A/N: okay, first thing first - sorry for the wait. Spring term just started, I just moved back to London and things have been pretty busy. And they'll keep being busy by the looks of it, so I doubt I'll be able to update every week as I did before. I'll do my best to update at least every two weeks, though.

Also, thank you SO much to everyone who reviewed as a guest (figured out I'd thank you here since I can't send you a PM if you're not logged in/have an account)!

After seven years in prison, Blackquill is used to being uncomfortable; his prison cell was a far cry from a comfortable place, after all. Yet he must admit that sitting on the floor for hell knows how long with his back against a wall and a grown man's limp weight on him is a special brand of discomfort. Especially since the Phantom is rather heavy: shorter than himself but broader, stockier.

He hasn't said much else aside from what seems to be his name. Soon after uttering it – several times, repeating it over and over like a broken disk – he simply broke down. Looking back, Blackquill almost wishes said breakdown included screaming and throwing a fit; somehow, it would have been easier to deal with. Instead he simply began crying in harsh, broken sobs that seemed to tear the breath from his lungs, still refusing to let go of him.

"Wait," Athena spoke up as soon as she noticed Blackquill stiffening and moving to instinctively push him away, revulsion overriding any other thought. "Don't. Let him. Just... let him," she added, lowering her voice.

While not precisely happy about it Blackquill could see her point, could see how much he needed it. So he eventually just kept holding him back and shifted into a sitting position to rest his back against the wall, letting him cling to him, letting him keep his face pressed against his shoulder. He kept still, then, kept holding him back until the Phantom's sobs faded into an exhausted weeping, and then until that weeping stopped as well and he went silent and limp, somewhere between sleep and unconsciousness, half kneeling and half slumped against him.

Only once he's sure the Phantom is entirely spent, having cried himself into exhaustion, Blackquill looks back at Athena over the other man's shoulder. The officers have left at Athena's insistence, but she is still there, sitting cross-legged on the floor. Their gazes meet, and Athena reaches to put a hand on the Phantom's back with a focused expression. It takes Blackquill a moment to realize she's checking his heartbeat; he never stopped to think that, to master her abilities and use them for analytical psychology, she likely has had to learn to tell a lot by simply listening to one's heartbeat.

"He's deeply asleep. I don't think he'll wake up if we move him carefully," she says, pulling her hand back.

Blackquill nods. "Very well. Tell them to come here with a stretcher so that they can move the Phant-"

"Robert," Athena cuts him off, and shrugs when Blackquill gives her a puzzled glance. "He said it's his name, didn't he? So we may as well use it after all this work to find out what it is. What's the point of having a name if no one uses it?" she asks, but she doesn't stay to wait for an answer: the next moment she's walking out to call for some officers to come there with a stretcher, as Blackquill asked.

Blackquill sighs and looks down at the man in his arms. His face is pressed against his shoulder, some straw-like hair tickling his jaw, and even in sleep his right hand still grips the lapel of his jacket. Blackquill carefully pulls an arm away from around him and reaches to cover that hand with his, kneading the back of it with his thumb until the grip starts slackening. He can feel the scar Athena left on him, but he chooses to ignore it: he doesn't know if he'll be able to hold back from harming him if he allows himself to think of it, of how it happened, of all it caused.

"Robert," he hears himself saying bitterly. It feels wrong calling him with a name, so utterly and fundamentally wrong – let alone with that name. "Fate has quite the dark sense of humor. One I can't hope to match, it seems," he adds. He's not quite sure who he's talking to; not to the Phantom, certainly, for he's well beyond hearing him.

When two officers walk in with a stretcher along with Athena they seem more than a little confused by the scene, but Blackquill can't bring himself to care. "Put the stretcher down and help me put him on it. He's to be brought back to his cell. Don't awaken him, lest you wish to feel the cold edge of the blade."

The officers still look more confused than scared, but say nothing and just help him move the Phantom – Robert, Blackquill thinks, he says his name is Robert of all things – on the stretcher. He shifts as they lean him down, but he doesn't awaken. Without thinking – without allowing himself to think – Blackquill takes off his jacket to put it on him like a blanket; the Phantom settles down, then, and when the officers lift the stretcher to carry him out he doesn't stir.

"It must have been... a strong memory," Athena murmurs when they're finally alone in the room.

"He likely remembered whatever event led him and his friend being shot. I suppose it was bound to take its toll. I must admit, though, that I didn't expect him to break down in such a way," Blackquill says quietly, then he turns to look at her. She's trying to look normal, but she's pale an Widget clearly shows how saddened she is. "Listening to his heart can't have been easy."

