Sit Down. Stand Up
February 13, 2028
It wasn't enough. He still had to face his sister at his next visit a couple of days later.
"You look like shit, Simon," were the first words out of Aura's mouth when she saw him. There wasn't any tone behind her words. A mere statement, designed to describe the situation. Just matter-of-fact. Matter-of-fact, as she always was.
Simon took his seat opposite her. The chair scraped harshly against the linoleum floor. It was a busy Sunday afternoon, and all around them conversations were buzzing. His ears picked up snippets; of children and schools and court dates. Sunlight streamed in from the small barred windows, catching Aura's cold grey eyes squinting at him.
"Hello to you too, Aura," he greeted, trying to school a bland smile onto his features.
She raised her eyebrows, her mouth a thin line. He knew she wasn't stupid; years of sitting opposite him had made her a master of scrutiny. He scratched at his wrists, and tried to look at anything but her.
She had said she didn't need to know what went on, and that was his justification for now.
She doesn't need to know. She cannot know. She will never know.
"So…how are you?" she asked, once she had finished giving him a look-over.
He looked up to meet her gaze; Aura had leaned back in her seat, her fingers drumming against the plastic armrests. He swallowed. "I am...alright. Busy. I haven't been getting much sleep."
She nodded slowly. "...Do you eat?"
He nodded. That was a good place to start. A good distraction. He had gone on his shopping excursion, hadn't he? "I stocked up on food."
"That doesn't answer my question."
"One meal a day," he relented. "I keep a routine of sorts."
"...Okay." she said, not entirely convinced. Her thumb ran along the edge of the armrest. "...I guess it's better than the slop they serve here. I don't know how you survived the last seven years."
I don't quite know myself. "You'll get used to it."
"I'd bloody well have to, wouldn't I?"
"Hm." he frowned, trying to look for something to say. He laced his fingers together. When had her nails grown so long?
"I took you up on your offer last week," he finally found himself saying.
Aura's expression morphed into confusion. He filled her in. "The flat. I bought some paint for it."
"Hmph. I didn't think you were serious," she muttered, leaning back in her seat, her eyes focusing on an imaginary speck of dirt on the table. "But that's good of you. Lord knows I've neglected the place."
"Hm. I haven't done anything yet."
Aura nodded acknowledgingly. "Well, let me know how you get on with that."
A small smile tried to make itself known on his lips. "I never was one for decorating."
"No." she deadpanned.
Well, that was the end of that small burst of conversation; stupid of him to bring up the flat. He scratched his arm.
"Is there anything you'd like me to bring…for next time?" he asked tentatively.
"I…" Aura started, then she closed her mouth and shrugged. "Not particularly, no."
Silence once more created a gulf between them. The conversations around them continued to buzz, to rise and fall, and to talk of domestic matters that he...had never had the privilege of experiencing, because he—
"I have laundry duty at four," Aura's words cut into his thoughts. That was his cue to leave.
Simon stood up and listened for the footsteps of the guard, and the tinkling metallic sound of the cuffs being placed on Aura's hands. The conversations around them began fading out.
"Simon?"
His head snapped up. "Yes?"
He saw her eyebrows furrow and her jaw clench, her eyes focused on the shackles in front of her. "...Never mind."
"I see," he swallowed; his Adam's apple bobbed in his throat. "Well, I'll leave you to it then."
She said nothing else, and he watched as she was led away, disappearing from his view. Until next week then. He turned on his heel and made his way to the exit.
Once out of the prison's grounds, Simon scoured the bus timetable. He decided beforehand that he wasn't going to go home just yet, for there was a place he wanted to go to first. A place he had never been to before, because he had never anticipated that he would ever go there.
He had, however, expected he would be buried there. Just...well, clearly not yet. Not as soon as he had anticipated.
Gourd Lake Cemetery was, thankfully, only a short bus ride away and relatively close to where he now resided. That latter fact was only to be expected; Aura, naturally, would have wanted to be...as close as she could be to her fiancée.
And to me, when I was due to make my crossing.
Still, not quite yet.
The gravel crunched beneath his old hiking boots — he had found them, among other clothing items, stashed away in the back of one of the storage closets in the flat — and the warm rays of sunlight caught his exposed pale arms.
The sun felt too harsh and too bright for this. For what he was about to embark on. And his clothes too casual. This was meant to be a solemn moment. But there was nothing he could do about it. He had to soldier on.
He meandered through the various plaques, headstones and statues, trying to find the one he was looking for. He hadn't bothered to look online beforehand, to find out where she was interred, but the black Japanese headstones gave him a good inkling.
He was right. It didn't take him much time to find it; a long black marble stone bearing her name, Metis Cykes, in English and Japanese. He crouched down to inspect it; dust had settled on the surface, spread out thinly. Her grave had been neglected in recent months, understandably so.
With a brush of his hand, he tidied away the dead red rose petals and the burnt incense sticks. Then he stood up again and placed a hand on the top of the stone.
There was nothing he could say. After all, what could he say? What could he do?
Had all that he had done been in vain?
He looked away, his jaw clenched, his eyes shut tight. No. Right now, her murderer was sitting in a dank cell on a paper-thin mattress; her daughter was safe; and her fiancée, well, she was alright.
His thumb ran along the character engravings that spelled out her Japanese name. He could not recall if Aura had mentioned the details of the funeral. He hardly recalled anything in the aftermath of his trial. But it appeared she had had a traditional Japanese funeral; she had been cremated, her bones had been picked out and placed in an urn, and her ashes had been sealed in the crypt under his feet.
A humourless smile made its way onto his lips. It was what she would have wanted.
And what about him? Where did he stand in all this?
He was the one who had led her into an early grave. He was the one who made her an "unfortunate liability".
The chime of a text message rang out in the deserted cemetery. So much for trying to have a solemn moment.
