"Prosecutor Blackquill, sir?"

Simon Blackquill looks up from the form he's filling – after-trial paperwork is by far what he likes the least in his work, but there seems to be no escaping it – to see Detective Gumshoe standing in the doorway with a folder until his arm. He looks all the world like a beaten dog... and he has a good reason to be.

"You were supposed to be here a hour ago," Blackquill points out, gesturing for him to come inside. "I hope you have a good explanation this time."

"It's... it's about my wife, sir."

Blackquill holds back a sigh. That's not the first time he hears something along those lines: Gumshoe's wife seems to have the remarkable talent to attract trouble like a magnet. He can't even count how many times something happened to her in the two and something years he and Gumshoe have worked together – but somehow she always seems to come out of all of it with a smile, at least according to Gumshoe; if true, that's a trait he can admire. It reminds him of Athena, in a way.

"I see. I hope it was nothing serious," he says, and he blinks when Gumshoe's shoulders drop even more.

"She... she was accused of murder, sir. In fact, you're supposed to... well, these are the documents for... for the prosecution, sir," he says, putting the folder on his desk. Blackquill stares up at him for several moments.

"Are you telling me that I'm to prosecute your wife for murder?" he asks quietly.

Gumshoe's hands ball into fists. "She didn't do it, pal! I mean, Prosecutor Blackquill! She's innocent! There was a mistake!" he exclaims, and he sounds truly desperate to convince him. Not that convincing him is needed: it's the court he needs to convince.

Blackquill reaches to take the folder. "If there was indeed a mistake-"

"There was! Maggey would never-"

"Silence. Interrupt me once again, Detective, and your wife will have to face widowhood along with murder charges," Blackquill cuts him off, causing him to wince and shut his mouth. "As I was saying, if indeed there is a mistake, then the trial will uncover the truth. I trust she already chose her defense attorney?"

Gumshoe nods, and this time a smile makes it to his face. "Oh, sure! Mr. Wright helped her out of some sticky situations already. He's going to be her lawyer. Again."

That causes Blackquill to smirk. It's been a while since last time he and Wright crossed their blades; he's been wanting to do it again for a while, actually. What better chance than this? "Very well, then. If your wife is indeed innocent, I'm certain the trial will reveal as much. If you believe in her and her defense, then you shouldn't worry. Cease your moping."

The detective nods and smiles again. "I... sure I believe in her, pal. I mean, sir. She wouldn't hurt a fly!"

Blackquill hums and opens the folder to look at the evidence list. It isn't very long, as apparently the circumstances in which the murder seems to have occurred is in itself the most damning evidence. "Do tell, who'll assist Wright as the defense?"

"Miss Cykes said she'd do it. Justice has a trial of his own the same day. I think the Wright kid will be helping him out for that one."

"Hmph. I hope for his sake she won't decide to make evidence disappear again."

Gumshoe chuckles. "Well... it was just an accident, sir. She made it appear again after a few tries."

"Still a waste of time we could have done without. It makes you wonder how come she wasn't held in contempt of the court," Blackquill mutters, but he leaves it at that. Holding anything at all against Trucy Wright is surprisingly difficult.

"I think Mr. Wright's first assistant was, once. Mr. Edgeworth's life was at stake and she refused to back off."

"Maya Fey? Somehow I'm not surprised," Blackquill comments, still looking through the evidence. He doesn't know her very well, having met her only a few times... but one of those times she did him and Athena the greatest favor either of them could possibly ask for. They had wanted, needed to speak with her once again, and Maya Fey had made it possible. Despite the tears running down her face, the smile Athena wore that day was the brightest he had ever seen on her until then.

And when Maya Fey had accepted to do the same for Aura, to let his sister see her again, Blackquill had known that nothing he could possibly do in his life would be enough to repay the spirit medium for that gift.

"Oh, and I almost forgot," Gumshoe is saying, in a much better mood than before. "Miss Cykes says you should go with them for some noodles after the trial is over, since she's sure they'll clear Maggey's name. She says it will be on Mr. Wright. Not sure Mr. Wright knows that yet, though."

