A-Ah, I'm flattered. Anyway, sorry for the late updates. I had to stay up for days cramming for my exam (One year worth of not-studying, coming back and hitting me in the face) and had some major writer's block. Here's the next chapter. x_x
Also, I'm afraid I OOC'd Wocky. I'm not very good with him, and well, I find him sort of overblown. Do gangsters really talk like that? Because mostly I just find that they growl when they talk and their tenor/baritone makes it hard to hear what they say. They sure as hell don't blizzoy the press. So uh yeah, long story short, I suck at characterization, I botched Wocky up.
Ten : Wrong sized shoe
-
It was three days later after the latest helter-skelter on the highway when Apollo Justice was in the detention center. He's here for the third case he's running since he joined the firm, and three in five seems to him a very great accomplishment. He's billing people now – not as much as the other two were, but he's billing people, and those bills number like someone's national security number.
It may look boring to you – a lawyer who goes to work at eight in the morning and comes home at five, but you won't be saying so if you're looking at his paycheck.
Not to mention, as long as Gavinne doesn't call in, he has free rein to do however he pleases. He's been quite worried, you see. Quite worried.
Quite worried that he might be under the mob's control for every single case – and having to change the verdict however Gavinne wants it. That's not the case, as Liam had explained to him in that insanely clipped, children-recital accent.
"Gavinne hardly ever calls for us, Justice, but if he does, you drop everything but your pants and go running. I understand that that is not a pretty euphemism, or a bright way to start your career here, but you must understand. Gavinne pays our bills, our rents, our everything. We're allowed to haul our own stuff and work our own cases for money. If we don't work and just live on his paycheck, we would live too. Maybe without a car or two, but we will live. We take these cases, and they're what we do most of the time – just remember, always remember, that because he's paying our bills – he's our biggest client. If he calls, you run. Other than that, we may do as we please."
Jacques' explanation was much easier to understand :
"Go with God, unless Gavinne rings your bell."
Go with God indeed.
Apollo's first stop of the day was the detention center. He's here for the case of Wocky Kitaki – so jumbled he could hardly see into the file without getting a migraine. The testimony doesn't match, the case looks pretty deadlocked, and the worse thing is, Wocky Kitaki is proclaiming his guilt on every bleeding rooftop between here and Las Vegas, shouting out his guilt to anyone who's stopping long enough to listen.
Every interview he's gone to, he's saying it. He might as well have painted it on his forehead to save him all the work – and Apollo's here today to straighten him out, not to mention get the necessary information out of him. He can't have a defendant that admits to the crime, nor can Wocky Kitaki have a defense who hasn't got a clue beyond that Pal Meraktis is dead, and according to the report that just arrived on his desk today like Ganta Clause's present : so is his fiancee.
Guess who the crime's on?
He had been so used to being the P.D that the moment he had arrived at the detention center, he had gone right up to the desk and ask after the interrogation room.
"Is anyone using it at the moment?"
The lady looked up at him, long-suffering and cranky. These types always are – must be the side effect of looking at so many shits a day. "No, there's no one using it at the moment."
"Ah." Apollo shuffled a little. "So can I um, have it? There's a defendant I want to interview and..."
"And you want the room? Why can't you just use the normal visitor's cell and be done with it?" Her accent sounds strange. Like a Latin gal trying to speak with a clipped nose.
"It's well, easier to get the point across when you're face to face you know? The plastic sorts of diminish the effect, and you can't shake hands or get your points across as easily. So...May I?"
The woman looked him up and down. "Sorry kid – the place's only for the and the prosecutors. And you're not one – I can tell you that much."
"Eh..." Apollo sighed. He had been hoping he'll get in easily. After all, it was kind of hard to talk to Wocky Kitaki with a plastic in between. It's not vital or anything, he's not going to lose his hairdo or his sleep over it, but it would be a help. And Apollo's motto is always this : When you can have help, get help. Help is good. It means you do lesser, and you learn more. It's call learning to pick your battles – or your weapons in this case. Why go for the switchblade when a cannon's lying in plain sight?
So instead, he pulled out the business card Constans handed him.
"What's this?" She asked suspiciously. "I'll have to warn you – our facility might not be the police, but our rules and regulations are extremely..." She trailed off as she read the firm name printed onto it. "You're from this firm?"
"Yeah," Apollo nodded.
"I've never seen you before," She said again. Apollo flushed.
"I've um, been around actually. Just that I used to be a public defense and I could just waltz in so um, yeah."
"Huh." The lady turned around and left for the staff room. "Stay here," She ordered, as if Apollo had a naughty habit of running around people's belongings when they're not there. "I'm going to check the list."
Apollo had no idea what this 'list' thing is, but he was starting to get a hint of it. Sure enough, the lady returned a moment later, lips pulled across tightly in irritation.
"The firm's on the list. You can use the room if you want." She told him. "But only if you obey the rules – no fighting, no beating up the defendants, and for the last time (I'll say this but I know you won't obey it anyway) no trading things in. Not that you will listen, but I'll have it here on black and white. You can't say I didn't tell you the rules before you went in."
"Thanks," Apollo said graciously, accepting the returned card. "So um..." He looked at the staff door curiously. "What's this whole list thing? Is there like, a whole list of firms whose lawyers are allowed state privileges or something?"
Curiosity killed the cat, Apollo. But it's okay, he's human. The lady snorted at him.
"You really are new, aren't you?"
"Yes, I am," He said, almost pushing his chin out defiantly. Curiosity killed the cat, and Apollo's got a bucket worth of that same curiosity about how things work. Most often than not, it lands him in trouble. Like his liver though, it's inseparable.
"Hmph." The lady nodded, happy that he admits to his flaws. "Well, I'll tell you if you really want to know. It's something senator vonKarma set up in our system. It didn't used to be like this." At this, her face flushed angrily. "It used to be a fine working system, totally a-okay – until that man stepped up to the seat. He's the worse senator we've ever had – I can tell you that."
"How so?" Apollo almost open his notebook to write this down, but the lady probably wouldn't take kindly to it.
"Well he accepts bribes – and he accepts lots of it. Worse thing is, no one stands up to him. He changed the whole way we work, and no one says a thing to his face, no one goes to his house to do die-ins, or if they do, they get put away by his daughter. I mean, I know it's illegal to do all that strike stuff, but I sure do feel sorry for these kids they haul in from his place. It's not their fault, ya know what I mean? They never did any wrong but to sling mud on shit, if you'll excuse mah vocabulary."
The more animated the lady was, the more some southern accent comes to the surface.
"And now I ain't liking to badmouth people, but I reckon we can't just let bygones be bygones, ya know? Someone's gotta dig that man out, and someone's better dig fast or I'll take that shovel outta their hands!"
"Um...Can you perhaps, tell me exactly what he did that's gotten you so mad?"
"Oh!" She cried. "Don't even get me started on it! He's the one who started this list system in all the detention center, and word has it even in some of the prisons. Basically we're like an interstate night club – you gotta be on the list to get in. Reckgiven that you gotta be rich or powerful or both to get in. If you're in a gang for example, or work for one, and the boss pays his dues to vonKarma, it gets you want you want."
Apollo's eyes widened. He had heard of senator vonKarma a little – from friends and some heavyweight magazine mostly, but it's never unflattering. Most magazines would go for miles telling you how wonderful vonKarma is, and how fabeautiful, as one guy down in San Diego had put it – and he told the lady so.
"Of course not! I told ya, didn't I? The press don't shovel fast enough. They're all under his control – now if I were out on the streets, you can bet I'll shovel the dirt out of him faster than ever. Thanks to him, we gotta show these hoity-toity folks in and let them do as they please. There was one jerk who brought in a bomb last week and tried to blow the place up like a goddaaaaaamned Bueno Nacho shop like back in my hometown and guess why we didn't scan him? 'Cuz of vonKarma's laws!"
"Really?" Apollo gulped at the ferocity of her glare. Now this is a new thing. Apollo's never heard of these sort of stuff, at least not back in the P.D where everyone always watches what they say because you never know who might report back to the chief P.D. He felt a little naïve, a little uneducated to the ways of the world, but he was learning, so it's a good thing, right?
"Why don't you go and spread it around in the press then?"