He brushed away the dust on his fingers, before he turned away and left the cemetery. On his way home, he stopped in at a flower shop to purchase a bouquet of marigolds, poppies, and white carnations, and some incense sticks. When he got back, he placed the flowers in a vase on the living room table, made himself a bowl of soba noodle soup for dinner, and lay on the sofa reading until it was time to go to bed. He refused to check his phone for the rest of the day.
After going about his nightly routine, he lit the incense in a small jar and the scent of sandalwood wafted out from the sticks. Then he climbed into bed. He ignored the book on his bedside table; Murakami would have to wait for another night.
Simon shut his eyes tight and let his hand fall to his side. It was best he just try and get some sleep, for tomorrow wasn't going to be any easier on him.
He let out a heaved sigh, and then, turning his body, he moved to switch off the bedside light. He hadn't bothered to draw the curtains; the bright yellow city lights danced on the ceiling and the wall in front of him. The shadows flickered against the light, scuttling about the room; the shadows of cars zoomed past quickly. But the palm fronds were ever-present, rustling against the window-panes. That was a sound he would have to get used to.
For now though, it was a calming sound; a reminder of palm trees, and white sand beaches, and him as a lanky adolescent jumping into the sea. He let the memory play out into a dream, with him swimming and swimming and swimming away, the water lapping at his pale skin, and the waves leading him elsewhere...
And he was calm. He was at peace. He was asleep.
The incense stayed burning beside him all night.
"Did you have a good weekend."
He was back here. There was a rustle of fabric as Simon settled into his chair in the interrogation room.
"Yes, I did," he replied quickly. Automatically.
Qvinn narrowed his eyes and squinted at him for a split-second, before schooling his features back into that neutral bored look. Simon clicked the button on the tape recorder and relayed the customary introduction, before settling down in his seat for a moment to collect his thoughts.
He wasn't sure where to start.
He was back here, after all that had been revealed a mere seventy-two hours ago. Horrific though the revelations had been, Simon had expected them.
But just where was he meant to go from here? Was he to continue to press on further? To ask more questions about motive for murder? To scream at how many lives had been lost in the fallout?
...Or was he meant to sweep it all under the rug? Bottle it all up, bottle everything up, shove everything down because that was the only way he was able to cope?
To the Phantom sitting across from him, this had been nothing more than a job. He did not care about the consequences of his actions. Moreover, he could not feel the guilt, the remorse, the… sheer weight of it all.
"...What are your questions for me."
The monotone words pulled him out of his thoughts, and Simon shifted in his seat and cleared his throat.
"Today I'd like to make internal inquiries into your employers," he said. The words left his mouth before he could catch them. Simon supposed he would have to run with it; it would prove useful, he hoped, to his colleagues.
"I'd like to ask about about your organisation itself," he clarified. "Its innards; the manner in which it operates and governs. The manner in which it keeps you all in line."
"You want names."
He sucked in a breath. "Not necessarily," he said.
Then with a pause, he added, "Of course, if it is of benefit to you to reveal them, then...by all means, you are welcome to do so."
There was a glint in Qvinn's eye, and his neutral facade evaporated; a thin line replaced his mouth. "You are trying to manipulate me, Prosecutor."
The quiet voice was harsh, raspy, and not at all familiar. Simon crossed his arms. He hadn't thought of it that way when he said the words but… If that was the conclusion that he had drawn, then he would run with it.
Simon leaned forward to press his lips to the microphone, his words low in his throat. "I assure you I have not been putting anything into your head. You are the one who produced that assumption."
Qvinn's jaw clenched, and he turned his chin up. "You should know that I am immune to your advances, Blackquill."
Do not falter.
A smirk crept up Simon's lips. "Oh, I am well aware of my previous attempts to draw information out of you, Fool Bright."
I never knew the poor man but...two can play at this game.
Simon lowered his head, not caring to look at the Phantom as those words left his mouth. There wasn't a second to consider them, as the sound of a shackled fist slamming down on the metal table caused him to jump.
"That is not my name!"
A... visceral reaction? Was he...was he producing an emotional response?
Simon steeled himself. He would have to be sure of that… psychological studies be damned, Simon reproduced the smirk, eyes trained on Qvinn's.
"Is it not? I know of you only as Fool Bright, I'm afraid. It would be a great injustice to such a man if we weren't to honour his memory." The harsh overhead fluorescent lights caught Simon's hawk-like eyes. "After all, you've been honouring it for the last year."
Simon stood up and balled his fists. He would maintain his control in this situation.
"On a further note," he continued, glaring down the man, "were you not the one who said you did not care for your colleagues? You claimed to be a traitor, did you not? A self-professed one too!"
A sharp metallic shriek sounded out as Qvinn lunged forward, his fingers gripping the glass that separated them. There was shuffle of footsteps as two officers emerged to restrain him.
Spittle flew out of his mouth. "You are the traitor, Blackquill! You promised—"
"I did no such thing." Simon snapped back, his lip curled up in disgust. He jerked his head towards the guards. "We are done here. You may—"
"Fine, I'll talk!"
It was a pathetic whimper, but it forced Simon to sit back down again. He could feel the blood rush to his temples. His leg bounced. "...Will you,Fool Bright ?"
"Yes!" he answered his voice strained. He was still contained in a vice-like grip.
Simon brought the pad of paper closer to him, and scribbled onto it. "I see you are capable of producing emotion then. That is a breakthrough."
"What are you—"
"You do not ask the questions. I do." Simon interrupted forcefully, before he nodded at the guards, who released him from their hold. Qvinn crumpled unceremoniously against the table. "Now then, the structure of your organisation, and be quick about it."
Simon watched with a horrible sense of glee as the man cautiously climbed back into his seat. The feeling flickered for only a brief split-second, before it extinguished as he further observed those angry features disappear once more; the salt-pillar-man had reemerged.