Blackquill allows himself to smile. "I can't see why not. I hope you and your wife will be able to join. Now, I want you to go back to the crime scene and keep looking for anything that may be relevant. And remember," he adds, looking back up at Gumshoe. "I expect you to treat this like you'd treat any other case. If your wife is innocent, the truth will come out. You have my word on it. Don't do anything foolish. Don't compromise yourself for nothing," he warns. "I'll have no mercy on you if you do."

Gumshoe straightens himself and nods. "Yes, sir! It'll be the most thorough investigation you'll ever see!"

In justice we trust!

The sudden memory causes Blackquill to freeze for a moment, then he clenches his jaw and looks away. It doesn't happen often anymore, but there are still times when he almost expects to hear that motto, that voice again; there are times when he catches himself almost calling for Detective Fulbright rather than Gumshoe.

This is ridiculous, of course: Fulbright is dead, and it was never him he worked with. It was the Phantom, and the Phantom – Robert LaRoche, he tells himself, that was his name and he will remember it until the day he draws his last breath – is gone from this world as well, executed for his crimes.

Blackquill will never hear that voice or those words again, he knows as much... but it's taking his mind an aggravatingly long time to catch up with the fact. "Then go already," he snaps at Gumshoe, and he doesn't even watch him leave: he simply turns his attention back to the evidence list, trying to figure out how on Earth could Gumshoe's wife get herself in such trouble to begin with.

"Are we there yet?"

"No."

"Are we there yet?"

"No."

"Are we there yet?"

"No."

"Are we there yet?"

The Phantom rolls his eyes, but doesn't turn his gaze away from the plane's window. Not that there is much to see aside from the plane's wing lights and, occasionally, some city's lights down below. "Are you going to keep this up for much longer?" he asks with the same flat tone he's used until now.

The woman beside him shrugs, absentmindedly running a hand through short auburn hair. He only asked her one time how he should call her between assignments or whenever there was no need to use someone else's name, and that one time she had called herself 'Yatagarasu' before adding something about 'one stubborn young woman who may not agree'. He asked no more questions, and in time that's how he's come to think of her – the Yatagarasu.

"As long as it takes to get a reaction out of you," she says.

"Saying 'no' is a reaction."

"You're no fun. The worst possible company on long flights, actually."

"People are supposed to sleep through night flights."

"You're awake."

"Thanks to you."

"As if. You never sleep during flights."

"I wonder why."

"Aw, you know you love it. You wouldn't have married me otherwise," the Yatagarasu says, her voice suddenly sickly sweet. He turns to glance at her, and he's not at all surprised to see she's grinning widely, barely holding back from laughing... as she did laugh when they were told they were to pose as a married couple for their return to the States. It's not the first time they need to take on the role of the married couple, but she still seems to find the thought hilarious. He doesn't, which seems to add to her amusement.

"If you're going to keep us both awake, we may as well get something to drink," he mutters, and reaches to press the button to call for a flight attendant. He'd appreciate some cognac, truth to be told, but the man whose skin he's wearing is more of a wine person, so wine it will be.

She grins again. "Sounds good. Champagne for me, darling," she says, blowing a kiss at him before bringing a hand up to her mouth to muffle her snicker. He has to wonder, not for the first time, how old she exactly is. That's something he never bothered to ask, and nothing he plans on asking at all – even though he knows for a fact that she must be at least forty. She doesn't act like it, that's for certain.

"Hello. Did you call for assistance?" a flight attendant asks, coming to stand next to the seat the Yatagarasu is on. She gives her a wide smile.

"Oh, yes. We would like some red wine and champagne, the best you have. The company he works for is covering all expenses, so we should take advantage of it. Isn't that right, sweetpea?" she chirps at him. He can tell her face must be hurting with the strain it's taking her to keep a straight face. He has to admit that 'the company he works for' is quite an interesting way to refer to the government of United States.

The Phantom pastes an adoring smile on his borrowed face – because the man whose skin he's wearing absolutely adores his vapid little wife – and nods. "Of course, schnookums," he says, because he knows that's what the man he's impersonating would say. The man he's impersonating is also an utter imbecile, but that's nothing he can allow himself to change.