Athena sighs and shakes her head. This time she doesn't even bother to claim she's alright. "He was in agony, just like that other time – when he almost recalled... well, this same memory, I guess. It was painful to listen. It's a good thing you were here to catch him. He began feeling better when you did. He needed to let it out."

The Phantom didn't precisely fall against him, but Blackquill suddenly feels too drained to remark on that.

"You should rest," he says instead. "Go home. I have some more work to do here. I suppose that at this point I may as well ask the Interpol to lend me a man or two to investigate some details in Borginia."

Athena blinks. "Details?"

"We're not done, after all," Blackquill says. "Although now we have solid leads. We know he was raised in an orphanage. We know what city we must look in, we know his year of birth and now his first name. It is also possible, I believe, that this Seymour Blaxton may have been in the same orphanage. All of this will narrow down the search by far. And once we find the orphanage, we may find out something more. They must have something about the children under their care in their archives – documents, a profile, anything."

"Oh. So you think they may still have some kind of document regarding him?"

"Yes. It would be more reliable than just a memory. Besides, he must have also had a surname once. I mean to find that out as well," he adds. He knows he will never be able to call the Phantom by his first name, not that first name, but perhaps using a surname will be easier.

Perhaps.

"This is sooo boring," the boy announces with a somewhat theatrical sigh as he releases the rubber band to let the rock fly against one of the few bottles left standing on the low fence. It's a hit – of course it is, his slingshot is good, he has a great aim and those are easy targets anyway – and the bottle shatters.

"Oh, shut it, Robb" one of the other kids mutters. "You're winning."

"I always win. That's why it's boring. You all suck," Robb informs him, grabbing another small rock and placing it in the pad. He draws it back, pulling the rubber band, and then lets go while barely even aiming. Another bottle shatters. "See? Easy as pie. The targets are easy, too. Bo-o-oring."

"That's just because your slingshot is better," another orphan mutters, rubbing her runny nose with a sleeve.

"Nah, it's all skill," Robb says. But, truth to be told, he knows that she has a point: his slingshot is the best by far. He stole it from the flea market a couple of weeks before, and it's the best thing he's ever owned: made of steel, with leather covering the handle and a wrist brace of tubular bands to keep it steady. It's so, so much better than the forked sticks the others have to use; they're often so bad that the sticks break when the rubber band is pulled and pieces of wood hit the face of whoever is using them.

"It's the slingshot!"

"Skill!"

"Slingshot!"

Robb snorts. "I could hit anything I want even with your lousy stuff!" he announces, discarding his slingshot to grab the other boy's. He's about to place a rock in the pad when someone speaks up.

"Wait, why the bottles? They're easy anyway," a kid everyone calls Scab – because he's always slipping or falling or running into something his arms and legs are always covered in scabs – mutters sarcastically. "You said you could hit anything, didn't you, Robbie? So try hitting something smaller. Try knocking down an apple," he adds, pointing up. There is an apple tree right ahead of them, with only a few apples left on it

For a moment Robb doesn't feel so sure. He's good and all, but the slingshot he's holding is lousy at best and the apples are very high up – which is the only reason why they're still on the tree at all, really: he and the other kids in the orphanage ate the rest without even waiting for them to become ripe. For a moment he considers protesting that it's too much, but before he can Scab speaks again.

"Not so sure anymore, are you? So much for hitting anything even with lousy stuff. You phony," he mutters.

Robb scowls. "I'm not!" he snaps, and he's more than a little unsettled by the doubting looks he's getting. Okay, so he is kind of a show-off, but that's because he's really good at some things, and they should know it by now. He's not a phony and he's going to prove it. "You'll see. Get ready to pick up your jaw," he adds, and turns back to the tree. He chooses an apple – the farthest one, so they'll see – and lifts the slingshot. He takes aim, draws, aims some more... and the releases.

The rock shoots up, but misses the apple by a scant inch. Still, before Robb can even begin to think of an excuse – the slingshot is really bad, the wind picked up suddenly, he felt like sneezing at the wrong moment – something does fall off the tree to hit the ground, something small and black. There are a few moments of silence as they all stare at the small, still form on the muddy ground.

A bird, Robb realizes – he just hit and killed a bird. It's resting on the ground with black wings wide open, as though on display, a bright yellow beak the only color in all the black. A blackbird.

"... Whoa."

"How did you do that?"

"I didn't even see that bird there!"

Me neither, Robb is about to say, but he stops himself just on time. Why should he tell them he missed if they didn't realize it? If they think he hit the bird on purpose, then let them. With a proud grin, he turns back to them.