Qvinn's voice echoed hollowly in the dank room as he spoke out. "SEIL was founded with the intention of spying, as you know. Higher-ups decided it was easiest to structure and fill the ranks with military personnel. Everyone from agents to directors served in the military. Did not matter which one. Borginian or Allebahstian. Did not care. So long as you served. Could still serve."
Qvinn paused, and Simon expected him to continue his monologue but instead was greeted with silence. Clearing his throat, he turned back a few pages in his legal pad. "You mentioned last week that your coalition was severed into three equal units. Would the military personnel have been placed within their ethnic groupings?"
"Allebahstian branch had Allebahstians. Borginian branch had Borginians. Dual Corps had both, and maybe some other nationalities. As I said, it did not matter."
"And had you all served in the civil war?"
A shrug. "That was the expectation, seeing as it was a new organisation borne out of said war."
Right, they were making a start. "Could you list the departments?"
"Communications. Security. Espionage. Intelligence. Training. Administration."
"And within those ranks, I would assume there to be subcategories?"
Again, the response was clipped, short, in staccato. "Field operations. Telecommunications. Elite training. I do not remember them all. It is useless information to me."
Was Metis' life useless information to you too?
A deep breath, he really needed to not think right now.
He soldiered on with his questions. "The two officials we met for your appeal, they claimed to lead field operations and military intelligence. Would this happen to be accurate information?"
Qvinn looked up to meet Simon's unreadable expression "I do not know. I did not meet them before here."
"How can you be so certain in your claims?"
A shrug. "I can not."
Simon scribbled a memo down; that information might come in handy some point later. Then he set his pen down and laced his fingers together.
"Where did you fall in line?"
"Espionage. Agent. In the Dual Corps," responded Qvinn in a bland tone.
"Were you employed initially as such, or did you receive formal training?"
Another shrug. "I do not recall."
"Was it possible to traverse through the ranks, by ways of promotion?"
"If you wanted to."
"And did you seek to do so yourself?"
"I do not recall."
Another deflection. He had begun to inspect his cuticles.
Pursuing this line of questioning wasn't going to get him further, so Simon pulled out last week's notes from his satchel and changed tack.
"Had the scope of the organisation changed following reunification?"
A nod of the head as Qvinn moved to inspect the nails on his left hand. "Smaller numbers. Less personnel, but same tasks and missions."
Simon marked that down. The pen in his hand stalled and his brow furrowed.
"Did your employer engage in extrajudicial justice?"
Qvinn narrowed his eyes, reading in between the lines. "You mean my sniper attack."
Simon nodded. A quiet fell on the room, and Simon's ears strained to pick up the electrical hum from the fluorescent lights above and the jangling of keys as the guards shifted their stances.
"Yes," replied Qvinn quietly, a thick Eastern-European accent filtering past his lips.
Simon leaned forward, trying to catch Qvinn's gaze. "...Do you suppose the sniper could have been one of your contemporaries?"
Qvinn matched Simon's posture. "Could have been. They were all military personnel. Knew how to wield a gun. Shoot to kill."
"Could it have been one of the two individuals we met who represented you — who wielded their swords on their masters' behalf?"
Qvinn reclined in his seat, and the corners of his lips turned upwards in a smirk. A new accent — one much more familiar to Simon's ears — registered.
"You might well think that. I could not possibly comment."
Was he...provoking him? With Received Pronunciation of all things?
He forced the thought out of his head, but not for long, for Qvinn had another thing to say.
"Do you know what you said some days before your execution."
Simon's head snapped up and his eyes widened before he could register the reaction.
He is intending to get a rise out of me! But…
But Qvinn, as usual, paid him no heed, staring at the space where the microphones stood.
"You said this was the calm before the storm," he answered for him, snatching Simon's voice out of his throat as he caught the last words in the sentence.
He wouldn't.
...Would he?
Had he said that? Surely he would remember saying something like that, but…
But the days as of late had all melded into one, making it hard to separate various moments, even if it had all seemed so important at the time. He opened his mouth and closed it again; was he expected to produce an answer?
Thankfully, before he could prepare a response, Qvinn shrugged dismissively. And then…
And then, in a perfect replica of Simon's head-turn he barked out, "Guard, I am done here."
How dare he…
Simon's feet felt glued to the ground, and he could only keep his eyes locked the man — no, the monster — in front of him as he was unshackled from the chair and then stood up tall to his full height. Even though he was considerably shorter than Simon, the power-play was there, taunting him.
And Simon could only look on with utter defeat and disgust as the salt-pillar-man disappeared round the door.
Athena [Yesterday at 16:47 PM]: So I'm going into court tomorrow. But I didn't see you on the court docket for this month. You doing okay?
Athena [8.28 AM]: Hey, hope you slept well. How's things been? What did you do this weekend? I'm doing pretty okay. Busy weekend. Jogging. Saw Junie. She's been studying for her finals - I hope she does good!
Athena [8.30 AM]: I'll catch you later after the trial.
Athena [14:51 PM]: I tried to come by but the receptionist said you're not in?
Athena [14:54 PM]: Anyway trial got extended by another day. Do you know a prosecutor called Sebastian Debeste? Just asking bc I wondered if you knew him from before. He's a few years younger than you.
Athena [14:57 PM]: Doesn't matter tho.
Athena [17:18 PM]: Also, how's Aura?
(Seen at 23:45 PM)
Rest and relaxation would evade him for the rest of the week, but thankfully so would Athena's unanswered texts.
In the meantime, work had proven productive. The rest of Monday and all of Tuesday had been taken up by audio transcriptions, and further compiling interrogation notes. Simon had decided, based on von Karma's emails, and the success of his interrogation — loathe as he was to admit it — last week, that the best course of action was to aim for balance in his discussions. Each interrogation session, he would aim to draw out something new; in some, he intended to draw out information on Qvinn's missions, and in others, information about his background and his career. That way he'd create an equilibrium between what Interpol wanted, and... what he himself wanted.
