Trucy is very much knowledgeable about Hotti Clinic. How wouldn't she? She's been here more than enough times already to know most of the funny and cool spots to hang out in when things seem desperate. She can even guide you to the nearest water fountain if you ever need to, especially if it's an urgency!

Thing is, as much as she's always worried when her father gets injured and has to be sent here, she's never quite felt her heart beat inside her throat like it's currently busy doing. Nothing could have quite prepared her for the intensity of the concern she's feeling at the moment, truth be told – she wasn't old enough to realize people were almost dying, back then.

Both Daddy and she are quiet. They've been like this ever since leaving the office. In the bus, in the corridors, in the waiting room, they were silent as tombs – the only words they've uttered was Daddy asking for where Apollo was. The receptionist told us the staff was still working on him, so they were sent in that room where, surrounded by nobody but the ambient noise of the clinic, they wait. And wait. And wait.

It's in this sort of moments that Trucy wishes she were stronger than she really is. As resilient as she's trying to be here, the weight of her fault is crushing her shoulders and is threatening to make her collapse. She should've seen it coming, all things considered, taking in account all the little things from the past few days that were giving the truth away – things she didn't pay attention to until it was too late. She's a terrible little sister.

There's, however, only so long before she starts sniffling, feeling tears come up again, which she fails to stop this time before she gets handed a tissue.

"Are you okay, Trucy?" Daddy asks with sadness in his voice. She can sense it easily when something's wrong.

"Do you think that… Polly's gonna be okay…?"

He doesn't reply, instead letting a threatening silence settle. It's only after her anxiety worsens that she finally hears words that aren't hers.

"…He's got to. I doubt someone like him would let that kill them."

It sounds like even her dad is trying to cheer himself up, to give himself hope.

"…you've got to be right."

She leans against him as she blows her nose in the tissue. In the meantime, she searches things on her phone, frantically typing away, texting friends so she doesn't feel too lonely while she's stuck hearing noises that will never comfort her. She wants to forget the distant yells of nurses informing each other, the staff rushing people on gurneys whenever something has gone wrong, the numerous patients' relatives hanging around the place in a similar fashion to them.

It'd seem like Daddy has noticed her fingers feverishly browsing her phone and her eyes reading the lines quicker than she's ever read anything before. She knows she actually can't do a thing about the situation at hand, and yet she finds some sort of solace in trying to. It makes her feel more at ease, she supposes.

"What are you searching for?" He suddenly speaks up again, taking her off her screen for a moment.

"I was searching for stuff about that pneumonia thing the doctor mentioned. I've never heard of it before, so…"

"And what did you get?"

She gulps, throat knotting.

"Well… I'm mostly getting this is a very, very nasty thing to have… I-it sounds like you're drowning from the inside."

Daddy, after looking up, lowers her phone, prompting her to lock it and, as such, finally unglue her eyes from the screen.

"Someone's here for us."

Sure thing, they're somewhat in luck: a nurse soon approaches them, asking if they're here for Polly, to which she immediately replies, jumping out of her seat. Grabbing Daddy's hand, they follow the woman to a room, whose nameplate she quickly reads, only for the realization to sink even deeper and make her heart ache: this is the real deal, with no denial possible.

The air is hot yet cold, leaving frostbites on his skin. The place is dark, sunken in black with nothing in sight to describe, so the only thing left to focus on are the distant noises he can hear. It'd seem like he's underwater, which is a terrible thing, because he can't swim – but the feeling is too familiar to ignore not to at least consider the possibility. His chest feels heavy, too heavy perhaps.

It does feel like he may be drowning: breathing is painful and his lungs are filled with something. What, it doesn't know, but again, he's lived through that before. Still, something's off about that guess of his: if he's drowning, then why is the only thing that seems muffled by the water sounds? Breathing may be painful, it's not as egregious as helplessly gulping water until he loses consciousness. In fact, it'd seem like he's regaining it after a long, long sleep. Maybe he did forget to get out of bed this morning… But then, why are there people around him, talking, it'd seem? That's odd? Maybe he should take a peek, as much as he wants to keep his heavy eyelids closed and turn to go back to sleep…

A strong press on his hand finally gets Apollo to focus enough strength and to open his eyes, immediately regretting it when the light attacks them and causes his retinae to burn.

The first thing he can actually distinguish is Trucy's face bouncing over his, her hat nowhere to be seen, her expression almost unreadable to his eyes that can barely register anything. His lungs come back for a revenge before he can see any more, guess anything else, piercing through his chest once again. He didn't miss that feeling – oh, crap, that's right! He's supposed to be at work!

"Stay down!" A familiar, high-pitched voice says before he feels hands on his shoulders nailing him down to the mattress. He hasn't even had the time to try getting up.

He slowly follows her with his gaze, only now noticing the breathing mask on his face that he keeps coughing into. He can't describe anything when his eyes won't work properly, so he can only focus on what he feels: terrible. It's somehow even worse than when he first woke up, and judging by the sounds he can now understand, he isn't home, or even in the office. This is Hotti Clinic, isn't it?