"See? Told you I could hit anything," he boasts, giving back the lousy slingshot he just used and taking his own back. "The apple would have been too easy, so-" he starts, only to be cut off by someone's angry voice.

"Why did you do that?"

Robb blinks when a boy walks up to him, pushing away a couple of other kids in the process, and glares at him with angry gray eyes from beneath an unruly mop of black hair. He's not someone he knows well, because he's kind of a newcomer in the orphanage: while most of them winded up there right during or right after the war, this one – Seymour, he thinks his name is – still had a grandmother left to take care of him for a few years; then she died as well, and he was brought there only last month. The way he looks sets him a bit apart, too: while most of them have light eyes and hair he's dark-haired and dark-eyed because his mother's family was from Zheng Fa, or so he says.

He's a quiet one, he reads a lot and plays very little, so most of the kids who tried to talk to him say he's weird. Scab also says he's a snob, because he uses a lot of big words no one really gets. But he's not being quiet right now, and he sure isn't using big words – he's staring at him with clenched fists and an angry scowl on his face. "Why?" he asks again. "You didn't have to kill it! Why did you do it?"

Robb scowls back. He doesn't like being confronted like that, and... and what the hell is he so worked up about? It was just a stupid bird! "Because I can, that's why," he says, crossing his arms. "Told you I could hit anything. Now get out of my fa- oof!" Robb lets out a gasp when Seymour leaps on him with a cry of rage and throws him on the ground, trying to hit him.

The struggle doesn't last more than a few moments, though, because then someone grabs Seymour and throws him back, off him. Robb stands up to see Seymour sitting up, trying to wipe some mud off his face and glaring at them furiously. Glaring is all he can do, though, because he's outnumbered and not stupid enough to try taking on all of them.

"What the hell is your problem?" Scab asks, crossing his arms.

"It's just a stupid bird!"

"Hey, are you crying?"

"He is!"

"Crybaby!"

"Go back to your books!"

"Okay, okay, enough," Robb speaks up, trying with very little success to wipe the mud off his shirt. He's kind of sorry he didn't get the time to pack a punch of his own, but now they're ganging up on him and he doesn't really like that. You either take on someone on your own, or you don't. At least Seymour tried to do that. "He's probably going to whine and get everyone in trouble if we keep this up anyway. Leave him be. He's just a crybaby," he add, and kicks some mud in Seymour's direction.

Seymour glares death at him through tears, but he doesn't say anything as Robb turns to walk away and the others follow after throwing a few more mocking words.

Only when they're some distance away Robb turns back to see that Seymour is still crying, the dead blackbird in his cupped hands. He feels a bit guilty – he didn't mean to hit that bird to begin with! – but it's not like he can say anything without admitting he missed, so in the end he says nothing and just resumes boasting about his skill with the slingshot.

For a few moments after his eyes open, the Phantom can't quite figure out where he is; it's only when his eyes grow accustomed to darkness – darkness? Wasn't it barely afternoon? – that he realizes he's back in Blackquill's cell.

His cell.

The Phantom draws in a long breath before sitting up on the mattress. His head is pounding, his throat feels raw and his eyes feel swollen – but he forgets all of this for a moment when he feels something sliding off him and on the ground. The blanket, he thinks, reaching down to grab it – only that it's not a blanket, he realizes as he takes a look at it in the faint light the moonlight grants him, it's not a blanket all. It's a jacket.

Blackquill's jacket.

He grips the fabric tighter when the memory hits him, when he remembers everything his mind uncovered during that session–

"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-"

–and the little that came after that. He remembers screaming, he remembers straining against his bounds until he was able to pull free... and he remembers someone's grip on him, Blackquill's grip on him. He remembers his knees giving in, he remembers crying and clinging to him as though his life depended on it... and then nothing more aside from a voice, his own voice.

"Robert. My name is Robert," he says once again, uttering the name as though it's a foreign word. How ironic, he thinks, to find out his name is Robert after spending a whole year wearing the skin of Bobby Fulbright. He somehow doubts Blackquill appreciates the irony.

Blackquill.

His gaze falls back on Blackquill's jacket on his lap. He remembers clinging to that jacket, burying his face against Blackquill's shoulder... and then what? What had happened then? Has he passed out? He must have. He must have been unconscious when he was brought back in his cell, for he has no memory of moving.

And Blackquill's jacket was there when he woke, laid on him like a blanket.

The Phantom – Robert – shivers, only now realizing how chilly it is inside the cell. Without thinking, he wraps Blackquill's jacket around his shoulders – someone put the shackles back on his wrists while he slept and he can't put it on properly – and leans back against the wall, hands grasping the lapels and knees drawn up to his chest. It's warm, and oddly comforting.