"Are you crazy?" The lady looked at him like he was. "I got me a lot of facts, but I can tell ya something, it's not paying my bills. Now if you'll excuse me, I'll speak back in yer folks' good language before my boss gets in on me talking like a girl out of the heartland."
"Oh, um, alright." Apollo smiled weakly, and offered his hand to shake. It felt like the right thing to do, though he was pretty sure he can't be this lady's first confidant. "Thanks for the information, ma'am."
"The name's Lotta Hart, but don't go calling me Officer Hart, plain old Lotta would do." She announced, shaking his hand. Well, he thought, smiling at her. This sure is a friendly lady – she's gone from being grumpy to shaking his hand like a maraca within minutes.
"What's yours?"
"Apollo Justice."
"Good! Now if you ever hear anything bad, anything juicy and just reeking in yesterday's garbage about senator vonKarma, and you got the photos to back it up – you come to me, you hear? I've got some connections, and I'm not afraid to use it! One word to the OLDBAG society and we'll floor him like a prizewinner."
"Oh, alright." He took his hand back, and didn't wipe it clean like he wanted to. What an enthusiastic person – and Apollo wasn't sure if he should like her or be very very afraid. Like Trucy, with an Afro. What a disturbing image. "I'll um, be going now. I still need that information from Wocky Kitaki."
"Sure, go on. I'll get him for you, I will. Now I better speak in your posh accents again, ah...Life, life..."
Apollo Justice have now moved, courtesy of one Officer Hart. He waited for Wocky Kitaki in the interrogation room, and he wondered briefly if it was a bad idea to have asked for this room. After all, the advantage can go both ways – and Wocky Kitaki might just decide that Apollo's face looks better stuck onto the metal tables. Loud, Apollo Justice is, but his voice is not made to shout for help.
"Didn't I say I want no meeting with all these shoestrings!?.... you hard of hearing or something, lady?"
Apollo could hear someone talking loudly out there. The room's quiet see, and you can hear pretty much anything. Officer Hart was probably escorting his client – his client, oh how long he's long to call someone his client and not his case – to the room. Sure enough, the door sprang apart, and Officer Hart was cuffing Wocky like a naughty puppy.
"Now don't gimme that lip, kid – I got 'em more than you." The officer gave him a light push, and Wocky – which Apollo guessed had to be the kid – stumbled forwards.
"Whoa hey! I ain't afraid of you! A G ain't afraid of nobody!"
"Yeah? Well you better be afraid of me, because I'm from the heart of the heartland and you betchaood we're all tough folks!"
The door slammed shut in Wocky Kitaki's face, and he shouted at it, waving a fist at it. "Ain't no cop bringing me down, yo!"
The door did not look suitably impressed.
Apollo decided that as a defense attorney, it wasn't to his advantage to be overlooked. He stood to clear his throat, startling the kid.
"Woah hey--" The kid – and he can't be more than a kid looking like that. Apollo knew he was nineteen, but he looked to Apollo more like some kid fresh out of high school – jumped backwards. Apollo hadn't attacked him, but he might as well had for all the reaction he got – Wocky Kitaki looked ready to fight back if Apollo threw himself at him and bit his ear off right there.
"Who the hell are you? Don't sneak up on me like that!"
"Uh..Sorry." Apollo blurted out. "But I was here in the room first, really," He added defensively.
"The humans were here first before the statue of liberty, so the liberty got a right to freak people out?"
"Ah, no. I think."
"That's right! Why you gotta go and act all sneaky man - you from the Rivales or something? I ain't afraid of you!"
Wocky looked downright jumpy, but it was Apollo who took a step backwards. No, this is too much for him to handle – just looking at this guy and his badger shirts were enough to drive him into migraines, and he hadn't been in his company for more than five minutes.
He shook his head. Get it together Apollo. He stuck a hand out and said, in his calmest, most professional voice. "I'm a defense attorney – your defense attorney actually. I've been assigned – I mean, I got hired to defend you."
"My defense? Yo, I never heard anything like that from the G in da slammer. Who the hell hired you? I know I sure as hell hadn't hired a pinhead like you."
Why you little---
"Your father did actually. Mr. Winfred Kitaki. I am to represent you for your case, which will go to trial next week." He thrust his hand out. "Apollo Justice."
Wocky looked at his outstretched hand like it was a rotten apple. "You got a funny name, man. You made it up yourself or something?"
"Uh, no. Everyone back in the orphanage had names like that. There was even a kid who was named Spoon, so no, I hadn't made it up. Seat?"
He waved at the other plastic chair, and Wocky Kitaki took it. He radiated hostility through every pore of his being, and Apollo didn't know what to think of the guy. He was pretty sure before he walked in here that he had been the one who had done it – all the facts pointed towards it, and he had expected to wiggle his way out of this one the usual way. Be slimy and vague, and victory would be yours. Except for the fact that Wocky Kitaki is shouting out his guilt.
That one he wasn't so sure on : No one who is truly guilty would admit to it, unless the man's a psychopath. Looking at Wocky now, he wasn't too sure. Did the kid really do it, or not?
No way but the highway. Wocky made himself comfortable in his seat, looking around the room – must be a sight to see after a whole week of wall-staring. He started. "So Mr. Kitaki, I'm sure you can guess what I'm here for. Since I'm representing you in the case, I need you to provide me with information – as much as you --"
"Don't call me mister, mister. Mister's the old man, I ain't no mister. The name's Wocky, and if you can't remember the name, then step up yo – and I'll wash it into your head."
"Right. Wocky, I'll be brief with you--"
"Ain't no one's ever brief with me when they say so."
"Wocky, stop interrupting me."
"Huh."
"Now, since you don't look like you appreciate twisty words, I'll be frank with you. That okay with you?"
Wocky just shrugged a whatever shrugged. Like Apollo could get up and dance the cancan for all he cared. Apollo took it in stride though, any moment of silence is a chance.
"I'm here to discuss the case of Pal Meraktis with you. It says here in your testimony...That you killed him. But you were being vague and uncooperative with the officer. No mention of how you did it, except that you were claiming to do so. You didn't explain what happened there in People's Park either, as well as the tangle of footsteps on the ground. In short, I've got no information, and I'll be frank okay? I'm not winning this case with this."
"Then maybe you're not trying hard enough. And anyway – it was the truth. I killed that asshole. Does it matter if I did it with a gun or a shiv? Because either way pork chop looks like pork chop to me, and homicide or first-degree sounds 'bout the same."
"That's not the way the court runs."
"I don't like the way the court runs, it runs like a fucking Noh show."
"Even if you don't like it – it's rules, and we have to follow the rules. And the rules say you can't just go out there with a testimony like this."
"I look like I give a shit to you?"
"Well," He paused. "No."
"See?" Wocky said. "Go home, lawyerman, you're wasting my time, yo. Steel Samurai's starting in half, so why don't you just scram?" He snorted, laughing at the irony of the statement.
"This is serious business, Wocky. Drop that act of yours for a minute." He brushed his slightly drooping hairdo off furiously. "I know you apparently will die if you cooperate for once in your life and talk to people like a decent human being, but this is serious, alright?" Apollo opened up the file and slid it over for him to look at it. A compilation of every single charge the prosecution is bringing against Wocky – and you had better believe when he said there's a lot of those. And also, just to screw it into the kid's head, Apollo had prepared a whole list of the kind of punishment he would be facing if he got indicted.
That one even a moron could read. Capital punishment for a capital chap. Death.
Wocky's eyes trailed all the way to the last word. "I'm not afraid of death," He told Apollo. He wasn't even joking, and that was what Apollo didn't like. Something's wrong about the kid – there's something flat in his eyes.
When Apollo had seen his file, all Wocky's photos were full of life. Proud momma Plum Kitaki had even shown him a video of her poor Wocky, and the one thing they all had in common disregarding the age was that he was energetic in all of them. Now, even though he was acting like a 50 cent member, there's something...Lost about him.
It's the way Trucy gets whenever she starts thinking about good old mom, and Apollo didn't like it. Hits to close the thing he sees in the mirror sometimes, when he gets all sentimental and stuff.
"I'm not afraid of death, Mr. Justice," He said again, and he looks serious this time. The kind of look you see on terrorists' face when they send you that last damned video before they go KABOOM in your favourite Mac restaurant. There are two kinds of those. One is an insane, half-hysterical grin. This is the other, a resolute look.