Sometimes he wonders if there will ever be one time before the end of his life – which, statistically speaking, isn't likely to be very long in his line of work – when he'll be allowed to impersonate a normal, functional human being with no ridiculous quirks and catchphrases. Someday, maybe. But not today.

"Pffffft…!"

The flight attendant blinks, clearly taken aback by the uproarious laughter that leaves his 'wife'. He doesn't bat an eye, however: he's far too used to those fits of laughter. He's been the receiving end of them more times than he cares to count in the past couple of years, often at the most inopportune moments.

He gives the flight attendant an apologetic smile. "We had a few drinks at the airport already. To pass time as we waited, you see," he says. It's not true, of course, but what else is he supposed to come up with to explain the fact his 'wife' is currently howling with laughter?

Thankfully, it seems to work: the flight attendant asks no more questions and just nods dutifully before she's off to get them the drinks they asked for. The Phantom sighs and gives a sheepish smile to a couple of people who are glaring at them from their seats – people who don't appreciate being awakened by uproarious laughter, he assumes – before turning back to the woman he has the misfortune to have as a partner. Thankfully, her laughter has died down to a snicker now.

"Do you have any more ideas to draw everyone's attention on us?" he asks. The plane is far from crowded and no one is sitting close enough to them to hear what they're talking about – but everyone in the plane can hear her laughter just fine and clearly don't appreciate it.

She frowns as though in deep thought. "We could set some snakes loose on the plane."

"Do you happen to have a live snake hidden somewhere on your person?"

She grins. "Do you?"

He gives her a blank gaze. "I'm going to pretend I didn't hear that."

"Another way to be sure we get everyone's attention would be-"

"Forget I even asked," he cuts her off. She grins at him.

"Want me to stop?" she asks, shooting a glance past him and to the window.

The Phantom sighs. "I take it you want the window seat."

"That would be nice. See, you're getting better. Get up, honey," she adds, mockingly blowing him a kiss. The Phantom chooses to ignore her and just stands, allowing her to take the window seat and sitting down in her place. There is nothing interesting to see outside, but even if there was... well, he doubts the most breathtaking sight in the world would be worth a minute of the annoyance she can cause him.

Besides, it's not like any sight the world many offer can actually take his breath away after all.

Blackquill.

The thought is like a sudden, sharp stab through his chest. He's quick to shut out the thought, of course, because thinking about Simon Blackquill will do him no good. He left him behind along with the identity he struggled so hard to find two years ago, and he won't allow himself to linger on the thought. What he has left of his identity is a self, a core he's determined to never lose again; what he has left of Blackquill is the knowledge he's safe and free, that he believes him gone and that he's picked his life back up and moved on.

That is enough; it must be enough. There is no point in dwelling in it: he's history to Blackquill, and Blackquill must be history to him as well. Their paths are never to cross again.

"Are we there yet?" Her voice snaps him from his thoughts and, for once, he's almost thankful. Almost.

"Didn't you say you'd stop if I gave you the window seat?" he mutters.

"I said I'd stop drawing other passengers' attention on us, schnookums. Not that I'd stop talking."

The Phantom sighs, reaching up to rub his eyes. He's wearing no gloves, the scar on the back of his right hand hidden by a patch of fake skin. "I'm not paid enough for this."

"Well, we're not paid at all. Getting to stay alive is our payment."

"I maintain my point," he says before smiling at the flight attendant who's just now coming back with the drinks they asked for. The Yatagarasu doesn't press the point, thankfully, and there are few minutes of welcomed silence as they both just take a few swigs of their drinks. The Phantom would still prefer cognac – sometimes the mere fact he actually has likes and dislikes that belong to no one else whose face he's worn still stuns him – but the wine is passable, too.

"Here. Do your homework."

The Phantom blinks when a tablet is put on his knees. "What is that?"

"The headquarters forwarded us some information on YggdraCorp. Nothing much yet, but I figure you'd like to get a general idea of what it's about before we're off to find out what's going on with it."

He raises an eyebrow. "What makes you think we'll get the assignment?"

"Why shouldn't we? We already got this far. They may as well let us get to the bottom of this."