Did you call out for me when I lost it, Blackquill? How did you call me? Phantom? Fool Bright?

"... Robert," he says, very quietly. It feels so odd thinking that this name – a name like any other to him until now – is his name. Suddenly, there is something about it that sets it apart form all others. But Seymour, and the others... they wouldn't often use it, would they?Not the full name. Robb, they called him.

"Robb! Please, come back!"

But he hadn't turned back for him, he had kept going because he knew there was nothing he could do anymore. He had left him behind to die so that he could have a chance. It was the most logical course of action, he knows, the only thing he could do... but something aches in his chest when he thinks about it.

I sentenced him to death, he thinks. Seymour wouldn't have even been there hadn't it been for him; he had dragged him in the middle of a dangerous situation, and when something had gone wrong he had left him behind, trying to run away. Trying to, because even if he can't remember precisely how they caught him the scar on his head is proof enough that he didn't go far. But that changes little, does it? He still left him behind to cry and beg for him to come back, for a mercy that wouldn't come.

He's just a crybaby, his own voice echoes somewhere in the back of his mind.

But he was not. He was so much more than that. He can tell now.

He can remember.

"What are you doing?"

Seymour winces when Robb speaks up from behind him, and spins to face him so quickly that he almost loses his balance. The folded tissue he just pulled out of his pocket goes right back in.

"What do you want?" he snaps, tensing as though he thinks Robb is up to physically take whatever he's hiding from him. Robb stops a few steps from him and lifts his arms.

"Look, I'm not going to-"

"Throw a rock at me? I bet you won't. You only do that to defenseless animals," Seymour retorts. "Go away."

Robb scowls. It's been two weeks since the accident with the bird and he's still so irked about it? "I just want to know what you're doing. You've been picking up stuff from the yard lately. I've seen you. What is it?"

"What, are you spying on me now?"

"No! I man, yes. But just this time," Robb adds quickly. "I saw you from the window a few times and got curious, so I followed you. That's all."

"So you did spy on me!"

"Just this once!"

Seymour ignores his retort and looks around. "Where are the others?"

Robb shrugs. "Somewhere off at the market. Don't know. They're not here. So, what do you have there?" he asks, glancing at the pocket Seymour stuffed the tissue back into.

The other boy steps back, and his back hits the closed door that leads to the orphanage's boiler room. "It's none of your business!"

"Aw, just tell me!"

"No! It's a secret!" Seymour says stubbornly. "And you're the last person on Earth I'd tell!"

Robb scowls. He's not used to be told off like that, not by other orphans, because he's always been a pretty popular kid in there. Seymour is just a newcomer and no one likes him much if at all, but it still nags him that he dislikes him so much – and over such a stupid accident, too. Besides, he's curious. He's always been curious, and it drives him up the wall when anyone knows something he doesn't. "But why?"

Seymour stares at him as though he can't believe he even had to ask. "Why? You're an arrogant idiot, that's why! And... and you're cruel, that's what! That bird did nothing to you, and you killed it just to show off! You're just a stupid show-off! You're so full of yourself it's a wonder you didn't just explode yet!"

"Hey! I'm not like that!" Robb protests, frustration starting to rise. He didn't even mean to kill that damn bird! "You know nothing!"

"I know you're not to be trusted," Seymour snaps, and Robb has to bite his tongue not to snap as well. This won't get him anywhere unless he can find a compromise, so he takes a deep breath before speaking again.

"How about I tell you a secret? Then can you tell me yours in return?" he asks. "But you must promise you won't tell anyone."

Seymour squints at him, clearly confused. "You? What would you want to keep secret?"

"The others would mock me if I told them," Robb says. He doesn't really think they'd mock him that much, but he doesn't want them to know he faked everything.

Seymour snorts. "You're lying. Everyone likes you, even if the reason why is a mystery to me."

"Well, they would like me less if they knew about this!"

The confusion on Seymour's face turns quickly into interest, though he tries to hide it. "Then what is it?"

Robb crosses his arms. "You must promise not to tell. And then you must tell me your secret!"

"If I tell you, then who says you won't tell?"

"Because if I tell yours then you can tell mine and I'll be screwed, too," Robb counters. "This is how it works. The promise only counts if the other keeps his."

Seymour looks at him for a few moments, biting his lower lip. "Alright. But you must tell me first."

Robb hesitates. "You must promise-"

"I won't tell."

There is another moment of hesitation, then Robb decides to just tell him. After all, if he breaks the promise and tells, he can always say it's not true and that he made it up. The others would believe him, he's sure, because Seymour is a crybaby and no one likes him much anyway. "Fine. I, uh... I didn't mean to hit that bird," he says, causing Seymour to blink.