The hand holding is must be Trucy's. Her fingers are firmly clutching his as if she were holding onto him for dear life, which is kind of weird since they're in a hospital of all places. Mr Wright must be nearby too, but since he can't see very far from his spot either, he may never know. Well, that is, until his voice reaches his ears.

"Welcome back amongst us, Apollo."

He won't lie, he's got a ton of questions to ask and no answer to any of them. Why are they here? Why is in a hospital bed? How did they get here? Why is his boss in what can only be his new, shiny hospital room? That makes zero sense. Nothing about this makes sense, and yet, words don't exit his throat, just won't – coughing fits do, however. That's just great. He really needed that.

There is an IV of… something firmly implanted inside his left wrist, weird beeping noises everywhere, including a heart monitor if that specific beeping sound doesn't mistake him. Huh, that's weird: he could've sworn these monitors shouldn't be beeping this fast. That one's got to be broken. Or maybe he's the broken one, because his body can't decide if it wants to feel hot or cold and violent shivers keep sending him for a ride.

"How're you feeling, Polly?" Trucy asks with a voice loud enough to cause his head to rattle. Please stop screaming, please stop screaming…

"…I'm fine," he replies with a groggy, raspy voice that causes him to cough for another half an hour. He's going to choke on his own coughing fit before he realizes he's going to die from something as stupid being unable to afford cough drops.

"You're clearly not," Mr Wright chimes in. He's now by the other side of the bed, still wearing the suit he wears when standing in court. "Be honest, Apollo."

"Uh… confused…?"

"As I expected. I suppose we have some explaining to do."

Yes, yes you do, Phoenix Wright.

The grip on his hand strengthens, prompting him to glance at Trucy, revealing just how concerned she seems. Compared to her usual smiling composure, this is disturbing to say the least.

"You passed out while we were shopping for my show. I brought you back to the Agency, and we called a doctor there, and she told us to bring you to a hospital asap," she explains. Despite being right next to her, her cape brushing against the mattress, he still has a hard time hearing her. "Since then, we've been waiting for you to wake up! You really scared us, Polly!"

"Needless to say, you're not coming to work for a while," Mr Wright adds, adding the last nail to the coffin. Great. Where is he going to get money, now?

His boss walks across the room, stopping behind Trucy. He can't not cough into that mask, can he? If he didn't feel so weak, he could just take it off and be free – but it sounds like a terrible idea, all things considered. Breathing shouldn't be this difficult.

"You've been in and out of consciousness for most of the day," Mr Wright continues. "It's a little terrifying, to be honest."

"You've… been here… for that long…?"

"Well, I had to attend some classes, and Daddy had to meet a client, but we've taken turns! Plus, there's always a nurse nearby. Visiting hours are gonna be over soon, though…"

That's awfully nice of them. Too nice, actually. Too saccharine. It's fishy. Better remain on track.

"Do you…" He loudly coughs again, "know when…", and again, "when I'll…", and again, "I'll…", and again…

"Don't overdo it, Polly! You've just woken up!"

"…go home…" and again, "…to work…", and again…

The only answer he gets are two glares judging him very, very severely.

"You've got pneumonia, Apollo. You should be thinking about everything but defending."

"You don't even have a case going," Trucy chimes in, "so you can rest as much as you need! Plus, I think you really deserve it, after all your hard work at the Agency!"

Wait, there's something else that's bothering him – and he knows just what.

"Trucy… your magic show…? What… about it…?"

It'd seem like she's forgotten about it herself, considering how surprised she looks.

"I cancelled it, dummy! Who do you think I am?"

Well… a teenage magician who was, until this morning, dragging him around town to buy props for her show? Has that changed while he was sleeping and he's not aware of it? Holy Mother, his head is pounding more than enough as it is, so spare him the surprise plot twists and revelations…

"Why…?"

"Because you're very sick, Polly! I'm too worried to do a proper show!"

Aw, that's… wait, he's called it "awfully nice" already, hasn't he?

"You can drop the strong face, you know, Apollo."

Mr Wright's words have the strangest ring to them. It's not a "strong face", it's being professional when your mentor-slash-boss and his daughter-slash-your-workmate are coming to visit you in the hospital. You'd think Mr Wright of all people would know that already, but it'd seem like that isn't quite the case… and that's despite what he's heard about the Deauxnim case years ago.

All he's been trying to do is to keep some shred of dignity. Listen, he passed out in front of Trucy, and probably in public too, he doesn't need the additional humiliating feeling of being the cause of her show getting cancelled and having wasted his boss's precious time. Forgive him for not wanting to be a burden. Forgive him for wanting to work and earn his own money.

…Polly?