And what did he want? Closure? Revenge? Some semblance of understanding?
Simon did not know.
But what Simon did know was that he liked routine.
He was still loosely following his...prison timetable as a template, but at least he had a system in place. It did help that a lot of what was on that timetable had constituted work, so making that switch from there to his new environment had been relatively easy. Well, as easy as it could be for him.
He looked around his office; it was looking more and more like his own space with each passing day, save for the towering cardboard boxes that posed an eyesore. Simon had made a start on them prior to the appeal, and then some in the last couple of weeks, but it was becoming increasingly clear that going through them himself would take up far too much time.
Luckily for him, routine meant that on Wednesdays he would meet with his investigative partner to go through their case, and it wasn't long before a familiar knock — three short raps — sounded on the door. In came Detective Skye, up to her arms in files and coffee. Simon rose from his seat, wordlessly taking the coffee cups from her hands and setting them down on his desk.
Skye sank down on the sofa with a sigh. "Morning."
"Good morning to you too, Biscuits," he returned, eyes following her movements as she began to prepare her notes to get started. "Postpone that, will you?"
At his words Skye pointed at her files for clarification. He nodded and beckoned her over to his corner of the office, where the eyesore stood resembling a chaotic 'moving house' situation.
Simon opened up one of the boxes and, tossing her a file, said, "I would like to direct your attention to the victim's various scribbles. It is imperative that we examine their contents."
Flicking through it, she asked, "You want to go through them right now?"
"If you have sufficient time. I would not wish to take you away from your other engagements."
Skye shrugged before following up with another tired smile. She moved to help him move the boxes into the centre of the room. Once they'd hauled the last box into the circle, she answered him.
"Don't worry about time. I'll let you know when I have to go — need to close a bike theft case tonight."
He nodded. "Understandable."
Anticipating a heavy workload, Simon unbuttoned his waistcoat and rolled up his sleeves. At his cue, Skye decided to do the same, draping her lab coat over the arm of the sofa and rolling her own sleeves up.
Sitting herself back down on the edge of the sofa, she glanced down at Simon, now sitting cross-legged opposite her. She cracked her knuckles. "Let's do this."
"Yes, indeed. Let us make quick work of this."
Quick work, it was not. But with the aid of the coffee the detective had brought along with her, their laptops, and the large Borginian-English dictionary, they were able to make progress sorting through the victim's files.
They managed to work out a system, though it had taken at least an hour of back-and-forth discussion; Simon would hand Skye a file, she would read it and then determine where it would go with a colour code, and then he would place it in its designated pile.
So far, there were four main piles; unrelated casework (both domestic and international); tribunal matters (though Simon found that the majority of paperwork pertaining to that was already in his possession on his computer); the victim's personal affairs; and other miscellaneous papers that had found their way in the boxes.
Thankfully once they'd established their system, it was fairly easy to sort the files out. The plan being that they would be able to take the paperwork they needed as evidence, and the rest would be taken to the chief prosecutor for archival purposes.
At some point in the afternoon, with the sun hanging low in the sky, bathing the office in an orange glow, he asked Skye if she was alright with him playing some music to bide their time. She agreed, and soon, a falsetto male voice accompanied them.
"Radiohead?" Skye smirked, recognising the vocals. "Didn't know you liked them."
Simon mirrored her expression. "Who do you take me for, Biscuits?"
She chuckled as she placed another file into the pile for unrelated casework. "I don't know. Just...I didn't expect you to listen to music. At least, not on the inside."
The smirk evaporated from his face, replaced by a darkened expression, and Skye, realising the words that had so easily slipped out of her mouth, looked away, ashamed.
"...Sorry. I shouldn't have said that, Prosecutor Blackquill," she said quietly.
Prosecutor Blackquill.
The title sounded so awfully formal on her lips. Distant. Impersonal.
But wasn't that who he was? Weren't those adjectives so perfectly aligned with how he had behaved — continued to behave — towards himself and to others around him for years?
Simon swallowed the lump in his throat. Without looking up at her, he replied in a low voice. "I do not take offence to your words, Biscuits. You weren't to know."
Then, meeting her eyes, he humoured her with a reminiscent smile. "We were permitted musical devices inside on account of good behaviour. It helped bide the time in there."
Skye bowed her head for a moment, and then tentatively lifted it again; he saw she was biting at her lip. Then, a small reassuring smile made itself known on her face, trying to show that all was well between them.
"Hey, you did say you'd make sure I stayed in line."
They quietly sorted through another five files before Skye asked, "You mind if I choose something?"
"By all means, have at it."
A few taps on his laptop keyboard and she turned it around so that he could see the album portrayed on the screen.
"Here. Dunno if you've listened to this one before — it's called Cuttooth."
He had not, and she shifted the laptop to her left. She clicked play, letting the sounds of drifting guitars, wandering basslines and haunting voices wash over them, dampening their thoughts. At around the three-minute mark in the song, Simon noticed he hadn't handed her another file, but, judging by the look on Skye's face, she hadn't noticed either.
Then she said something rather peculiar. Rather... personal.
"I have a sister in prison," she announced in a far-off voice. "You might have heard of her. Lana Skye."
Simon nodded, faintly recalling the name, and she continued. "Well, everyone in here knows of her. But yeah...I don't know why I'm telling you this. I just—I guess I should've known better. Her in prison. You being in prison."
A small smile traced his lips. "Once more, Biscuits, you weren't to know. Do not concern yourself any further with this."
There was a momentary silence between them. He felt her eyes on him, as though trying to gauge what to say next. He still wasn't used to this, to practical strangers peering at him. Simon kept his gaze trained on the hardwood floor.
"I, too, possess a sister who resides in the clink," he found himself saying. "In there, on my behalf."
A cocked eyebrow. "She try to save you or something?"
"One might say that."
Skye leaned back on the sofa. She ran a hand through her hair. "Mine too."