"What? But you said-"

"I lied. I was aiming for an apple, but I missed. I'm good, but I'm not that good, and the slingshot was bad, and... and I missed. I hit the bird by accident, I hadn't even seen it there. I just said I was aiming for it because I didn't want to admit I missed," he says, shuffling his feet on the dusty floor.

Seymour stares for a few moments, clearly taken aback. "So you didn't do it on purpose."

"Nope. It was an accident."

"And you'd rather claim you killed a bird intentionally than just admit you missed?"

Robb frowns at Seymour's incredulous tone. When put like that, it does sound kind of stupid. "Er... yes?"

"That's preposterous!"

Robb blinks at the unfamiliar word. "... the who and the what now?"

Seymour sighs. "It means it's stupid."

"Hey! You're stupid!"

"You are!"

"And you're pros... pres... prop... bleh," he finally gives up, and just makes a face. It must be a funny one, too, because it makes Seymour chuckle, and before he knows it they're both laughing for no real reason.

"So... heh... that's true, right? That you didn't mean to kill the blackbird?"

Robb nods. "Yes. I didn't see it."

"Honest?"

"Honest. I'm just... a bit of a show-off."

"A bit?"

"Hey, cut me some slack! I just admitted I missed! You don't know how painful that is," Robb says, placing a hand over his heart somewhat dramatically. Seymour snorts.

"Drama queen."

"Bookworm."

"Phony!"

"Birdbrain!"

Seymour snorts and crosses his arm. "You know, isn't getting you any closer to knowing my secret."

Robb gives him one of his best pouts. "Aw, c'mon. I told you mine!"

Now it's Seymour's turn to hesitate. He bites his lower lip. "You must promise you won't tell anyone."

"Won't tell if you don't tell," Robb says with a grin.

"Fine," Seymour says, and pulls the tissue out of his pocket. He opens it carefully, so that he doesn't spill what's inside...

… and what's inside isn't anything Robb expected. Okay, he wasn't sure what to expect, but this is not an option that ever crossed his mind. "Huh. Any particular reason why you're collecting worms?" he asks as Seymour folds the tissue again to keep the worms from escaping.

"Food," he simply says, then he has to notice Robb's expression, for he quickly speaks again. "Not for me, of course! I just..." he pauses and looks around to make sure no one else is there before just reaching to open the door leading to the boiler room and gesturing for him to follow him inside. "Here, this way."

Robb is still rather confused, but he just follows him in the boiling room. It's hot in there and the light is faint, but he forgets all about it when Seymour leads him to a corner not too far away from the main boiler and crouches down, moving an old wooden box out of the way.

And there on the floor, on top of a few old towels, there is a nest with three tiny chicks. Their frail pink bodies are barely covered by the beginnings of black feather, and they immediately raise grotesquely big heads and start peeping as soon as they sense their presence, beaks wide open. Seymour pulls the tissue with the worms out of his pocket. "See? Told you these were not for me," he says, dangling one worm over the nest. One of the chicks is quicker than the others, and Robb watches with some fascination as it swallows it.

"Are they...?"

"Yep. The bird you hit was their mother. I found the nest on the same tree. They would have died if I didn't do something, so I brought them down here. I figured it would be warm enough for them to be okay even without their mother warming them up. I know something about how it works. My grandma and I used to have canaries; she took some to cheer the house a bit after mom and dad died. And a parrot, too. I don't know what happened to them after she died and I was brought here. Maybe someone freed them. If so, they surely died. There is no way they could survive on their own," Seymour adds, sounding sad all of a sudden.

"Oh," Robb says, crouching down as well. Now he does feel kind of guilty. "It... it was an accident."

"Yes, I got that the first three times," Seymour says, giving the chicks another worm. "I think they'll be okay. But you must promise you won't tell. I'm afraid some of the others could harm them."

Robb would like to say none of the others would do that, but he knows some of the other kids in the orphanage would, just because they can. "I won't tell," he says, and brings up a hand to drag it across his chest. "Won't tell if you don't tell. Cross my heart, hope to die."

"The heart is on the other side," Seymour points out, and chuckles a little as Robb rolls his eyes.

"Know-it-all," Robb mutters. There are a few minutes of silence as he watches Seymour feeding the chicks, only speaking again when he's done and they both stand from their crouching position. "You know what, birdbrain? I don't really think you're a crybaby."

Seymour looks back at him, taken aback. "You don't? But everyone says... and you said-"

"Hey, I had to make them stop somehow. I didn't want that to turn into a beating or something. Also, a lot of them say a lot of really stupid stuff. If you were a crybaby you wouldn't have tried to sock me in the jaw. Not with everyone else there."