"I'm not afraid of death," He says again, just to get the point across.
"Well you should be, because the punishment for murder these days is lethal injection, and if you keep doing this--" He stabbed a finger at the file. "If you keep proclaiming that you're guilty, then write me into your will, Wocky. I wouldn't mind, and you wouldn't either – because this time next year you'll be dead."
Harsh truth, true truth.
Wocky fell quiet at the last word, and the me ringed uncomfortably in the room. It sounded like someone's cupping their mouths up in Mount Improbable and shouting out the words, the way it ring-rang and bounced off the walls like rubber balls. Wocky obviously wasn't quite used to being shouted at.
"So are you going to cooperate or not?" Apollo demanded.
Wocky glared at him. "Fuck no – you hard of hearing or something? Go clean your ear of wax – I don't need you. Go home, Mr. Lawyer, go eat some shit, play with some sticks – Wocky Kitaki's got none to say to ya."
Wocky scowled at him. Apollo scowled back at him. Then he noticed something.
"What's that on your forehead?" Apollo questioned, peering closely at him. The light's bad in the room, but he could see something that looked like-- "Wocky, is that a wound on your forehead?"
"What? No way man – no shit!" He tugged uncomfortably at his sleeves, and Apollo was seized by a conviction that he probably had more of those under that jacket.
"Yes it is," Apollo snapped back. He had no idea why he cared – except he did. It's a serious business, someone being beaten up in a detention center – and someone had to be notified. Apollo simply wouldn't settle for less until the whole bureaucracy shook. It's wasn't just the fact that he's his client either – he was outraged at the idea that something like this could be happening in a so-call state-of-art facility for security.
First there's a list, and now officers who apparently don't care – or have overlooked it. What's happening to the state? Why don't we all just beat our chests and go back to cavemen?
"Did someone beat you up in the detention center? Is that how you got that wound?"
The kid's fringe was covering his forehead, but even so, you can see it. Even in the dark. It wasn't life-threatening, but it could have been. If – that's the key word here, and there's a lot of ifs in the world. Someone – Wocky – could have been seriously hurt, and while Apollo had just met him and felt no obligation to him, it's common decency that he should be enraged. His messiah complex wouldn't settle for less.
"I say it wasn't! And anyway, I gave back as good as I got--"
"You were in a fight? In a security facility?" Apollo said incredulously. "And no one stopped you?"
"The lady was looking away! And it ain't a big deal – scratches are what makes a G."
'Then you wouldn't win me a prize as a scratch-and-win card, Wocky – because those are a lot of scratches." He said. "No, someone's got to answer for this. I think I'll talk to that officer – what's her name – Officer Hart? I'll talk to her, and then we'll get you moved to another cell where you won't get into trouble."
Knowing Wocky, he was probably the one who had started the fight, with that mouth of his. But no matter what kind of justification you gave it, or how bad a person Wocky Kitaki is – and he really wasn't such a bad person, if a little scary – you just don't beat people up in security facilities, is all.
It;s against rules, it's against regulations, and if there's one religion Apollo Justice prays to every night before he turns up his toes, it's rules and regulations. R & R.
Whenever possible, that is.
"Aw man, you don't have to do that." He sniffed a little though, and rubbed his nose. "But meh, that was awright of you."
Apollo nodded, acknowledging. Then he asked him. "Does it hurt?"
"What? No shit man. I got worse tussling with Saka back home. Damn freakshows ain't enough to bring this badass down."
Apollo thought the wound look kind of ugly, even if it was threatening. If he even mentioned it in the slightest, he knew he would be wiped off though. Instead, he settled on : "So what did you fought with that for?"
Wrong question, it seems, or perhaps the best one.
Wocky went silent.
That was the only way Apollo could describe it. It takes a moment, he registers what Apollo's asking him, and then he just spaces out as the trail of thought bring him to goodness knew where.
Just went silent – stopped talking. Just staring at Apollo like he had just told him alien nations exist and the Pink Floyd is actually a kind of hippopotamus that lives in the Sahara desert and swim across quicksand. No, it wasn't disbelief. It was like someone had taken a hammer to him and knocked Wocky Kitaki right out of Wocky Kitaki. Bam, slam, count to nine – you're out, boy.
"Wocky?"
"H-Huh?"
"What did you guys fought about? Was it because you were being rude to them?"
"U-Uh, yeah. That was it – I was being rude to them, yeah."
But that agreement felt sour, deflated, a balloon you've taken the oxygen out of. Wocky just isn't the kind of person who admits to being wrong before you 1-2 his face, and that he's admitting to it now – it just reeks like a smelly apple pie.
"Tell me the truth, Wocky. What on Earth did they beat you up for?"
"I told you – I was being rude to them."
Not changing there. "Fine, what did you say to them?"
"I told them their mum's fannys are the size of Mount Everest, flipped upside down."
Apollo pursed his lips. He had no idea if he should laugh at this kid or cry in frustration. "Alright, fine. So why did you tell them that?"
"They were breathing my air."
"Wocky..." Apollo sighed. "Look, this is getting out of hand. I came here for Meraktis. If you won't tell me about that, won't you at least tell me about this whole fight thing. It's my duty," He pointed out. "As your attorney, I should see to your welfare for the duration of your trial – and that includes your stay in the detention center."
"L-Look, it was nothing! It was just some stupid stuff! We were fighting over-over...Over pudding! Yeah! That's what we fought over, man – and you better believe it!'
Apollo wasn't buying it. So he changed tack. Living with Trucy's taught him a lot of stuff, most of all how to deal with kids, or like this one – a brat who's not growing up, even though he should be way more mature at this stage in life. God knows Apollo had been way more, and he tend to measure people by his heights.
"Oh, is that it?"
"Yeah, that's it."
"You know what? I think you're lying." Apollo said. Wocky looked furious.
"I'm not lying, yo! That's just uncool. We're fighting over food, 'cuz there's so little of it here. You got a problem with that?"
"Naw, it's not the food thing. I bet it was really because they were ridiculing you, right?"
"What? Hell no!"
"No, no, tell the truth – really. Wocky – you act the part, but you're no real gangster. I've met one before, and he laid a hole in my wall, and I don't mean he humped it. He shot the thing when I gave him trouble, and I don't think he was too concerned with the cop folks either. I've met one – and I can tell you something, he wasn't like you. He was way cooler, you know? More suave, more...Godfather. Whereas you're more like the stuff people plaster on thrashy hip-hop CDs. That was what they said about you, right?"
"No! That wasn't – It was-- It just isn't, alright?"
"Mhmm," Apollo goaded, pasting on a condescending look. Trucy never fails to fly off the handle when he gives her his superior look – and he had no reason to believe that this kid would be otherwise. "Ah, come on." He was actually enjoying this, in a weird sort of way. He was probably going to get socked one for this – but hell. Wocky acted tough, but Apollo doubted if he was really as bad as he painted himself out to be.
If he's half the thug he acted, there would be an Apollo shape on the metal table by now. Hey, Apollo could be a bad cop if he wanted to – and under normal circumstances, he knew Wocky would laugh at his pathetic attempts to act like a bad cop. Except Wocky isn't laughing, probably couldn't if he wanted to – and it probably struck too close to home and hit too raw a nerve for him to laugh it off.
"Listen, it's just you and me, alright? It's just us and this room. You can tell me what they said – what was it that they decided on this time? I heard a lot when I was in the orphanage. Was it your mom, or your aunt, or your grandma?" He gasped. "No! It wasn't your grandpa, was it?"
"No-- it was---"
"Or did they decided to go in for the kill and mention your hairdo? There was one back in the old shop that said that and boy did it--"
"THEY SAID I KILLED HER!"
The roar stopped conversation short.
Wocky was flushed – and he looked no different from the colour of his jacket – pink all over, and it wasn't the nice, blushing kind of pink. "They said I was the one who killed her," He added in a strangled tone. "I wasn't—I mean, I hadn't. I would never hurt Atila man – she was such a sweet thing. Why would I..."
He grounded his teeth like they were spices and his teeth is the mortar. "Why the fuck would I have done it? She wasn't—I didn't even know she was dead. No one fucking told me anything. I just kept waiting and waiting for her to show up, and then fuck, they just lay it on me man – they just wasted me. No one told me she was dead...No one told me. No fucking one."