Facing her properly now, his grey eyes meeting her teal ones, he could hardly mask the wry smile forming on his lips.
"You mean to tell me you're a cold-blooded murderer?"
She barked out a laugh. "No! But...I see where you're coming from. The whole big sister protection thing."
That was rather an apt way of putting it, but it conveyed things perfectly.
"...Lana's in minimum now." she continued. "Got transferred on good behaviour two years ago."
Simon tilted his head. "Likewise, with regards to the former."
"Weird, isn't it? Hey, maybe they've met."
He snorted. "I wouldn't call it 'meeting', Biscuits. It is hardly a place to sit and chat over tea and crumpets."
Her lips turned up in a small smile. Simon wondered for a moment if there would be another time they would be able to do this; to sit cross-legged on hardwood floors and to sift through decades of someone's work and call it bonding.
"Ah, you're right, who am I kidding," she replied, leaning forward to retrieve another manila envelope. "Come on, let's get this over with."
Their moment over, they busied themselves with finishing off the file-sorting, the OK Computer album accompanying them. They managed to perfectly time Simon placing the last file in a pile with the closing bars of How I Made My Millions.
When the document landed with an anticlimactic thwap, they breathed a collective sigh of relief. Skye stood up and stretched her arms above her head; he grimaced as he heard her joints pop.
They took a five minute break to make themselves presentable again in their clothing, and for Skye to grab some snacks from the cafeteria downstairs. She threw him a chocolate bar when she came in again. Simon tore off the wrapper, unable to suppress a small grin at the fact that she seemingly knew he liked dark chocolate with hazelnuts.
He turned his attention back to their work. "Seeing as we've concluded our tasks, perhaps now you can inform me of your investigative findings."
Skye set her ring binder down on her lap. She tucked a piece of hair behind her ear. "Okay, so I know we said last time we'd start to focus on his movements, but...some very interesting things came up when I was trying to establish his timeline of events the days before he was killed."
Breaking off a piece of chocolate, Simon raised his head, eyebrows furrowed. "And what, pray tell, would those things entail?"
Skye sighed. "I was looking into his personal life, just to see what kind of guy he was, and—"
"And?" he encouraged, popping a piece of chocolate in his mouth.
A sharp inhale. "He was half-Cohdopian."
"A dual national? That is hardly—" Then Simon's eyes widened, and that gave Skye more than enough to go on.
"What we were saying last week," she confirmed, casting his mind back to their previous meeting. She handed him a folder, and he flicked through it; photocopies of passports, a marriage certificate, and a curriculum vitae among other things. "He had a Cohdopian wife, lived in Primidux for ten years, got citizenship."
"Any offspring?" he asked while leafing through the pages, carefully not to get any melted confectionery on them
Skye shook her head. "No. He divorced his wife around the time he moved to Holland. But that's not what I'm trying to get at. I checked his financial records, and...he was supposed to fly out to Primidux the day after he was killed."
"Whatever for?"
"Apparently there was a conference he was attending. And...all the people in the Borginia Tribunal were gonna be there."
Bloody hell.
Simon closed over the foil wrapper tightly, pocketing the remainder of his chocolate bar.
"That's not all," he heard her say. With a solemn face, she added. "You know those three lawyers who were killed?"
"The ones you mentioned but last week?"
"Interpol found more. So, it's now five dead lawyers. They were all on the Borginia Tribunal. And they were all Cohdopian dual nationals."
Simon leaned back in his seat, trying to take in the information. He rubbed at his temples. "Are you absolutely certain in your findings, Skye-dono?"
There was a flicker in her eyes; the emphasis on her honorific title denoted the seriousness of the situation at hand. She set her jaw, and matched his expression. "I am. Everything I've told you is in these files. You can call up Agent Lang to check. And there's probably more in what we've just gone through."
"I see," he muttered. He cast a look out the window; the sun was beginning to set. "This places us in a dilemma."
"You want me to help walk you through it?"
"Please. Seeing as we're just talking possibilities, we could each profess whatever we like," Simon moved to retrieve a scrap piece of paper from his bin and smoothed it out onto his desk. With a marker pen he drew some boxes and an arrow on it, and Skye shifted her binder, moving to stand closer to him, all-ears.
"Returning to our conference last week, we hypothesised that the victim met his untimely end for he was intimately aware of Borginia's war crimes. It may have simply been the case that he was regarded as a pesky lawyer poking his nose into the affairs of others."
He turned back to face her, a pensive expression on her face. She tugged at a strand of hair. "...It wouldn't be unusual. But that just—It seems off. Like, something's missing."
"Precisely. Here we have six murders; six barristers who, we are to assume, through their work, put Borginia's nose out of joint. That would be motive enough for murder. However, if we are to involve their nationalities…"
He trailed off, mind racing with theories, possibilities, ideas. He tapped at the paper. In a low voice, he added, "We must first ascertain whether or not these barristers were killed as a result of their work or otherwise."
Skye raised an eyebrow. "What would 'otherwise' mean here?"
His mien darkened. "Other...more nefarious purposes, say, to be played as pawns or scapegoats in a wider conflict. And I very much would wish to be proven wrong in this regard, Biscuits. So, I ask, have you been able to glean any further details about those murders? "
A grimace. "I wasn't able to get access to the autopsy reports. But Agent Lang did say they were all stabbed, with signs of foul play."
A deafening silence fell on them, broken by their whistling inhales and exhales. Behind them, the orange hues of the Los Angeles sunset had morphed into mute pink and purple tones. Simon crossed his arms.
"...I fear, in that case, this is not the work of a mere serial killer operating across time zones, but an institutional attack intended to cut down those that oppose the current regime in Borginia. Not to mention, the potential to destabilise the region..." he trailed off, his eyes meeting hers.
He elaborated on his unspoken thoughts. "All this would indicate that not only has the jurisdiction for these crimes shifted, as we have already noted, but the entire battleground. No longer is it a matter for Interpol, but for the bloody politicians and parliamentarians!"