"Oh."

"Just stick with me from now on," Robb says as they walk out of the boiler room and close the door behind them. "Bet they'll stop being idiots then."

The other boy seems so taken aback that for a few moments he only stares at him. "Really?" he finally asks, his voice a bit weak. He suddenly looks a lot more vulnerable than usual, and for the first time Robb has to wonder what must it feel like when you're on your own against everyone else. He never had any problem fitting in, so he never gave it much thought. "You mean it?"

Robb gives a wide grin. "Sure! Bet that's gonna throw them off, but they'll have to suck it up."

That makes Seymour laugh a bit. His laughter sounds a bit odd, like an instrument that's unused most of the time. "They're definitely going to wonder what made us change our mind," he says.

"Yup. And we'll keep them guessing – that's half the fun. Remember not to tell them why, okay?"

Seymour smiles and reaches up to drag his hand across his chest, much like Robb did earlier. "Won't tell if you don't. Cross my heart, hope to die."

Blackquill stares at the sheet of paper he's supposed to sign, his lips pulled into a tight line.

This is not the first time he has to sign something he would have rather thrown in a fire – his own confession of the murder of Metis Cykes being a rather prominent example, obviously enough – but it is the first time he has to sign an agreement with the defense attorney of a murderer, and it leaves a bitter taste in his mouth. He doesn't like the idea of giving leniency to a murderer, let alone a police officer who murdered a detective. Still, there is little choice: the Chief Prosecutor made it clear enough.

"I don't like it any more than you do, but we had to promise him as much in exchange of cooperation and testimony on the stolen remote," he told him before letting out a sigh. "As much as I loathe to admit it, what Tonate told us about the bomb parts gave us quite a few leads to work on to find the bomber. His knowledge of the black market for explosive devices is quite useful in this sense. And now that we know for a fact he was not behind the courtroom bombing, his position has changed in that regard. He is a murderer, but the fact still stands that Ted Tonate saved quite a few lives by realizing that the bomb had been reactivated and warning the court. If we choose to go to trial and press for the full penalty, the defense would certainly use it as an argument along with the fact the murder was not planned. Death penalty would most likely be out of question; with the agreement we're making sure he serves a long prison sentence."

It was nothing Blackquill could argue with then, and he can't argue with it now, as his pen lingers over the sheet of paper. He can finally bring himself to sign it when he thinks back of the courtroom bombing, of how many people could have died in it hadn't Tonate warned everyone... and how Athena may have been among the casualties. When he thinks about that, the thought of sparing that rat the death penalty is less unbearable.

As he puts his pen away after signing the agreement, Blackquill's gaze darkens at the thought of what happened in the courtroom that day. The Phantom was more than ready to blow up a full courtroom with the only intent of erasing incriminating evidence – the back-up plan or his back-up plan, apparently – and, hadn't Tonate spoken up, they all may have died.

This is yet another thing he'll have to account for during his trial, he thinks. But today... today it's something else they'll concern themselves about. Blackquill lets his gaze shifting on folder sitting on his desk.

It looks quite older than it actually is, the sheets of paper inside yellowed and stained with humidity, the blue ink used to write on them so faded it takes some effort to make out what's written on it. Then again, Blackquill wouldn't be able to understand one word it even if the ink wasn't faded: he doesn't understand Borginian at all, and knows nothing of its alphabet. And, this time, no translation was provided for him.

"This is it – we're sure of it," the Interpol agent who dug it up told him by phone. "Everything fits, from year of birth to first name. He was even in the same orphanage as the other boy you mentioned, Seymour Blaxton; it seems they ran away when they were both thirteen. It was not uncommon for orphans to leave when they thought they were old enough to be on their own, and they were rarely looked for – Borginia simply didn't seem to know what to do with those children. Those were far from good times, I'm afraid," he had said before apologizing for the lack of a translation to go with the document.

"It matters not. I'll have someone who speaks Borginian take a look at this," was all Blackquill told him before thanking him for the Interpol's efforts to get him what he needed in only two days and hanging the phone.

He will do that, of course; they need an official translation to add to the police records and officially give the prisoner they all call 'Phantom' a name and a surname. But not right away: before he does that, he wants the Phantom to take a look at it. This folder is the first, real evidence they have of his identity, with his name and surname written on paper; it's only fair that he's the one to read it first.

And Blackquill wants to be there when he does. Somehow, that feels fitting as well.

Thanks for not... not giving up... on me.

Who spoke just now, Phantom? Was it you, whoever you are, or was it Fulbright?