"Whatever this is supposed to be," the Phantom says, picking up the tablet and giving a quick look at the screen. There is some information on the kind of work the company does, its known connections and achievements. "The deeper we go, the less we know what this is about."

She doesn't try to argue that point, which isn't surprising: all he's doing is stating a fact.

At first they had a dead politician in the Republic of Reijam. Natural death, apparently: he was found in his locked bedroom without a single wound on his body... as far it was possible to tell. The body was at an advanced stage of decay, which had made the autopsy quite difficult. But nothing that could resemble a wound had been found, and no poison of any kind was detected by any of the tests performed. It could have probably been written off as heart failure – something the Phantom considers medical speak for 'we have no clue what the hell even happened' – hadn't it been for the tiny, insignificant detail that the man had been alive and well only three days before his body was found.

And there was simplyno way for a body to decay that much in a matter of three days.

The Phantom has no idea why the government of the United States would be interested in the matter – such information is on a need-to-know basis, and to do his job he certainly doesn't need to know – but there has to be something, since both him and the Yatagarasu were sent to infiltrate and gather information right away.

The first hypothesis was that of a body double, someone who went around posing as the deceased for at least three weeks prior to the body's discovery. The Yatagarasu had found it hilarious, and the irony they were the ones chosen to investigate the possibility hadn't escaped the Phantom.

However, it hadn't taken them long to realize it wasn't the case. The man had cut his hand with a letter opener only a few days before the body was found – another detail she had found especially hilarious and that had made the back of his right hand itch – and DNA analysis showed without a trace of doubt that the blood belonged to the deceased. The thought it may be fabricated evidence did cross their mind, but further analysis shot down that theory as well: the blood had been fresh and in no way preserved.

While they failed to find out how a such thing was possible, they found... something among the man's files that caught their eye: ties to several clinics, ties he had done his utmost to keep hidden. It was a lead, they supposed, the only lead, and after reporting about their discovery they were sent to infiltrate in one clinic each. The Yatagarasu was disappointed by the decision, claiming she was curious to see him dressed up as a nurse – and was later disappointed to find out he was to pose as a security guard; one less excuse for her to laugh for no good reason – but there wasn't much she could do about it.

She was the first one to find something, a few days afterward, and things from there had been... hectic. What looked like cases of medical malpractice brushed under the rug by the clinics' management had started to look like something far more sinister.

"They've been experimenting on their patients," the Phantom had finally muttered as the looked through the e-mail of one of the clinics' lead doctors, one Anne Thrax. He could tell, from the look the Yatagarasu gave him, that he was speaking aloud what they had both been thinking. "Deliberately. The management must know; they wouldn't have covered this much without questions otherwise."

"Experimenting what, though?"

"Unless you're hoping to dream the answer tonight, that's what we have to work on next."

"Assuming they let us keep going. They may decide this is nothing of interest for them."

"Nothing of interest? Experiments on humans in clinics with dubious ties to a politician who recently died in unexplained circumstances and whose death we were sent to look into?"

"... Fair point. Exciting, isn't it?"

He didn't precisely find any of it exciting – it was his work, nothing more and nothing less – so he hadn't felt much of anything when they were told to continue with their work there. Some more investigation had led them to find out there were contacts between the clinics and what was supposed to be medical center for homeless people... at least on paper. "Heavy security for a medical center for homeless people, don't you think?" the Yatagarasu had said as they observed the outline of the building they obtained by hacking into one of the clinics' network. The building made him think of something closer to a fort, with cameras and likely guards around the perimeter.

He had nodded. "There is certainly more to it than they're letting by. And yet we have seen several people being brought there."

"But none of them leaving. Bet you a wig and spirit gum that the number of the homeless in the area has been going down since when the place opened."

"More experiments, then. They must have figured it would be less risky this way. The homeless come and go; few would notice, and even less would look for them. Besides, the police here must have been bribed to turn in a blind eye," he had added. It wasn't hard to imagine how, considering that a politician had been involved somehow. Only that now he was dead in unclear circumstances. "Let's report back."

They did report, and neither was too surprised by the order that followed: infiltrate the place, find out who or what was behind it all, and leave.