Yes, that sounded about right. Dread grew in the pit of his stomach, and he drew in shaky breath.
"...To this end, we had better raise the matter with Edgeworth-dono, lest we get too ahead of ourselves."
They exchanged solemn looks, before they hurriedly grabbed their belongings, and marched out of the office. As he took the stairs two by two, hearing Skye's footfalls behind him, a small question niggled Simon in the back of his mind.
Had this all been the calm before the storm?
They weren't immediately able to relay their concerns and findings to the chief prosecutor. However, after a discussion with Ms Fright, the delicate nature of their predicament had warranted them a quick email response from him and a kick up the priority ladder.
And so, Friday afternoon found the two of them seated beside each other in Edgeworth's office. Skye had taken charge of the meeting, in her capacity as lead investigator, with Simon interjecting here and there. Thankfully Edgeworth had managed to assure them, in no uncertain terms, that he would look into the matter and see what he could do to help them in their investigation. Until then, they had to wait it out and pursue other significant lines of inquiry.
With that, and the work week drawing to a close, they decided to momentarily set aside the case. Skye had gone back to the precinct to close her lower-level cases, whereas he had decided to tend to his emails.
The press emails had significantly reduced over the last couple of weeks, so there were only one or two emails Simon had to properly curate to some junior prosecutors. He had never seen hide nor hair from these colleagues, though they seemed to want for his expertise in criminal psychology and obscure aspects of legalese. He was happy to indulge, if it meant taking his mind off his own work matters, though it did remind him of his… isolated approach to work.
Maybe when he was rid of this Phantom affair he would find the time to be able to forge connections with his subordinates; bar Edgeworth, he was sure some of them had been around since he had first made his debut.
Once he'd sent his professional opinions out, he decided to save his paperwork for next week and set about packing away his belongings into his satchel, before he left the office.
En route home Simon attempted a mental list of things to do over the weekend. He supposed he ought to really get on with decorating the flat, now that he'd made Aura aware of his efforts, and perhaps try and unwind, though he did not hold out much hope for the latter. Not to mention, he noted with a grimace, he still had messages to respond to.
Ah well, at least there were some leftovers in the fridge for his dinner and he could catch up on some Steel Samurai reboots. That sounded like a plan.
What Simon did not anticipate when he got into the flat was a visitor.
"Kee-eeeee-ar!"
A harsh cry sounded out for a couple of seconds followed by the fluttering of wings, and a pair of talons dug into his messy mane.
For the first time in weeks — no, months — his posture relaxed and his tired, exhausted features softened.
"Hello you," he greeted, addressing his avian companion with raised eyebrows and a wide affectionate smile.
He felt his hair tug and pull as Taka settled into his 'bird's nest'. "What brings you to my lodgings?" he asked, tiptoeing around the flat to take a seat on the threadbare sofa.
Contrary to popular belief, Taka was his first and only fine-feathered companion. It had been a friendship first forged in his late teens the summer before he was set to attend university; he had partnered with a master falconer, partly because his parents had forced him out of the house to spend his time in nature, and partly because he always had an affinity for animals despite being a terrible one to name them. Aura would never let him live down the time his ten-year-old self decided to name their new family cat 'Neko-sama'; they did eventually call her 'Catpernicus' after the mathematician Copernicus, which was no better.
Despite all these years of training and raising Taka, Simon hardly knew how he'd managed to survive the trials and tribulations of modern life with its vehicles and electrical cables. To say nothing of the fact that ninety-percent of his avian companions did not live to sexual maturity.
In response, Taka preened his feathers. Simon rolled his shoulders, careful not to disturb the bird.
"Incidentally…" he began in a low but gentle tone, as he began to remove his boots and coat, "I am reminded of my intentions to provide you with a new kerchief, given the unsuitability of your current one."
He stifled a yawn as he tried to loosen his tie. What a horrible week it had been.
"However, I'm afraid my fatigue is getting the better of me, so you shall have to wait till it be morrow. In the meantime, I expect you to earn your keep and not sully my lodgings with your dinner."
A caw.
"Good."
That was another thing he would have to place on his weekend agenda. Not that he minded; it would be an excuse to keep him busy, as well as to properly clean out the storage closets before he embarked on any decorating. Aura did say she hadn't want for anything at their last meeting, though the look she had given him and the manner in which she had fidgeted begged to differ.
And thus, Saturday was taken up in its entirety with tackling the cupboards in search of any skeletons of the past, in sweatpants and a ratty old university t-shirt.
He began with the closets in the hallway closest to the door; he had made a start here last weekend, pulling out boxes of his old clothes that Aura had packed away after his incarceration. He couldn't recall, much like the details of the funeral, whether she had mentioned what she had done with his possessions; if she had, he probably would have told her to give them all away and she would have defied him, owing to her stubborn desire to prove his innocence.
Stubborn, and yet… here he was, heart beating and brain functioning.
Simon gingerly took out the musty old cardboard boxes and set them all in a row on the ground, ready to examine them. Though this time there would be no one to aid him in his endeavours, and no bonding moments; he was entirely left to his own thoughts.
Aura hadn't labelled anything in her grief-addled state, so he was forced to rip open the festering wounds. He pulled a long box towards him and carefully opened it along the seams.
He wasn't prepared for what would greet him.
His mentor's old clothes; yukata, haori and kosode in blues, greens and yellows. He swallowed, and placed a gentle hand on them, feeling the silk fabric between his fingers. Such beautiful, bespoke patterns; although Simon could hardly remember much about her, he could at least recall how handsome she had looked in them.
Simon carefully folded the clothes back into box, and moved onto the next oblong parcel.
If the first box had been difficult, then the second one was worse; Metis' wedding kimono, complete with tsunokakushi stared up at him.
She must have begun wedding preparations before...