Blackquill scowls, trying to chase away the memory, then he takes the folder under his arm and stands.

It's time pay the Phantom a visit.

The Phantom – why can't he think of himself as Robert? – has always been wary of gifts.

Truth to be told, as a spy he's wary of quite a few things; unexpected gifts, however, make it to the top five. Not that he can recall receiving a gift meant for him before – they would always be meant for the person he was impersonating at the time – but he did impersonate several people who had a quite a handful of enemies. There was one instance, when impersonating a businessman with strong ties to less than savory political forces, when he received a bottle of red wine with poison in it; what had saved him was the fact the man whose skin he wore only drank white wine, and thus he hadn't drank any.

The secretary he gave the wine to wasn't quite as lucky.

Over time he nearly forgot about the incident, but almost dying thanks to come poisoned brandy brought the memory back up quite forcefully. He is therefore rather hesitant to even take the brown paper bag the officer is holding out for him through his cell's bars.

"For me," he repeats instead, his voice flat. Despite all the wariness, hearing those words – for you – sounds very, very odd. This is the first time he can recall hearing them while he's not wearing someone else's face.

"Yes. No bomb inside, don't worry," the officer says drily. "It's from that lawyer, Athena Cykes."

The Phantom blinks, surprise replacing wariness. "Cykes?"

"Yes. Beats me why she'd get you anything, but then again it's none of my business. Just take it already, or I'm going to eat this stuff myself."

Curiosity overriding other thoughts – it's not like he believes Cykes is up to murder him – the Phantom reaches to take the paper bag. As the guard leaves without another word, he opens it and peers inside.

Liquorice strings.

Athena Cykes got him liquorice strings and he has no idea what he should even think of it.

Part of him wants to laugh and laugh and laugh until his sides hurt. This is the first time since when he can recall that anyone gets him – him, not one of his masks – a gift, and it comes from someone whose mother he murdered, whose childhood he destroyed. He hurt her perhaps more deeply than he could ever hurt even Blackquill, and not only she helped him recover his memories and self – now she's even sending him candy.

Had it been anyone else aside from perhaps Blackquill, he would assume it's a trap; it's the only logical explanation he would be able to think of. But Cykes... logic doesn't truly apply to her, does it now? She's a creature of emotion and mood, not one of cold logic. He used to think he had her figured out, but the more he knows her the less he feels he understands her – he, who turned figuring out people and then slipping in their skin in his very nature. The fact he fails to understand her is starting to nag at him.

Then again, he supposes it makes sense: she's all about emotions, and he... he can't understand them as well as others do. He can't understand them at all even now that he can admit he feels any.

You simply can't face the emotions inside you. You can't face them because you have nothing. No love, no trust...

Cykes' words echoing somewhere in the back of his head, the Phantom sits back on his cot. He's still holding the paper bag in his hands, his thoughts going in circles. He sits there for a long time and, as much as he found he likes liquorice strings, he can't bring himself to eat even one.

It is a well-known voice to snap him out of it after... some time, who knows exactly how long.

"I see you're putting that to use."

The Phantom recoils and turns to see Blackquill standing outside his cell, an officer by his side with the cell's keys in his hands. It still feels rather odd seeing him through bars from inside the cell, he thinks, and for a few moments he doesn't realize what Blackquill is even talking about. "What...?"

"I'd be grateful if you could give me my coat back," Blackquill says, gesturing for the officer to open the cell. It's only then that the Phantom realizes he still has Blackquill's jacket wrapped around his shoulders, as he always did for the past couple of days after awakening back in his cell.

"Ah," is all he says, and reaches to take it off with a shackled hand as though it's suddenly caught fire on him. He busies himself folding it on the cot before looking back up to see Blackquill stepping in... and the officer leaving after locking the cell behind him. The Phantom watches his retreating back with growing perplexity. "Why...?"

"Given the circumstances, I'd wager some some privacy won't hurt," Blackquill says.

"Have you come to ask me what my memory was about?"

Blackquill shakes his head. "No. That you and your friends were caught and shot is fairly obvious; you'll tell me how later. Now I want you to take a look at this," he says, and hands him something – a folder, different from the previous one. "It's yours, after all."

The Phantom stares at the old folder for several long moments. Nothing about it can give him the faintest clue of what it may be – there is nothing written on it. Blackquill doesn't wait for him to ask.

"It's your profile."

"From the hospital?"

"From the orphanage."

The Phantom recoils, breath catching in his throat. If it's from before he was shot, from the orphanage he recalls growing in, then there must be more information about himself in there than he could hope for – a surname, a proper date of birth, perhaps even information on the family he cannot recall at all. "Is there...?" he manages, but Blackquill cuts him off by simply handing it to him.