That place is of no big importance, the message they received read. Find out who the puppeteer is and leave. Let someone else deal with the pawns. We want you back in the States as soon as you have that information.

Which is exactly what they did, and now they're on their way back to the States knowing that this YggdraCorp is behind it... whatever it is. The Phantom supposes the US government must know or suspect what the experiments may be about, which would explain why he and the Yatagarasu were told to find out who was behind the business and nothing else.

But all he and the Yatagarasu have right now is a dead politician, unclear circumstances and a couple of clinics that have a thing for using humans as lab rats. They can't even tell how it all fits together, or if the politician's unexplained death and this odd side business of his are indeed connected.

Still...

If he wasn't lying, this is huge. YggdraCorp is a leading company in its field.

The Phantom looks back down at the tablet the Yatagarasu gave him. He supposes that knowing at least something about this YggraCorp will help: after all, as she pointed out, they are rather likely to get the assignment of infiltrating it. He may as well start to learn something about it now.

Based in Los Angeles, California, Yggdra Corp is one of the world's leading nanobiology comp-

… Wait, what?

"Something wrong, sweetie?"

The Phantom turns to glare at the Yatagarasu – who, of course, is looking at him with an amused smirk... but also somewhat intently. Inwardly cursing himself for letting anything show, the Phantom turns away from her to stare down at the tablet once more. "Nothing, cupcake," he mutters as a response, finishing his glass of wine before turning his attention back to the tablet's screen. He knows she can tell exactly what is wrong, but he's not going to admit it. As long as he doesn't say anything about it, she can only assume.

Based in Los Angeles, California.

Of course, it couldn't be some place on the other side of the world. Oh no. It just had to be good old L.A.

Blackquill is there. I can't go back there. I can't.

But he must if so they want. If they give them the assignment, as they likely will, he'll have to go back to Los Angeles whether he wants it or not. There would be no way for him to argue against the decision without someone wondering about the reason why... and he cannot allow himself to let the people who own him that he has any weakness. Not when the risk is that of being put down like a dog that can no longer walk and perform the tricks it was trained for.

"Hey, why the long face?" the Yatagarasu laughs. "Lighten up. Los Angeles is a big place. The odds of running into your ex are pretty low," she says, then she pauses and tilts her head on one side. "Does that make you feel better or worse?" she inquires. The Phantom chooses to entirely ignore the way she just referred to Blackquill. That's just about the last thing he wants to start arguing about.

"I have no idea what you're talking about," he says flatly, gaze fixed on the screen. "It doesn't make me feel anything. Now, if you don't mind, I'd like to read about this YggdraCorp. You said I should, didn't you?"

"Fine, fine. No need to get pissy," she says. The unnerving grin is still on her lips, but at least she's turning to the window in silence. The Phantom waits for a few moments, but she doesn't speak again. Good.

He goes back to read about YggdraCorp, willing himself to chase away the sense of dread that pervaded him for a moment when he read exactly where the company is based. The Yatagarasu may be insufferable most of the time, but she's right on at least one thing: Los Angeles is a large city, and the chances of meeting Blackquill are ridiculously slim. Now that he thinks about it logically, he has to wonder what made him think it was even a real possibility.

What are the odds?

"... That is all. The court is adjourn- is Detective Gumshoe trying to smother the defendant?"

Athena smiles up at the judge. "I think that's just a hug, Your Honor. A, uh... tight hug," she adds when she notices that Maggey is a little blue in the face even though she's still smiling. Detective Gumshoe sure is relieved, but then again he has all reasons to: even though they managed to prove Maggey's innocence, there were a couple of close calls they could have done without.

She turns away from the scene and looks over at the prosecutor's bench. She's about to call out for Simon to join them for a nice bowl of noodles, but she pauses when she notices he's frowning down at a slip of paper. It's no surprise that he's not entirely satisfied: they got Maggey off the hook, but the real culprit's identity still evades them. After a moment's hesitation, Athena walks away from the defense's bench – Mr. Wright is finally getting Detective Gumshoe to let go of Maggey so that she can breathe, and apparently doesn't need her help – and approaches him. "Hey, Simon. Is something wrong?" she asks.