Apollo just looked at him. There's a thousand thing he wants to say, and first and foremost he wants to tell Wocky Kitaki that no, my dear boy, logic disagrees with you. He wants to stand up, and he wants to give a speech.
Scientific evidence says that you sir, are a dipshit. You sir, had for some reason, a week ago, some day in May that I can't remember anymore, taken a knife and stabbed your honey bunny to death. Now I know it sounds tough, and I know it sounds like I've just told you you flunk your math exam. Your stomach sinks like the Titanic, and your eyes tear up.
I do not give a damn.
The Forensics said you killed him, so you must have – and this crap about not knowing that you killed someone, is just plain stupid. I'm sorry, Mr. Kitaki, if that is politically incorrect. If it's any sort of consolation you can - ha-fucking-ha – sue me. Hey, I wouldn't mind! It's a free world buddy – except that not all things are. When you kill a person you PAY the price. You either pay it in time, or you pay it in BLOOD. Write that on your forehead – lift up that fringe and write it there, and once in a while, pull your hair up and read what's written there.
There's your fingerprints on the knife, and the knife's YOURS. Your momma said so, and – ha-fucking-ha again – the woman who got you around to planet Earth is gonna send you off waving a white hanky.
So don't give me some kinda lameass excuse---
Except is it really? Wocky Kitaki didn't look so much a murderer now that he did when Apollo opened his file this morning, looked over the case summary and went 'Oh, a guilty defendant!'. In fact, Apollo was almost afraid to stare at him too long, because if he did, he might see Wocky Kitaki tearing up, and you know that when a tough nut like that tears up the nut's gotta be cracking from the inside. It's scary as shit, because if you see a tough nut crack, it means that whatever is cracking it must be some really big piece of shit, and as humans, we don't want to care.
Keep your tears to yourself, stop ruining my day.
"I hadn't...She wasn't dead when I went down. And I – look. I don't got nothing to say to you, alright? I got nothing to say to you – so shit, make like a tree and leave. I'm not saying anything. ANYTHING at all."
Apollo said nothing. Then he said something.
"Fine. If you won't tell me what happened, at least tell me something. You hadn't known until today that Atila Tiala was dead?"
"No, I hadn't man – how would I have known? I got hauled in here, and they told me I'm under charge for Meraktis. So shit, I admitted to it – because that guy's a dick, so so what if he's dead as nails? I sure as hell don't turn no stone. But then I kept waiting for Atila...And she didn't show up – then today they came in and told me the autopsy was done for her, and I'm under charge for it. Hit me like a car."
Apollo just stared at him. Those weren't the eyes of a liar. Apollo's seen all kinds, but this isn't one.
"You're not lying?" He asked him, just to clarify. "Then won't you tell me what actually happened?"
"No –LOOK. Just fuck off, alright? I don't wanna talk about, and you can't make me talk about it."
"And it's not an act?" Apollo asked again, just for clarification.
Wocky stood.
"FUCK YOU."
Then he shoved the chair away and stomped out of the hall. Apollo didn't stop him, because he knew Officer Hart would find him soon and cuff him back to his cell, where maybe he would be beaten up again, if Apollo left it alone and don't tell Hart about it. He wasn't sure what he should do, but he stood to go out – and then realized that some time while he had been talking to Wocky, he had already stood, or had he been standing all along? Never mind.
This trip was a waste of time – but it reminded him of things. There are things that he had thought he had forgotten – like the desire to be the good guy and save innocent folks. He had thought that P.D life had buried that part of him away and now all he's ever gonna think of is the money. Apparently not, because now suddenly Apollo wanted to save this kid.
Maybe it wasn't necessary, or even asked for, or wanted. But well, Wocky Kitaki really hadn't looked like a bad kid. He looked kind of like--- No, no, Apollo's getting too sentimental. He needs some air.
Then he'll go back to his materialistic self.
Yeah, just some air.
Apollo goes and bill some guys that day. He puts Wocky Kitaki's file into the lower cabinet, where he put files he's working on. Jacques Constans asked him : How did it went? He was curious how Wocky reacted to the second charge of murder, for Atila Tiala. Apollo told the truth – he seemed rather distraught and well, innocent of it.
"What do you think?" He asked Constans.
"What I think is you should bill some more. Seriously – if you're working at Grossberg, by now you'll be regaled with tales of his haemorrhoids, the way you're billing clients. Not a slave driver, but hey – those pictures on his walls don't just came outta someone's bowels."
Apollo laughed. "But what should I do?" He asked him. "I mean, I can't just leave his case alone. I go in there with what he's handed me, I'm coming out in my underpants – if that."
"Well, that's something you gotta figure out for yourself, Pole -" Apollo winced at the new nickname. "--but I can tell ya something, you're pretty damned all around."
"How so?"
"Well, you see here? Now I haven't been in this field for many shitty years, but I still got my fair pile of shit. I can't tell you much but I sure as hell can tell you one thing : If you lose Wocky Kitaki's case, Plum and Winfred Kitaki might blame you. If that happens, you can kiss your ass goodbye. Gavinne wouldn't save your ass if you get down on your knees and give him a blowjob. And if you wanna win the case, then you need to either drag the information out of Wocky Kitaki by hook or by crook – and I can tell you another thing, that kid's got a strong right hook."
He massaged his jaw while he said it. "Trust me – I used to work for the Rivales, and you can bet your ten percent that Wocky Kitaki is synonymous with pain."
Apollo took it to heart. In the meantime, he went and plugged away at other cases. There was one from a man named Matt Engarde, who had been arrested for assaulting his manager, one Celeste Inpax. That had brought him back to the detention center. This time he made sure to mention to Hart that Wocky had been having troubles with the other inmates.
Hart agreed to move Wocky into another cell – an individual one this time – and there he had stayed, shooting Apollo resentful glances between the bars. Apollo couldn't care less – the kid's out of harm's way now, and if he wasn't appreciated for it, then fine. At least he wouldn't have to explain to the judge next week that yes, Your Honour, that's my defendant and not a mummy someone dug up right from the Tutankhamun's tomb.
He went back into the cell, file some stuff for Matt Engarde, and moved out. The difference couldn't be more well, obvious, if someone had taken an ice pick and Apollo's brain and started playing China ice-carving with it. Matt Engarde and Wocky Kitaki – two equal clients with completely different demeanors.
Somehow Matt Engarde, with his 'refreshing as a spring breeze' image and his autograph left a sour taste in Apollo's mouth. Is this what a innocent client looks like? He looked like someone you would see dancing the morning kid's shows. The stuff you would see on a normal girls' wall. Between the two of them, if Apollo had to place a bet, he would have placed it on Wocky being innocent. Call it defense mechanism, but when something is good, we automatically doubt it. Self-defense, is all.
He goes back home, and he doesn't mention it to Trucy. She had asked him about the day's work. He had smiled and said it was okay. Then he cracked a can of coffee, went back to plug at work under the bad light and on actual stools this time. (Trucy insisted that orange and purple were good colours to start with, and Apollo agreed to it, provided they got a red stool too.)
Wocky Kitaki wouldn't get out of his head though, though by now Wocky's gone and disappeared off into the big deep abyss that is the human subconscious.
Now it's not Wocky he's seeing anymore, but Mr. Boogeyman. Boogeyman was Apollo's first best friend, see? Boogeyman was the reason he crawled through high school with a book on his lap every recess, and Boogeyman's the reason he had stood in the never-ending line of students lining up for scholarships and loans. He's the reason Apollo plugged himself into law school, along with Moneybags. Moneybags and Boogeyman hated each other's guts, and by the time Apollo graduated out of law school, Boogeyman and Apollo are no longer friends – now it's Moneybags.
Boogeyman is a child's dream, something crawling out of law thrillers and world peace books. They come out of old school RPGs where the heroes are always stricken by the disease of Heroitis. They wanna save the princess, vanquish the dragon, beat up the demon king, and somewhere along the lines, save the world.
Boogeyman is a very very sinister name, and he should have a black face and you should call him Randy. This is because he's gonna stop you from living a good life, stop you from hauling in the cash. Yes, he's called Mr. Boogeyman because he's plague and pestilence on your moneybags, and if you're friend with him – then you're friends for life and you're not going to have a big bank account to show for it, 'cuz if there's anything Boogey likes, it's punching a hole under your vault and watch your money drip out of it.