"I don't understand Borginian. You do. Read."

His hands shake as he reaches to take the folder, but he can't bring himself to care. The hell with pretense, the hell with everything; he's way past caring. So he doesn't allow himself to hesitate before he opens the folder and looks at the sheet of paper inside. It's in poor conditions, with faded ink and humidity stains, but it's still readable, and his eyes are immediately drawn to the characters all over it.

And there it is, all of it. His name, his full name, and more: there is his date of birth, a proper one with a day and a month, and the names of both his parents. It is there, it's all there, and he can scarcely believe it.

"Are you... are you certain this is mine?" he hears himself asking, looking up at Blackquill. He nods.

"Yes. Everything fits. It cannot be a coincidence. Do tell me, then – what is your full name?" Blackquill asks, and gives a faint smirk. "It's hardly fair to keep me waiting after all this work."

The Phantom's eyes move back on the sheet, and he reaches to touch the faded ink with his fingertips. "LaRoche," he says, his voice low as though he fears that name will fade from the paper if he dares speak it too loud. "Robert LaRoche," he repeats, and instinctively looks up at Blackquill as though to seek validation.

Blackquill nods at him. "I see. What else is written there, Mr. LaRoche?"

There is a raspy laugh, and the Phantom – LaRoche – is surprised to realize it's coming from him. "Are you going to call me that from now on?"

"Why not? There is no point in having a name if nobody uses it, don't you agree?"

He smiles. "I agree. I do," he says, and laughs. He can only remember laughing like this once, when he reached to take off a mask and realized there was no mask, realized he had finally found his own, true face. As the laugh dies down, he looks back at the sheet of paper. "I was born in Borginia's capital on November 16, 1986. There are my parents' names, too, and their date of death, and... and..." his voice breaks, and he realizes there is a lump in his throat keeping him from speaking. He has to swallow a few times before he can talk again, looking up at Blackquill. "This is real, isn't it? I'm not imagining any of this, am I? Because if I am- aaagh!"

The Phantom – LaRoche – lets out a cry and jerks when electricity suddenly buzzes through him. It's a brief jolt, over almost as soon as it started and it's barely even painful, but it's enough to make him bring a hand up to his chest and draw in a deep breath once it's passed. "What was that for?" he asks, looking up at Blackquill – who, on the other hand, is calmly putting the remote back in his pocket.

"I was merely proving you you're not imagining anything. I won't be dismissed as a figment of your imagination, LaRoche."

There are a few moments of stunned silence before the Phantom – no, there is no Phantom and there never was one, he's a man and his name is Robert LaRoche – starts laughing. He's not quite sure what he's laughing about, if it's about Blackquill's statement or the fact he truly has an identity now, but he can't stop. And soon enough Blackquill is laughing as well, that odd laughter that sounds different from any other LaRoche has ever heard. They both sound more than a little unhinged, really, and they must be such an odd sight it's a pity no one is there to see them as they just laugh and laugh and laugh.

He's still trying to catch his breath when Blackquill holds out a hand. "The folder," he says, causing the lingering smile on LaRoche's face to vanish. His grip instinctively tightens on what's perhaps the only proof left on Earth of his identity.

Blackquill must notice his hesitation, for he speaks before he can say anything. "I'll let you have a copy soon. This has yet to be translated and submitted to the police. You were not supposed to see it until then, truth to be told, but I figured there was no point in waiting for the paperwork to be filled," Blackquill says, taking the folder from his slackened grip. "I trust you'll keep quiet about this."

Trust.

The Phantom – LaRoche, he's not a phantom and he has a name now – would have never thought he'd hear Blackquill, of all people, talk about trust; not to him, not after everything. He can recall laughing at the mere idea of trust right before him, the day of the trial.

Trust? Understanding? Hah! Fragile ideals of the masses who are controlled by emotion. Humans can't truly trust each other, which is exactly why the illusion of trust is so enticing.

And he truly believed so, didn't he? Part of him still can't quite let that certainty go. But then again Blackquill dealt a blow to it when he convinced him to speak in exchange of nothing but a promise to keep the sessions going – a promise he had to trust him to keep. And that trust was not betrayed, something he had to admit after being poisoned, when he thought the time he had left on earth was measured in minutes.

I never... never should have doubted... y-your word, I... I t-trust... I...

"LaRoche?" Blackquill calls out, snapping him from the memory. He looks up, and finds himself smirking.

"Won't tell if you don't," he finally says, and for a moment a shackled hand almost reaches up to his chest.

Cross my heart, hope to die.