Simon nods at her and puts down the slip of paper he's been looking at – the autopsy report. "Yes. Something doesn't add up with the autopsy report," he replies. Athena can guess exactly what he's talking about.

The victim, one Stan Doff, was found dead in his office on Monday morning; according to the autopsy he had been killed with a blow on the head, and he had been dead the whole weekend – which placed his time of death on Friday night. And Maggey, who worked as a receptionist for him, had been the last person to leave the offices that day... and to see him alive. That had been enough to put her on top of the suspects list, especially since no one else had the keys aside for herself and the victim.

Except that she and Mr. Wright had been able to find proof that the victim was alive on Sunday afternoon: he had taken some money from an ATM machine, and the security footage showed clearly it had been him there, alive and well; the money he took was still in his wallet. The time of death having been moved forward, there was nothing to uphold the claim Maggey had done it and she was found not guilty. But Simon is right: there is still the problem with the autopsy report, which states clearly the victim had been dead for at least two full days before being found. If he was alive on Sunday afternoon, that's simply impossible.

"Maybe there was a mistake?" Athena suggests halfheartedly. It would be a big mistake to make, though.

"It seems the only explanation," Simon says, but he doesn't look convinced, either. "Yet... I have seen the body. I'll spare you the details, but that man can't have been dead for one night only."

Athena frowns. "But we know he was alive on Sunday, so... maybe the body was tampered with somehow?"

"Perhaps. It escapes me how that could be possible, but I'm hardly an expert. I'll have to talk with your friend in the forensics team about this. Further investigation is in order; we have yet to find the murderer, after all."

"Oh, sure! I bet Ema would be glad to help. And you can count on me as well!"

Blackquill chuckles. "If Gumshoe keeps refusing to break away from his wife, I may indeed find myself in need of another partner for my investigation," he says, finally putting the autopsy report away. "But this can wait until later, I suppose. If I'm not mistaken, Detective Gumshoe said something about noodles."

Athena grins. "Sure! You've got to come with us. Apollo will be there, too. He already won his trial," she adds, then she lets her smile fade and draws in a deep breath. "Actually, after that I was thinking of... I'd like to pay a visit. It's... two years today, isn't it?" she says, and Simon's small smile fades as well.

"Yes. I'm aware of it," he says quietly, not looking at her. He doesn't like talking about LaRoche's execution any more than she does; she can tell his death still pains him. "I take it you mean to pay your respects?"

She nods. "Yes," is all she says. She feels like she should. No one aside from herself and Simon would, and what is the point in having a grave – with a name on it, just like he wanted – if no one ever visits it?

Simon nods. "I suppose it's only fitting that I come as well," is all he says. She can tell it's all he wishes to say at the moment, so she's quick to turn the conversation back to the salty noodles they're about to have.

"... when we made it here the spy was gone, and both Harv and Paul were dead. See, Paul was right there, in a pool of blood. Christ, I'm not getting the mental image out of my brain as long as I live."

The man – who's tall and slim, with black hair barely shot through with gray and eyes so dark irises and pupils are hard to tell apart – hums, staring at the bloodstain still on the floor. "How was he exactly killed?"

"Stabbed through the neck from behind, Mr... huh..."

"Outis," the man supplies, giving him a friendly smile. "That's how I go by these days. Such I am called by mother, father, and by all my comrades," he proclaims somewhat dramatically. The guard just gapes at him, and he gives a disappointed sigh. "I take it Homer's Odyssey wasn't part of your education. Pity."

"I, uh... no. Sorry, sir."

He chuckles. "Now, now. No need to apologize. I'm certain there are plenty of things you know that I ignore. To each their own," he says jovially, then he turns back to the blood stain. "What of the other guard?"

"The other- oh. Right. Harv was shot. In the head, just once. Sir," the guard adds quickly. A lot of the guards there keep adding 'sir' like it's an afterthought, but Outis isn't too surprised: it must be odd for them to be instructed to talk about what happened to a complete stranger, someone they never before met or heard of.