But Mr. Boogeyman isn't just all bad things. He's a bad thing now sure – he's the line that cuts you off from your big bad house. But he's also bad and sad because somewhere along life, everyone's gone and toss him aside.
Dreams of helping the innocent out? Bullshit.
Dreams of opening up charity homes that don't come with their own 'nutritious' gruel? Rubbish.
A champion of the people that goes back and help out the same depths he climbed out of?
LOSER.
Yeap, Boogeyman. Every kid's lost dream that's gone and rolled himself into one big snowball of bad stuff that sometimes, is gonna knock-knock on the door of your soul. The guy who goes :
Knock-knock!
Who's there?
I'm the thing you don't wanna remember, my man, I'm the friend you swore for life. I'm here to remind you that you are sitting on a fat stack of cash, and fifty years ago, you, my man, promised yourself that you were gonna start a charity home for discarded women like your old momma. Now don't you shut that door in my face, don't you have a conscience, a soul, a sorry—I SAID DO NOT SHUT---
Apollo slammed the file shut.
Stop it Apollo. Didn't Professor Bullard taught you well in law school? Being a lawyer is in many ways, like being a spy in those corny spy thrillers. Don't get too close to your client, just like James Bond shouldn't get too close to women. If you care about the case, then you become rubbish. Soft, weak worm.
You go into the court, and you do your best. You do your best, because you owe it to yourself to do your best; because you owe it to your money to do your best.
You also owe it to your client – because he paid you – and you owe it to your childhood buddy, Boogey. Except, the difference it – you do your best. But if you fail, then so what, right? One man down rat-a-tat-tat, another score for Boogey to keep when he comes back to knock on your door in those sleepless night.
did you do your best you sunofabitch?
(i did my best )
you didnae do you best
(i did, it was too bad, but I did)
you didnae and the saddest man's the man that lies to hisself before he sleeps because he can't sleep otherwise
One man less in an overpopulated world. Don't be so sad. Go back to the office and work on your next case, and mayhap son you'll succeed the next time.
"Apollo?" Trucy frowned at him. She looked at him the way she always did when he was fevered. "Are you okay? You're crushing the paper."
He slackened his hands, 'til they were slack as a corpses. "Sorry." He mumbled. He stares back at the words, and he sees a jumble, strings of letter that spelled nothing.
So whatcha gonna do, Justice? Back when you were in the P.D, I called you once a month. You kept the line on engage, and you told me – you're just doing your job. You can't lose it or it'll be game over for you and Trucy dear there. So now you've got your own game, you're making the shingdig now. What's it gonna be, Apollo Justice. You didnae had a choice then, you do have a choice now. What's it gonna be, Apollo Justice?
Is the line on engage, or is your heart on hold?
"Apollo?" Trucy poked him on the ribs. "What's wrong?"
"Don't worry Trucy," He said, going back to his files like he didnae do anything. "I just got ringed by conscience is all."
"Huh." She rolled her eyes at him, clearly thinking the stress's gone to his head. "And what did conscience tell you?"
"Nothing, because I'm going to ignore it."
Franziska didn't quite like the atmosphere of the vonKarma manor. The suns seem to rise from the manor itself, and not in awe and respect for the men and women in between it's walls. It rises from the manor for the simple fact that it's so opulent, so grand, so decorated that it stands on the line that separates the beautiful and the gaudy, the perfect and the ugly – and if there's one thing that Franziska cannot stand, it's things that are imperfect. Just like daddy taught her – except daddy's eyes are blind now, and he can't seem to see that this place, in all it's splendor, is nothing but a hodge-podge of ugly things on ugly things. Like steamboat, only uglier.
She walks up the lawn, one hand carrying a briefcase and the other wrapped securely around her whip.
"Hey, amiga, you want me to go with you to the shootout at high noon?" Jake called out from the car. He's her temporary driver these days, at least until she can find a suitable replace for Yogi.
Franziska waved her hand impatiently and stalked up the pavement. It's dark, but it might as well be a starlit path suitable for plane touchdowns. The lights lined the path like pale yellow sentries.
Salute! Franziska von Karma passes.
Today, Franziska will show her dear papa her files. Today, her files will contain classified information, just like it always did. Today, her papa will read it, and he will tell her what to do and how to do it – and better yet, he will tell her how to do it perfectly. This is not his way of stepping onto Franziska; this is his way of teaching her, though whether with love or otherwise one need not delve too deeply into. This is Manfred vonKarma's way to make sure that not only Franziska is perfect, but her work is too.
She walks. Pass the door. In the hallway now.
Today, Manfred vonKarma is going to look at her files, and he is going to tell her what to do. Then he is going to tell her, and perhaps he isn't – the kind of plans he had for the city. You see, Manfred vonKarma have many plans, and most of them involved perfection to a certain degree.
The day Manfred vonKarma had given up his post as the chief of police, there was a very big party. After that party, he had stood with Franziska in his office, the office that is hers now, and he had looked out of the city. The windows in the office looked out into the city, you see – it's been instated by Dant Sullivan, the one who had gotten dragged off in shameful disgrace after he had been revealed for the corrupted chief he was. It is not a measure of how corrupted he had been that he was caught, it was, according to Manfred vonKarma, his own stupidity.
Franziska remembers the words now, and she remembers it because all these reminded her of grade school, when she would stand outside papa's room for hours to wait until he's free enough to look at her work.
"Franziska," He had said in his baritone. Not Franny, because that is common; not daughter, because she's more than that – she is perfection, and she is his heir. An heir and a daughter cannot be mistaken, because they are two very different things. "That man, – he was caught. Do you know why he was caught, Franziska?"
"Because he was foolish," She answered automatically.
He looked at her sharply, and this is where Manfred vonKarma needs no whip to get his point across – his eyes are enough.
"No, you foolish girl! He was caught because he was imperfect. To think that he is foolish is the common way of thinking. He was caught because he was imperfect, and we must never fall to the the same sort of trap. Do you understand me?'
She nods.
"Good." He turned back to the window. "Tomorrow, you will sit in my seat, and you will be doing my duty. Do you think you are up to that, Franziska? Or must I arrange for a substitute for you until you are perfect enough for this seat of perfection?"
"I am ready, papa." She sounds like an amazon before a battle.
He continued as if Franziska was a mute. "Starting from tomorrow, you will be chief of police. You cannot show weakness, because perfection is never weak. I was not weak. You will not be so either. This city is corrupted. It's filled with filth that I cannot wash out with both iron fists. There is crime everywhere, and no matter what I do, no matter how perfect I am, this city cannot reach my heights. It is dirty, unwashed, disgusting, and worse of all, it is imperfect. But that's all going to change, and do you know why?"
Franziska hesitates. She wants to nod and say yes, she does indeed know why. Be she hadn't, and she hadn't wanted to look like a fish someone's scooped out and dumped ungracefully onto the ground to flop. So she shook her head.
"No papa, I do not."
Manfred vonKarma walks up to her, and then he does the one thing she would have never expected him to do. He clapped her on both shoulders, even shook her lightly.
"We are going to remake this city, Franziska. With you as the helm of the police, and my new position as the L.A state council chairman, there is nothing we cannot accomplish together. You will remake it physically, wash this place down and bleach this place until it is as white as the purest white. I know I don't often say so – but I am proud of you, Franziska. You are worthy of being my daughter, and you will in time be perfect, just like I am. And while you remake the city, I will redecorate it's insides, I will make the core of the city perfect – a city where there is no crime, no insolence, discipline in each and every aspect. We will make a perfect city in short, and one such that can only fit a vonKarma."
Then he had shook Franziska.
"Are you ready, Franziska?" And he had looked a little mad then, Franziska remembers. And she remembered what sort of blasphemous thought that had crossed her mind at that moment – that Manfred vonKarma was far from perfect. He was a foolish old man, a frail old man who foolishly believes the foolish notion of remaking a city that cannot be remade. A man that instead of being strong, is held together by the thin thread of fools' dreams of perfection, a papery thing facade. It was a blasphemous thought, and she wiped it off by answering him.