The thing is, he'd have already signed himself out and scouted for a new client if everything didn't hurt. His chest is on fire, his throat feels like it just came out of surgery, his head is thoroughly killing him, his ears are buzzing more than spring bees getting busy over a meadow of flowers. This isn't a condition to fight in, of course he knows it, but… but that doesn't mean he shouldn't at least try.

He wonders where his bracelet has gone… Not too far, he hopes. That's kind of the only thing he has left that gives him the idea that, once upon a time, he had a family. He'd be a bit… destroyed, if his bracelet weren't here anymore.

Poooollyyyy?

Distant voices are calling to him, from far away (he supposes, since it's so hard to tell, at the moment, with his stupid underwater-tier hearing skills). He believes he can see the Judge on the other side of the courtroom swinging his gavel, pronouncing verdicts he can't decipher at people he doesn't know a thing about, and he wonders how he ended up there. Where is his client? Who is his client? What crime are they accused of? Where's Trucy? Where's the Court Record? Please tell him he didn't forget it at home, next to that pile of manga he really needs to shelf back instead of pretending like it's "research material".

It's fine. He's fine. The record is in his suitcase, as usual. He's had his training in the morning to psych up and get an innocent person finally considered as such again. It'll all be fine, as usual, and even if he stumbles a little, then Trucy will be here to make a little remark on something and get his mind jogging again. It's fine, it's all fine, it's always been fine, and there's no reason why it'll change. Maybe, if he' shows he's strong enough, Mom will finally come back from wherever she is – from death, from Khura'in, from whatever other country she may be in, from hiding from the rest of society. And, even if she's not, then he'll be fine to fend off for himself, as he's had to do for so long –

– shit, is the ceiling about to crash onto them? He's got to warn them—

"Apollo, there is no ceiling about to crash onto us," Mr Wright's voice breaks him out of the water, for a moment. How did he know that he was seeing that? And, might he add, the ceiling is still heading their way, so it's also a big fat lie.

"Daddy's right, it's still in its place," Trucy adds as she looks up to check, before looking back at him. "Your fever hasn't broken yet, has it?"

What fever? He's fine.

"What do you mean, "I'm fine"?!" She sounds more surprised than angry, but the undertones are telling. "Polly, you… You think the ceiling is falling onto us, you've been babbling nonsense about being fine, and now you don't even remember your fever?!"

"Trucy, I'm afraid Apollo's brain must be frying like a sunny-side up at the moment."

Oh, so neither of them believes him. Fine, it's fine, he's fine with it, he'll just find work somewhere else, a place where he can work when he allegedly has such a high fever –

"I swear to God, Apollo Justice, if you even dare getting up from that bed and race to the reception desk to sign yourself out of this, I'll make sure you get back in there asap."

…Got it: Pissing Mr Wright off will bring him nowhere good. It also seems like he's just been babbling to himself all this time, in the open, like a moron. His case keeps getting richer. This is fine, so fine… just fine…

"Wait, Polly, are you… crying?"

When his eyes meet with Trucy's, his vision is blurry, and he wonders if it's because of his fatigue, the fever coming back for a revenge, or just the tears he can now feel coming? Why does it seem like anything he does, or even feels, has a delay to it? That surely can't be normal.

"I don't know," he replies with a voice he can't even hear himself, butchered beyond recognition by a throat that won't stop itching until it cuts itself. "Wish I knew… Wish I'd just… be fine…"

Before he can put back on the professional persona, hide his feelings behind a mask of appropriate behaviour, the floodgates shatter against the weight of everything suddenly crashing onto him, breaking his last resolve. There's no use in trying: every single thing he wants to think about just escapes his mouth instead. Goddammit

It's just… He's so goddamn tired. Every single of his muscles is aching in some way or the other, even his lungs struggling to fulfil their job and his heart that, he can sense, pumps way too fast and it makes the feeling in his throat unbearably intense to behold. In the end, all he actually wants is to sleep off the fever, the misery and the shame away, wake up when his sun shines again and when his skin isn't burning ice floe; but may he be damned, because he needs to work, to assure his own back all the time, and there's nobody to watch out for himself in this world but himself! There's no foster father to save him from rapid waters and no Clay – too busy with his exams, too busy becoming the astronaut of his dreams to pay attention to much of anything else – to ask him about it.

The people watching over him right now shouldn't even be there and, like his original "mentor", they'll probably dispose of him at some point, or treat him like trash at some point, and –

As tears roll down his face, Trucy is gently stroking her handkerchief against his skin, a melancholic expression on a face that deserves so much better than this sort of dejected looks. Ah, crap, he shouldn't be crying like a fountain, now, he's going to make her sad, and then Mr Wright will be rightfully pissed at him, not to mention that making Trucy Wright sad is considered a capital crime around here.

"It's okay," she tells him with a small smile when she notices, "you can cry if you want, Polly."

"B-but…"

"No buts. Just rest, and cry if you need to."

His bout of crying, and the weird feeling of relief washing over him when hearing these words, are what finally take him back into the black limbo of sleep.