But then again, if a simple guard did hear of him it would mean he's not so good at his job. And he is good, which is why he was hired. This is the work of spies, after all – and if you need a thief to catch a thief, what do you need to catch a spy? "I was told the spy who was captured and held here had an accomplice. One who escaped capture," Outis says, his voice calm. He brings a cigarette up to his lips and inhales.

He went through most of his life thinking that smoking was quite the ugly habit, but he picked it up after the organization he worked for was almost entirely dissolved thanks to a high profile spy being caught and spilling the beans. A pity, especially since he had always thought of that one as the best he ever trained. He was almost sorry when he was executed in the States: having made him the spy he was, Outis would have liked to be the one to put him down – like you'd put down a once-prized racing horse with a broken leg.

Ah well. Things don't always go the way they should, as the blood stain before him proves.

"Yes, sir. Doug – the guard who caught the spy, I mean – said as much. He said that her accomplice fled, and send some of us to look for him while he brought the spy here and went to call for Paul to- sir?" the guard calls out, clearly taken aback, when the man chuckles.

"Tell me," he says, finally turning to face the guard. "Where is this Doug? I'd like to have a word with him."

The guard shakes his head. "That won't be possible, sir. I was getting there – he died as well. We started a search when we realized he was missing. We found him in his apartment. He was stabbed through the heart."

The man isn't at all surprised to hear that. "If you want my two cents on the matter, this Doug was already dead by the time the spy was caught."

"What? But it was him to catch her!"

"Wrong," Outis says, taking one last drag of his cigarette before putting it out against the wall and putting the butt in his pocket. He's not going to leave any of his DNA in a place that will be soon swarming with Interpol agents. "Someone else took his place that day; the spy's accomplice. Oh, and she was never caught to begin with. Her accomplice posed as this Doug and pretended to have caught her trying to sneak in."

"But... why?"

"To gather information. What else?" Outis says, and gives another chuckle at the man's stunned expression. "They expected someone in charge would want to question her, and so it happened. They were both in this room, alone with your chief. It takes little for a decent spy to get information out of a man who thinks he's on top of the game. By killing him, they made sure we wouldn't know what he told them."

The guard shakes his head. "This is crazy. That was Doug, I tell you!"

"Or an especially skilled actor," the man counters. He gives a faint smile. "You know, I once trained a spy who showed plenty of promise. Quite a catch, that one: no past, no conscience, no emotions. Once we rid him of that pesky sense of self he still had, he could become anyone he wished. Anyone. By the time his training was done, he could have fooled even me. He was my masterpiece. If the man who took this Doug's place was even half as skilled, I can't blame you for falling for the act. I'll tell the bigwigs not to be too hard on you guys," he adds, giving the stunned guard an affable pat on the shoulder before walking out of the cell.

The guard follows him, clearly livid with anger. "That bitch," he growls. "She even mocked us while her accomplice sent us out to look for... for her accomplice. She told us to 'have fun looking for a ghost'. I thought she was just fucking with us, but now that we know Doug was already dead- sir?" he calls out in surprise when he realizes the other man stopped walking abruptly and is now standing still, lost in thought.

"Looking for a ghost," Outis repeats slowly. There is something bothering him, a sudden hunch he can't ignore. "Is this exactly what she said?"

"Uh? Yeah, more or less-"

"No, my friend. More or less won't do at all. I want her exact words," the man cuts him off, turning back to the guard and causing him to hastily step back. "Did she say just that? That you were looking for a ghost?"

The man fidgets. "Well... I think she said 'phantom' rather than 'ghost', but yeah, that's more or- I-I mean..."

That's all Outis needs to hear. "I'm taking this assignment," he cuts him off. "Call your superiors and let them know that." As he watches the guard quickly leaving to do as he asked, he reaches for another cigarette. He takes one long draw and releases the smoke in a slow breath, his brow furrowed in thought.

Perhaps his hunch is wrong; perhaps the choice of words means nothing. Perhaps there simply is some other master of disguise out there who goes by that name. Still... it's worth a try, isn't it? That one faked his death more than once already, after all. And even if this spy is not him, the assignment is worth taking. Someone infiltrated this place, after all, leaving with dangerous information YggdraCorp wouldn't want to get out.

And YggdraCorp pays very, very well to keep its secrets... secret.