She doesn't remember exactly what she had said to him though. A little mar on her perfection, but she won't tell if you won't.
"Miss vonKarma, welcome back to the manor."
Franziska stopped short in front of the butler and curtseyed the best she could. He was a butler – servant – but he had been in the family for a long long time now.
"Hello Doe. Have you been less foolish than usual?"
Doe's impassively smiling face, always reminding Franziska of those strange African masks that people hang on walls – impassively bobs. "I have been as foolish as I am usually, Miss vonKarma."
"Excellent," She declared. "If all the butlers in the world show as little foolishness as you do, Doe, then the world will be quite a wonderful place."
"I am flattered, Miss."
"Is my father in?"
"Of course," He bows. Manfred vonKarma's schedule wouldn't change, not even if Hurricane Katrina knocks down all of L.A and eats the manor as luncheon. "He is in his room. Shall I notify him?"
"Unnecessary. I will wait in the upper parlor. Bring me something to eat. Nothing too heavy."
"Of course." He bows again, and like all butlers since the Austen era, disappears into the hall like a ghoul.
Franziska goes upstairs instead, and there she sits at the little second-floor parlor. This parlor is supposed to be for family and friends, relatives who come to visit. No one's visited papa in the pass thirty years though, and certainly if they come they do not come for pleasure. If they come now, they would be horrified to sit there – a large Japanese screen had been erected against one side of the room, and it clashed with the European furniture.
No relative of a vonKarma would sit here if you beat them with a stick.
So Franziska sits there.
Papa's room is right down the hall, and when he comes out at nine in the evening for his supper – and he will come out unfailingly – she will be able to speak to him. And then he will give her 30 minutes of his time and none more, and with that thirty minutes he will review everything the city police had to tell him, and then he will make all the decisions.
They say that politics and the law is never connected, they are fools. The last time Franziska had came here to tattle was a long time ago, but there had been massive amounts of those gang-related cases lately, and to put if off further would be rude, and only fools are rude to their superior.
Franziska opens up her briefcase while she waited for Doe to prepare dinner. Might as well do some work while she waited – she's a busy woman. She pulled out Gavin's report on their renewed charge on Wocky Kitaki, and then she pulled out Payne's file on Engarde. Both side by side, and then she went to work. Then Portsman's one on some of the trailed gang members from the pier's fight.
So let's see what we can make sense here before papa comes in and call. We've managed to track down some of the people responsible for the pier thing, thanks to Skye.
Most of them seem to be from the Cadaverinnis and the Gramaryes both of whom we can't touch – at least not openly. We can severe them from their business deals, like we're doing to Gavinne and watch as they crumble onto themselves. But that's going to take a long time, and their man is busy with Gavinne.
And then there's that infuriating man we've lost contact with. Foolishly foolish lone ranger who thinks he can take on the world armed with a chocolate Sneakers bar and nothing more... But is doing that really the right thing? I am perfect, but not everyone in our PD is. What if they decide to band together to take down the city police? I wouldn't put it pass them. Should I have him to break them up instead? And what on Earth are they fighting over anyway?
"Um..."
Franziska looked up from the parlor table. A girl. She had been so preoccupied with her work that she hadn't noticed the ball rolling forth and stopping at her foot.
"Um, can I have...Have my ball back please."
She looks at the girl. She had to be 15 or 16, a teenager. Ah yes. That woman's child.
"Still playing with toys?" Franziska mocked lightly, picking up the toys. She's glad for the gloves around her hand, because she wouldn't want to touch anything this girl's touched. But her tone was light on the venom when she said it – the little girl is none of her business. A tangent that does not intersect. She handed the ball back to her.
"T-Thank you."
And then she melted off away, just like said ghost.
Franziska shuddered at the thought, and went back to her work. Once the trance of the working state's been broken though, it doesn't come back easily. She paused to stare at the Japanese screen, and the way the grandfather clocked glowered sternly at her, as though in disapproval of her presence in the house.
Well, I wouldn't be here if there's somewhere else to be. She shot at it. The grandfather's only answer was to chime lightly. Nine now. Papa will soon be out, and hopefully she can relay her entire report without coming into contact with that woman. The clock chimes again, and Franziska took her whip from beside her and clutched it tightly.
There's something in the air that she didn't quite like, something that smelt like rotten cheese Doe's left in the larder. Was that...Was that...Fear? Fear at staring at her own clock?
But that was the most foolishly foolish foolery she's ever heard of – afraid of one's own home? Next thing she knows she would be putting up a rear view mirror for herself and looking behind every five seconds. Franziska vonKarma is not a coward, she told herself sternly, and being afraid of the irrational, being afraid of something as common as a household appliance, in her own home, was borderline irrational. If not already so.
Franziska tightened the whip. This is her house, she reminded herself. Manor is her home. Even if she no longer comes here anymore, there's no reason for her to feel as though the house was unwelcoming. But it did, and every time she hears the sound of something like a sink dripping in the quiet manor, someone shakes Franziska vonKarma up and puts her in a horror movie. She becomes as afraid as the disgusting heroine that keeps screaming at every hairy monster.
Because every time she walks pass something that used to be – like that little corner table she used to draw on when she was a child, she'd realize it's gone. It'll be replaced, maybe with something prettier, but nonetheless replaced. It's a never-ending nightmare just to walk down the hallway, noting little things that are gone and maybe gone forever.
It's like walking backwards into a tunnel and you watch the light, or everything that was ever yours, getting further and further away until you're left with a place so completely different from what you know that it might as well not be.
It's the way people go back to their childhood homes and burst into tears, only this is a gruesome parody of it. Instead of feeling melancholic and happy reliving your childhood, you're watching a bulldozer go through that same childhood systematically with a pair of clippers, peeling it one layer by one layer until you're left with nothing but the core of your onion bulb.
It's the same thing that's happened to the vonKarma mansion, and Franziska suddenly just wanted to get out of here now. Get out of this place, run back home and e-mail everything to her father so that she doesn't have to see what that woman's gone and done to this place. It's still her house, on 67th avenue where everyone is rich and famous and fabulous – but it also wasn't. And looking at it is a desecration against her sister and every Franziska vonKarma's that's ever walked pass these halls.
And then there is also that little voice.
Aren't you just jealous, Franny? Aren't you just angry that now your father's got someone else and you're afraid that if you turn out to be imperfect, he'll turn you in for a better version of Terminator? Isn't that why you're so scared? Because when you were the only one he had, no matter how imperfect you are he can only gnash his teeth and take the cane to you to make you a better person. Now he's got a choice, and you don't like this choice, because it means that you can become redundant. You can be thrown away.
No, no, no. She shook her head, just to prove otherwise – unaware that the girl was watching her from down the hall. She's not afraid that father would turn her in for something else – she's not that weak. She's a strong wall, and strong walls don't crumble, not even if you put it against a bomb that's got insecurity written all over it, because a perfect wall would never feel insecure over it's own perfection.
Even the Great Wall crumbles, Franny.
Franziska vonKarma is perfect, and perfect people aren't afraid. She looked at her papa's door, and half willed it to open so that her papa will come out for supper, she can talk to him, reassure him that she is perfect, and be on her way. Then she'll go down with Starr and get a couple of beers, have a couple of catfights over who's the better lady, and who deserves that egocentric jerk more, and she'll be fine again.
As if in answer to her prayers, the door clicks apart. And then Morgan Fey walks out.
Pearl Fey hugged the plastic ball. At sixteen she really shouldn't be playing with toys anymore – she's the future of the Kurain channeling technique after all, and such childishness if frowned upon, even if the Kurain clan technically doesn't exist anymore. The ball brings back memories of the village though – and she had half expected that woman to puncture it with her heels. Pearl's heard everything about that hussy from her mother. Not a nice lady.
"Mrs. vonKarma" Franziska said. Pearl pulled off her covers and went back to her door, pressed her ear against it and listened. If mother is angry tomorrow, she wanted some preparation beforehand. "How nice to see you again."
"Your acid response is duly noted. And my name is still Fey – though you may not address me as so. It is Mystic Morgan, and you would think you can remember with all those secretaries of yours."
"My secretaries are for important things and not foolish foolery of this foolish sort."