Simon smoothed the fabric, but his hands were shaky, and his jaw clenched. He swallowed the lump in his throat. He could remember their engagement announcement; it had been an unusually cold April evening, and Aura had popped the question. A bitter smile traced his features; how happy she had been, how happy they had all been, at the talk of weddings and of combining English and Japanese traditions…
Simon opened up another box in an attempt to distract himself. He supposed he ought to stop altogether but a nagging thought poked in his head: he had to soldier on, if he was to work through his grief somehow.
Another few boxes — all Metis' old things that he barely registered in his mind — before he found the perfect distraction. A small smile formed on his lips as he turned the blue paisley neck scarf over in his hands. Yes, Taka would like this. Simon scrambled for the kitchen, a harsh whistle emitting from between his lips.
It didn't take long for Taka to reappear on his windowsill. "Right then, let us see if this appeals to you," he murmured, trying to restrain the shakiness of his vocal cords. He brought his fingers to the hawk's neck to remove the old scarf and secure the new kerchief.
Taka hopped around the kitchen counter, looking somewhat confused. "Do you like it?" Simon asked with a concerned frown.
He cawed, and perched himself on Simon's shoulder; a positive response. "Good."
There was perhaps more he wanted to say to the bird, perhaps more affection to give, but Taka wasn't interested; he flapped his wings and departed once more. Simon watched as he soared through bright blue skies, the orange hue of sunlight accentuating his tawny feathers and red tail. And for a moment, pride swelled in Simon's chest.
He padded back into the hallway to continue his cleaning efforts. By mid-evening, he had sorted through most of the boxes, setting aside certain items he would keep himself to decorate the flat with; a couple of hanging scrolls, an old kimono, and plenty of photographs. In addition, he had set aside a few other items and wrapped them up in a padded parcel for Aura tomorrow.
Simon went to bed that night with one thought in mind; he would proudly serve his mentor's memory — her death would not be in vain.
"You're not looking much better," Aura greeted, her eyebrows raised.
"I'd wager it is better than looking like human excrement," he replied once he'd made himself comfortable in his plastic seat.
She rolled her eyes, and Simon thought for a moment he could spot the memory of a small smile. "Don't be facetious."
"I am not being facetious," he returned, half-serious, half-teasing.
An exasperated sigh passed her lips. "...How was your week?"
"Busy, as ever. I wouldn't want to bore you with such minutiae."
"No."
And now the predictable silence had settled in, forcing them to fidget awkwardly in their seats and looking around them at the other visitors and inmates.
"I—" Simon began, breaking the nervous quiet. Aura turned to face him. "I don't suppose you've made any acquaintances."
Aura shrugged. "I got someone sent to the SHU last Tuesday."
"Aura—"
"What?" she interrupted. "It's not like you didn't do the same."
He couldn't argue with that, so he kept his mouth shut. Her words had become sharper and more venomous over the years with each passing visit, and he had long since learnt it was best he just listen to what she said.
A sharp inhale. "So you haven't been keeping yourself out of trouble," Simon concluded.
She twirled a strand of her wiry hair around her fingers; the dye was growing out fast by now with the cheap soap. "I don't know what you expected, Simon. I'm in the slammer — shit's bound to happen."
"Hm," he answered dismissively. Then he leaned forward, adding, "Speaking of your current accommodation, I found myself in conversation with a colleague of mine."
An expression of curiosity appeared on her features as she leaned forward and rested her chin in her hand. "Oh? You've got friends now, have you?"
He ignored her remark. "She mentioned she had a sister in here, by the name of Lana Skye."
Aura leaned back, a searching look on her face. "Never heard of her."
Then a small smirk crept up her lips, and her fist connected lightly with his shoulder in a playful punch.
"Why, is my dear baby brother trying to get me a prison wife?"
"Hardly. Merely that—"
She shut him down quickly with a frown. "It's not happening, Simon."
Simon winced inwardly and lowered his head. Of course, that had been stupid of him. He could at least take solace in these bitterly uncomfortable moments, as Aura's native London accent would creep back into her speech.
"...Anyone else drop in on you?" he asked eventually after another predictable period of quiet had passed them.
"No," A yawn. "And the princess hasn't bothered to show her face around these parts."
He nodded slowly, and then with a tentative smile he added, "Well, I brought something for you."
Aura scrunched up her eyebrows, cautious look preceding her. "What is it?"
"A...belated Christmas present, if you will," he muttered. She raised an eyebrow; a skeptical look sat on her face. She watched him pull out a brown package from his satchel and slide it across the table to her. Out of the corner of his eye he could see a guard step closer, a wary look on his face.
Wordlessly, Aura grabbed it, and teared open the seal, unceremoniously dumping the contents onto the table with a clatter; an old handwritten letter, some rather musty engineering books, and a few photographs.
"I was in the midst of my preparations for redecorating the flat, and I thought you might benefits from some of these items, seeing as they're of sentimental value. But I did not know if you wished to wear your ring—"
"Simon?" she interrupted, and he looked up to meet her stony glare. "Shut the fuck up."
A shaky sigh and Aura pinched the bridge of her nose. Her hand pawed at the pictures.
"And just what the fuck am I meant to do with these things? Cry myself a river?" With a brush of her fingers, she shoved the items aside. "Are you taking the piss?"
He opened his mouth to respond but Aura had already continued.
"Are you trying to tell me something, Simon?"
He swallowed the hard lump in his throat, though that did nothing to assuage his fast-beating heart climbing up his chest. He looked away.
She doesn't need to know. She cannot know. She will never know.
"...Because if you are, I'd much rather you spit it out. God knows I've had enough of your shitty twisted games in the past several years."
Underneath the table Simon rubbed at his wrists. Then turning his head to meet her gaze once more, he schooled a reassuring smile onto his face.
In a quiet but confident voice, he said, "There is nothing to tell."
Aura leaned back and crossed her arms, her mouth a thin line.
