotted you and shot you both. Can't you remember it happening?"

The Phantom shakes his head. "No. What I wonder is, how did they spot us? I'm certain neither of us was foolish enough to make noise. We were well above them, and even the lights were below us," he adds. Indeed, they were rather high up. It was a long way down to where the men stood.

Something about that thought causes the Phantom to tense, hair standing on the back of his neck. He frowns and tries to focus, tries to pinpoint what's so unnerving about it.

A long way down.

He had several broken bones in addition to the fatal shot in the head.

Careful there, there's a gap...

A long way down.

… the catwalk is...

… several broken bones...

… the catwalk is-

A LONG WAY DOWN.

"No!"

The scream that leaves him is one of denial and pain in equal parts, for his skull suddenly feels as though it could split. The Phantom screams again, then he reaches up to hold his head in his hands and grounds his teeth against the pain. He struggles to ignore it, and keeps pressing on because he knows he's almost there, he needs to remember and he needs to remember now.

The catwalk is rusted through.

"Let's go," Seymour whispers, gripping his arm. He's pale, and absolutely terrified. "Please...!"

"Yes," the boy replies, his own voice a whisper. "Let's go back to the air vent. Be quiet," he adds, giving one last look at the men moving down below. None of them has even looked up, and he intends to be long gone by the time any of them may feel like doing just that.

They didn't wander very far from the air vent they came through, so there are only a handful steps separating them from the square hold in the wall that will lead them to relative safety. Seymour looks so terrified he can barely function, so the boy gestures for him to go first, get in the air vent first to leave.

He never reaches it.

Everything happens fast, so fast the boy has no time to react. Seymour steps closer to the vent and then there is a noise that sounds all the world like a groan, followed by a loud crack. Seymour doesn't even have the time to cry out before a part of the old catwalk just falls, bringing him down with it, but he does scream when he hits a pile of crates first and then the ground in a rain of dust, rusted metal and pieces of wood.

The boy's own scream is trapped somewhere in his throat, but he's too stunned, too terrified to force it out.

And then it's someone else to cry out, loud enough to be heard through Seymour's howls of pain.

"What the fuck?"

Heart hammering in his throat, the boy tears his gaze away from his friend's crumpled form on the ground to see that all the men are now running up to the spot where Seymour has fallen – and several of them are now looking up, straight at him. There is a moment of stillness, only one moment before hell breaks loose.

The first bullet is fired with a deafening bang and flies right past his head, hitting the wall behind him and startling him out of his stunned trance enough to realize that he needs to go – and he needs to go now.

More people scream and more shots are fired, but none of them hits the panicked boy as he leaps past the hole in the catwalk and climbs inside the air vent, a bullet narrowly missing him as he does. He can heard them screaming at each other, he can hear them scattering around to try blocking any escape route he may use. They may be waiting for him to shoot him when he gets out on the other side, he realizes. The thought is terrifying, but he knows that if he stops he's lost for sure and so he keeps going, keeps crawling forward, heart pounding and tears wetting his face. He keeps going even when it's Seymour to scream, his voice unrecognizable through the pain and terror – because there is nothing he can do for him, nothing at all.

"No! Please, no! I don't want to die! Help me! Help!"

I'm sorry I'm so sorry it was an accident and I never meant for this to happen I didn't mean to...!

"Robb! Please, come back! Help me, don't leave me here! Robb! NO! Please, don't! Robert! ROB-"

There is another bang, and Seymour's screaming ceases at once.

"No, no, no, no, no...!"

The Phantom's screams turn into little more than whimpers, but Blackquill still doesn't let him go. He's aware, vaguely, of the gazes on him – Athena's, and that of the few officers that rushed in as soon as the Phantom began screaming – and he glances at them over the Phantom's shoulder, silently shaking his head.

Don't interfere.

They don't, nor they seemed to have any intention to to begin with: they seem too stunned to do anything. Blackquill can't tell what is it that surprises them the most – that the Phantom was able to break the pegs securing his chained wrists to the table or that now he's currently kneeling on the floor, with his face pressed against Blackquill's shoulder and gripping the lapels of his jacket – but at the moment it matters not.

Truth to be told, at first he grabbed the Phantom to hold him down, so that he wouldn't be able to hurt Athena or himself in what seemed a sudden fit of madness. He thought he'd have to fight to restrain him, and he was ready to, but it wasn't the case: the moment Blackquill grabbed him the Phantom just crumbled, and fell on his knees while clinging to him, dragging him down on his knees as well. For a moment Blackquill almost pushed him away out of instinct, but then the Phantom pressed his face against his shoulder and released a gut-wrenching howl of grief and pain and hell knew what else. The next moment Blackquill found himself reaching around him to hold him, tight, until the Phantom's trembling subsided and his cries quieted down.

"Phantom," he finally calls out, still holding tight so that he'll be able to hold him still should he have another fit. That gets a reaction out of him, but it's not a fit: he stiffens and draws in a shaky breath before speaking, his voice raspy and muffled by Blackquill's shoulder.

"Robert," he manages, grip tightening on the lapels of his jacket as though to keep him from pulling back.

Blackquill falls silent for a moment, taken aback. Did he just... can it be? Is that it, of all names? Can fate truly be so twisted? "What...?"

"My... my name," the Phantom says, and pulls back just enough to look up at at him. They're so very close, and Blackquill can see just how wide his eyes are, how bright and feverish. "Robert. My name is Robert."