Mother snorted. "Ah! Such rudeness, Miss vonKarma. But then I guess it's to be expected, your poor dear mother being departed and all...Without someone to guide you well, it's only natural that you'll turn into such a vulgar and unladylike beast – quite unlike my own Pearl of course."
"Pearls are formed from dusts and parasites, foolish woman – and if you any idea of what made pearls in the first place, you would be remiss in naming your own daughter after a mollusk's waste."
Morgan huffs, and Pearl huffed with her too. God, that was so rude! Mother was right, she's so rude!
"A pearl is a glorious gem in our culture, young lady – and I'll thank you not to speak about things that you clearly know nothing about. Mystic Ami, our founder, had repeatedly press the importance of pearls as part of our channeling technique – they are vital, just like how my Pearl Is to me."
"Hah!" Franziska snorted. "Channeling technique indeed. Foolish nonsense by foolishly foolish fools! Shamans and charlatans more like. I bend spoons, Morgan, with the power of my mind. Do you believe that nonsense too? I can bend people with my whip, and I don't think your so-called glorious technique is going to be much better than that. Can you, Morgan? Can you bend foolish fools the way I can? No you cannot – your channeling is a fraud, just like you are."
"Ah-ha! But it's fraud your dear father believes in."
Pearl widened the door just a little to look into the hallway. The light out there's all yellow-like, and she could barely make out their expressions. Just long sillhouettes extending this way and that.
"Hah! As if papa would believe that nonsense."
"Well, he married me, didn't he?" Morgan said.
'He married you, not your channeling techniques. There's a difference between that."
'Ah-ah, but he still did, and even if he doesn't believe our channeling like you insinuate, so do many people on Earth. Our channeling may no be as famous as it used to be, but one day it'll rise back up again. Where as you..." Morgan looked Franziska up and down. "Whereas you seem to become more and more the forgotten daughter."
Franziska vonKarma uttered a small gasp at that, and even Pearl winced. You didn't have to be so harsh, mother. Even if it was true. Mr. vonKarma's her new daddy now, and if she took everything Morgan said by face value, Franziska is no longer so. She had graduated, from being the daughter into the tool – a perfect being is a perfect tool, apparently. It doesn't get anymore perfect than a pair of scissors that you can snip everything with, and won't talk back to you.
"That—Ridiculous! My papa will be my papa. Exactly what are you insinuating?"
"I am insinuating that Pearls will take over your role, Franziska. Think about it. You may be useful as a chief of police and his daughter, but you've left home now. Spread your wings and all that – and now his family's us. Pretty soon it'll be my Pearl that he will polish – and she's a genius, a prodigy. She will become even better at you, at whatever he wishes her to be."
Franziska laughed. "Oh that's rich! Foolish woman, you want to see a prodigy? You're looking at one! I was already running as an inspector at 13 – you don't get much more genius than I was."
"Perhaps, but you – you're independent, aren't you? Oh, I've heard it all. Hiding things from your papa..." Franziska winced, and Morgan took her chance to drive the knife in. "Hiding cases now, aren't you? Thinking it's better for him not to know of things – he's had to gone and ask others for what you could have given him effortlessly. Face it, Franziska – you're far too independent. Whereas my Pearl is beyond perfect – she's malleable. Like clay. We may mold her into anything, and she would never fight back."
Pearl drew back. She won't fight back? That's the thing she's good for?
Franziska laughed again, but the laughter's gotten a strained tone to it. "I hide things from him because it is for his own good. I will handle it the way he would anyway – so what difference does it make? And if you want something that would never talk back to you, you should have given birth to a wet slab of clay, Morgan. It would have served your purpose more."
Morgan smiled. "I have given birth to something that's no different."
At this, Pearl really did gasp. But it never really took heart, because she's her mother's precious – she knew she was her mother's precious. Morgan wouldn't think of her that way – it was all just to spite that woman.
"Indeed. I'm inclined to think that little girl really is sweet and innocent, Morgan. All her sliminess seem to have been left in you when she crawled out of you."
Morgan huffed. "How rude! And it's Mystic Morgan to you. Must I say everything twice?"
"Say nothing. That's the best for fools like you. Now move out of my way, Morgan, or I'll whip you down where you stand."
"Oh-hoho. You would – if you want to face your father's rage."
But something's rubbing Franziska's insides raw, and something mother had said must have rubbed her the wrong way, because she tightened the whip and cracked it. It hit the light beside Morgan, smashing it – with scary precision. A couple more inches right, and it would have been mother's hair it slashed off.
"Get out of my way Morgan – go and taint this house some more with your foolishness, I have no business with you."
Morgan hissed, a cat in a fight, and backed away angrily. Franziska saved no smug smile for her though, just pushed pass her like Morgan was some scary pedophile she's encountered on the street that she wanted to run away as quickly as possible from. The door to Mr. vonKarma's room slammed shut, and Pearl closed the door back quietly.
Then she climbed back up to the bed next to hers, and shook the girl in it.
"Dahlia, Dahlia, wake up."
"What is it, you stupid girl? Can't you see I've been trying to sleep?"
Then Pearl told her everything she's heard, even though she was sure Dahlia had heard most of it herself. When she was done, Dahlia just smiled though, and Pearl was glad the room was so dark or she might have seen how sweet Dahlia's smile was.
"Aww, isn't that cute. Looks like Miss von Karma's very, very insecure. Isn't that sweet?" Her laughter was thrilled. "The brash amazon turns out to be a silly little cactus on the inside after all – all pricks and no insides. Oh Pearl, this is hilarious, don't you think so?"
Pearl doesn't think so, but she kept her mouth shut anyway and laughed anyway.
"Now go and get Iris, silly girl," Dahlia patted her head like she was a touch-and-go puppy. "She absolutely must hear about this. And go quickly...God, why does that bitch put us all in the same room? Channeling technique? Bitch who's got nothing better to do..."
Pearl didn't wait to hear the rest of the monologue, she ran out from the room and hurried off to find Iris. At least when Iris was happy, she's subtle about it.
Franziska went into Manfred's room without knocking, because no one could have turned a deaf ear to Morgan and her fight out there. Sure enough, Manfred was on his chair when she went into the room, looking mildly amused and smug at the argument that had gone on out there.
"Franziska," He acknowledges. He sounds like a king, and Franziska felt the urge to go down on knee and swear her allegiance. "It's good to have you here again."
Like a king, exactly like a king. The urge again. Should she pledge as a knight or as a queen? Maybe as a pawn. No, stop that. She would be the bishop, at the very least, a rook if not that.
"Papa," She returned in acknowledgment. She walked over to the table and immediately took out all the files she had brought. No invitation needed – things move like clockwork in here, and all the machines are expected to perform without prompting. "I've brought the files for this month for you to review."
'Of course. What else would you be doing here?"
There's nothing accusatory in that tone. It wasn't a sarcastic question reprimanding her for her absence, but rather a genuine question : Exactly what would Franziska be doing here if she wasn't bringing her files like offerings to an unsettled God? She sure as hell wouldn't stay here to play poker with those freakshows of Morgan Fey's. Talking to papa would always come back to the same topics – he's a checklist of perfection, and whenever you talk to him, numb yourself of all sensitivities – because Manfred vonKarma will offend every one of it.
"Yes papa," She returned. "There would be absolutely nothing for me to do here. Now," She handed him the files.
"These are all the cases we've received this pass month. I've left out all the foolish crimes – burglary and thievery. These are the main ones that you would be concern with. A summary of the month?"
Manfred flicked a hand.
"Right. Last month's been a pretty hectic one. A week ago, there was a big fight down in the pier. Our sources from inside the related gangs itself told us that it was between Gramarye and the second faction of the Cadaverinnis."
"Hmph. Fighting amongst themselves, in addition to others? A rotten apple starts from the core."
"It is so. Only one interesting fact came up in our investigation. One of our men in Gavinne told us that it was Kristoph Gavinne that had provided the spark to the fight. This has nothing to do with us of course, seeing as we cannot arrest him for speaking. But it's interesting to note that the three of them might be going down the warpath in the near future."
"And it is confirmed?" Manfred asked. "This man of yours isn't making a foolish mistake?"
"Our man is pretty high up in the rank."
"Not his brother?"