"Alright. Fine. But that means that if there really is something you want to tell me, you won't get another chance."
She doesn't need to know. She cannot know. She will never know.
He lowered his head, and repeated, "Truly, Aura, there is nothing to tell."
There. The damage had been done.
Another bitter silence, and then an announcement over the tannoy; visiting hours had come to an end, and the inmates were to return to their blocks.
Aura made to stand up. In their last moment of absent conversation, she had cleared up the items and placed them back in the package. Now she held it in her hands gingerly. "I'll keep this on one condition."
Simon tilted his head. The same wary-eyed guard had come a little closer to their space, ready to usher Aura back to the bunks. She ignored him and instead looked down on Simon; though he had surpassed her in height since his pubescent years, she still managed to hold sway over him, still managed to remind him of days when she would stand over him, a veritable giant in clunky boots, chasing him about the garden.
"You bring the ring with you next time."
Before he could respond, she said, "Now scram. Laundry isn't going to do itself."
Edgeworth called him into his office on Monday morning.
"Good morning. Have a seat."
Simon mumbled the greeting back before moving to sit on one of the plush sofas.
Edgeworth, as to be expected, had already prepared for his arrival, and he looked on as his superior poured steaming tea out into the cups — Earl Grey, it seemed, which he did not mind — and set small chocolate biscuits out, before he handed a cup and saucer to Simon.
"Drink, drink," he said encouragingly, and Simon wordlessly accepted it, carefully not to spill any on himself. Did he really look so tired that Edgeworth had noticed? Or was it merely that he was rushed? Simon hoped for the latter.
It was the former.
"...You look pale. Have you been sleeping?"
He looked up. Edgeworth was seated across from him, his own cup and saucer in hand, though that did not detract from the concern that controlled his face; his eyebrows were deeply set into a furrow and the corners of his mouth were turned downwards, almost mournfully.
Simon distracted himself by taking a sip. The heat burned down his throat.
"I have been sleeping relatively well," he assured quietly.
The concern remained. Now Edgeworth's words were low and quiet; uneasy.
"I merely ask, Simon , because I do not wish to see your performance affected."
Simon schooled his features into a wan smile, tilting his head. "You worry yourself to death, Edgeworth-dono. We have discussed this before."
He still hated that honorific, hated that distance, hated that solitude.
"...I am progressing well in my work," he added emphatically.
A tight smile made itself known on Edgeworth's lips.
"I suppose I do worry too much about my subordinates. But, Simon," — he really did like saying his name, didn't he? — "you are allowed to confide in me, should you not be feeling up to it in your work. And if not that, then in someone else. Or at the very least, utilise the resources on the intranet."
Edgeworth eyed him over the rim of his glasses. Despite the grave expression on his face, Simon could see those grey eyes glinting in the sunlight.
"You're a good man, with a good head on your shoulders. It would be a shame to waste such potential."
Simon bowed his head and said nothing. Thank you for your concern.
A sigh passed through Edgeworth's lips, and Simon breathed a mental sigh of relief himself that the conversation had met its end.
"Anyway, I suppose you can deduce why I've called you in here this morning."
Simon cocked an eyebrow, recalling their meeting last week. "You have…tended to the matter? So soon?"
Edgeworth cleared his throat. "After you and Detective Skye came to me with your concerns, I got in touch with Agent Lang and Ms von Karma. We came to the conclusion that, in order to fully grasp the situation at hand, one ought to visit the region at the heart of all this."
"To Borginia?"
He shook his head, and corrected him. "To Cohdopia. I have arranged to meet some individuals there to discuss these matters."
"I see."
"We decided on Cohdopia seeing as a lot of what we're dealing with, on the surface, is heavily linked to it. There are the Cohdopian murder victims, for a start, and plenty of their work pertained to that area. And of course, Erikh Qvinn has demonstrated plenty of links there gleaned from his years of espionage. Furthermore…"
Edgeworth's eyes narrowed, his tone grew grave. "We cannot be entirely sure that the Borginian officials we met were genuine articles."
Simon nodded slowly, taking in the information.
"...In any case, Ms von Karma and I hope that we can gain some insight by being there. At the very least, we will come away with a clearer understanding of the geopolitical situation."
At that, Edgeworth set down his empty cup and saucer. "After all...I have always made it a part of my creed to take everything into account, to inspect every nook and cranny, no matter how insignificant those things may seem. You might be surprised to find out those things may hold the key to the truth."
Simon tilted his head. "Admirable words, Edgeworth-dono. Advice no doubt obtained from your years of sparring on the battlefield."
There was a slightly reminiscent look in those grey eyes. "Yes. My...investigations over the years were very valuable in teaching me to value, above all else, the pursuit of the truth. I hope one day you will come to see what I mean."
Simon drained his cup. He wondered if there was some meaning behind those words. The pursuit of the truth had led him to lies, all carefully crafted under the guise of protecting his niece. Lies he had come to believe for so long.
Ah well, none of that mattered now. Setting down his own empty cup and saucer, he cast aside his thoughts, lifting his head to ask a question. "And when will you be departing for Cohdopia?"
Edgeworth adjusted his glasses. "At the earliest, next week, for a few days. Prosecutor Gavin will take care of matters here while I'm away. I'll keep you updated over email."
That all sounded very well for Simon; that would give him some undisturbed time to interrogate the Phantom and continue to work with Skye over the next week. Of course, in between all that he would have to try and survive another week in his personal life, but...that much was to be expected.
He rose from his seat, brushing off any crumbs that had settled on his trousers. "Likewise, I shall keep you apprised of any matters here."
"Naturally," said Edgeworth with a nod. He rose to his feet as well, and gestured to the exit. "I won't keep you here any longer."
Simon walked to the door, and then, turning the doorknob slightly, he turned back to face Edgeworth.
"Godspeed, sir," he murmured, and took his leave.
The storm had begun to brew.