Franziska broached the subject delicately. "We haven't confronted his brother about his association with the mob, and have no plan to do so in the immediate future unless he shows signs of discontent with his brother. So far, we've been keeping track of all his cases, and he seems to be loyal to his brother. So unless he does something completely outrageous on Kristoph Gavinne's behalf, we'll leave that stone unturned. We have another man in the gang anyway, and his reports thus far were all accurate."
"I see. His name?"
Franziska hesitated. "...That's classified, papa."
Manfred looked up at her sharply. "What's that?"
'It's classified, papa – I can't tell you our undercover's name, or we wouldn't call him an undercover anymore, would we?"
"If that's the case, then you could very well call yourself an undercover, Franziska. No one in the senate should have access to these information, and here you are, talking like a recorded machine. What's his name, Franziska?"
Franziska's jaw set stubbornly. "It's classified, papa. I cannot tell you his name. All I can tell you is that's he's high in the ranks, and all his information thus far's been accurate."
"I see. Did he say then what caused them to fight in the first place?"
"Apparently it was some firearms."
Manfred's sneer turned cold. Then it went back to it's impassive, stern self. Franziska wished it was as smiling as her butlers.
"I see."
"Is there something wrong with the agent, papa? Should we remove him and replace him? It'll take a lot of work to work another man up to his rank but we can try...Especially if he isn't reliable."
"No no," Manfred inserted. "Keep him. He's given you nothing but accurate information thus far."
The wording is strange.
"I see, very well. Keep him then." Franziska wrote it down.
"Allow me to continue. Following the fight, we gathered up all the bodies and sealed off the area. Our Forensics' team been hard at work since, and they are currently separating blood and DNA samples from the bodies. They're picking blood from the ground and analyzing individual spots that aren't too tainted, and matching it with our database. Most of them are blood from the victims – or rather, the dead criminals in this case – but there are some that came from the ones who escaped. Wounds, hair, spit...It's all being clocked."
"How long will the process take?"
"Another two weeks."
"Heading the investigation?"
"Ema Skye, Forensics A team, Head. Nail Colfin, Forensics A team, Deputy. Jake Marshall, Street, 3rd Rank. Deesa Hotti, Anthropology. Enrich Eple, Coroner Division."
"Fools?"
"Decently retarded."
"Is Deesa Hotti necessary? I thought the bodies were fresh when you brought them in. Why would you need an anthropologist? A coroner should have sufficed."
A pause.
Manfred scowled. "Franziska vonKarma – are you hiding more than names from me now?"
Franziska cleared her throat. "Apologies, papa. I have been foolish. I've clean forgotten about it until your reminded me of it. The bodies were indeed salvaged from the site hours after they were found, and were only in the first stages of decomposing. They were stored in the morgue – in sterile and prepared conditions to await further studies from the team."
"And then what happened?"
"Two days after that, the bodies were discovered in the morning by the security lady, out of their individual storage areas. They were removed from the storage and left out, where the heater had been turned to maximum power. By the time the lady came around for her patrols, the bodies were well - there's no way to put this delicately is there – smelling like baked cheese. Most decomposed, and while not completely, it's more than just a normal coroner can handle, and they're continuing at an alarming rate. That's why we need that anthropologist."
"The culprit removed all the bodies?"
"No, but a good portion of them. Some storage were just left open, and the heat went in and baked them stupid."
"Hmm..." Manfred pondered this, tapping his pen lightly. "Someone from either camp then, that's smart enough to have tried to destroy the bodies."
"Gramarye or Cadaverinni. Either one."
"Don't forget Gavinne," He admonished sternly. "It could be someone from his camp who had gone through it for some ulterior motive. We're dealing with thugs here, Franziska – and you must never stop doubting even for a single minute, or you'll become foolish fools like them."
"Yes, papa."
"Anything else?"
"Yes – there were the fact that some of the bodies had been mutilated. Someone had cut them up, for some reason. Our coroner was furious when he saw what they had done to those bodies, said it would take forever to look through them with the new batch of work they've given them. The heat got to the insides of some, and it just made it decompose all the faster."
Manfred grimaced. "Cutting up dead bodies now? The gangs have fallen lower than we thought. We will include that then, in our next meeting. Anything else?"
"Nothing else, papa. The star of Nickel Samurai was arrested for assault and battery of his manager. Furio Tigre's lackeys killed a man for owing them massive amounts of money. He was beaten up, and died of internal bleeding on his way to the hospital. It's rumoured that Furio Tigre is in need of money, and is enforcing payment. And the heir to the Kitaki gang was pinned for murdering the gang doctor, Pal Meraktis."
At this, Manfred's eyes lit up again. "He was, was he?"
"Yes papa. The boy's been most foolish. He stabbed Pal Meraktis with a knife. The crime scene was a complete mess, but we managed to salvage the knife that the foolish boy used, and we're on to his foolery now. His fingerprints are all over the knife, and he's going down for it. Plain and simple."
Manfred smiled. "I see." He lifted the report. "Your thirty minutes is almost up, Franziska. I trust the rest will be in the report?"
"In alphabetical order," Franziska returned smugly. Take that, woman – he is my papa, no one else on Earth knows him better than I do. "Just the way you like it."
"The most efficient way of getting things done. That is all. You may remove yourself now."
Franziska didn't move, just stayed rooted on the spot. Manfred looked up, and every wrinkle on his face seem to ask her exactly why she was still in the manor and not elsewhere.
She shuffled, a little self-conscious. "There will be...There will be a party next month, June the 17th. At the police headquarters."
"Is that so." Manfred raised a white eyebrow. "And what is this waste of resources for?"
Franziska's heartbeat doubled. "For me. It will be my birthday, papa – and the officers will be celebrating it for me."
There. She said it. It was imperative that she asked her father, because she wanted to prove to Morgan that her father hadn't traded her in. That she's more than a tool now that she's become the perfect person he wanted her to be. Who knew perfection could bring such a price? A self-sufficient nation will be left alone.
"A waste of resources," Franziska felt her stomach sink, and mentally whipped it back into shape. "There are better things that you can do with that time. Tell them they're forbidden from doing it, and make sure none of them plan one of those ridiculous surprise parties."
Make sure that none of your officers are celebrating your birthday – that's what he's telling her. And Franziska understands, she completely does. If they celebrated her birthday, it would be a waste of time, a waste of resources, and God forbid Manfred vonKarma should attend if she had asked him like she had planned to. What foolery had possessed Franziska?
"Of course." She bowed.
"And don't consult me about such foolishness again – nip the idea at the bud. Birthday parties? Hah! Celebration of the Unproductive, more like! No such thing will happen, Franziska – not if we're going to make this city perfect."
He leaned forward, and Franziska almost thought he was going to pat her shoulders again, just like when he told her they were going to make a perfect city. But all he did was to take the rest of the files in her slackened hands.
"Now go. Your thirty minutes is up."
Right on cue, John Doe knocks on the door, and with a bitter nod, Franziska left the room. In the hallway, Morgan was there. Perhaps she had guessed or perhaps she had been eavesdropping, but her smile was a smug one as Franziska passed her by.
"Well, did he have kind words for you, woman? I knew he had many for Pearl when she passed her tests with flying colours."
And so did I. But I've gotten so perfect that compliments would seem vulgar, it seems.
Isn't that what people are always doing? When your neighbour's daughter with the ugly singing voice sings at the school concert, you blunt all insults and tell her how lovely she is. When someone is famous, you call them a lousy, talentless hack. Human logic. Ha-ha.
"He had many words to say," She shot back at the woman with a flat smile.
Many of them, none of them kind. Never mind. Perfection does not come with it's own steak. It comes with a harsh diet of nuts and twigs, because perfection is like winter : It's beautiful, but never kind.
Franziska went downstairs, passed Doe, who bowed, and then she was out on the pavement. Before she knew it, she was running again, picking up her skirt even though it wasn't restricting her movement, just so that she could run faster and faster down the path that looks like a lit up plane track. She ran and ran like the house had disintegrated like the one in Monster House, and is trying to drag her back into that happy little family. When she reached the end of the plane track, she took off like one.
"Yar, pardner. Where will the wind blow us cowpokes?"
"As far away as possible." She ordered.
Jake just cocked a lazy eye at her through the rear view mirror, said nothing, and drove off.
Up on the tresses of the trees, some lone birds that had woken up for the night, shut out of the warmth of the manor, flew off.