There is absolutely nothing remarkable about Robert LaRoche's grave.

Blackquill can't help but think, with no small amount of bitter amusement, that it's quite fitting. He remembers thinking the same of LaRoche's true face the first time he saw it: unremarkable, with nothing about it that caught the eye aside from the scar on his forehead.

And now it is the same with his grave: a plain thing, with a name and two dates written on it. There isn't even a picture, which is also so very fitting: it's a grave he's pass right by if it wasn't for the fact that name is painfully familiar.

Robert LaRoche.

Robert. LaRoche was shaking and clinging to him when he had spoken that name for the first time, eyes bright and feverish and voice hoarse from screaming. He had repeated that name over and over and, like a broken disk. Robert. My name is Robert.

So much work to find that name, that identity, and here's all it was good for – to make his grave somewhat distinguishable to the few people who know that name... and the even fewer who'd want to find it to begin with. Which is to say, himself and Athena – two of the people LaRoche damaged the most. Fate has a way of turning everything around, Blackquill muses. And everyone called him twisted.

"It's... quiet here," Athena speaks up beside him, finally breaking a long silence. Blackquill turns to look at her. She's clearly saddened – not that it's hard to miss, considering that widget shows everything she feels – and her hands are holding tightly on the small paper bag she brought. Liquorice strings, she had told him when he asked, then she had given him a small smile.

"It must sound so stupid," she had said. "But... well, he liked this stuff. It must have felt so odd to him, realizing that he liked something. He didn't have likes or dislikes of his own for a long time," she had added.

Blackquill had nodded at her. "I don't think it's stupid," he had told her, then he had turned back to the grave. "As you recall, he also developed a taste for the best brandy money could buy. The best brandy my money could buy, to be painfully exact," he had added, but his chuckle held no true amusement and he didn't even care that she could probably tell. He recalled bringing a bottle of that brandy in LaRoche's cell the night before his execution, two years before – and he recalled LaRoche's surprise.

"... Is that brandy?"

"You seem to be rather fond on it, and I happened to have a spare bottle. I can promise you, no poison has tainted it."

"Hah. Like that would make much difference now. You're not planning on making me have my last drink on my own, are you?"

He hadn't, nor he had planned on making him spend his last night in this world alone. He thought back of that night often in the days that followed the execution, the mixture of emotions raging in his chest almost unbearable. But as time passed and the wound began to heal, he could tell that at least regret was not among them. He made mistakes in his life, and he paid for each of them dearly... but that was not one.

He knows now that he would have regretted letting him walk on the gallows without seeing him that one last time. Anger and shame may have never left him, and he'd have had to live the rest of his days feeling as though the Phantom, his phantom, was still there – taunting him, but forever unreachable.

Now he can even think about LaRoche – not of Fulbright, never of that one mask; the sense of betrayal is still far too strong to allow it – without bitterness. There is sorrow, yes: sorrow for the lives and years that were lost, for the man LaRoche could have been hadn't his soul been taken from him... but the bitter anger that was his constant companion for seven years no longer burns in his chest.

"... Cemeteries aren't known for being especially noisy places," he finally speaks, turning back to the grave. They've been standing in silence for a while, neither of them truly knowing what they could even say.

It's odd to see Athena so silent, even in a cemetery. Actually, she'd won't stop speaking when they visit her mother's grave together: she talks and talks, as though they're back in Kurain and they're staring right at her again as she looks back at them from Maya Fey's body. She even talks when they visit Fulbright's grave. Not that much – sometimes they have to remind themselves they never really met the man – but Athena never forgets to salute and exclaim 'in justice we trust!' before moving on.

But the Phantom's grave... that's where she falls silent without fail. "It's getting late. We should head back. I'd rather not be locked in here for the night," Blackquill finds himself adding, and Athena nods.

"That would be creepy," she agrees with a small smile, and steps forward. Blackquill watches in silence as she just puts the paper bag before the grave – it looks so bare with no flowers or tokens, very much unlike Metis Cykes' or Fulbright's – and then steps back again.

Neither of them speaks as they leave. There is nothing left to say, after all, no words that would be fitting.

Only silence.

Burgundine, Borginia, 1995.

Aside from sleeping high up, one of the things about bunk beds that Robb likes most is that it takes just a few minutes to make a tent out of it. Take off the covers, hang them from all sides of the upper bunk and there you go. Okay, maybe the result is closer to a canopy bed with the curtains drawn than to a proper tent, but it still did the trick: that way he and Seymour could use the flashlight without any of the other kids sleeping in the same room complaining.

"So, what happens next?" Robb asks, keeping his voice low so that he won't wake up the others. Most of the others are heavy sleepers, but you can never be too careful. Last night Seymour stopped right on a cliffhanger, and Robb wants to know what happens next now – so he doesn't want anyone to wake up and complain and interrupt the tale. Seymour, who's sitting across him, grins and holds the flashlight under his face. The shadow effect makes him look kinda creepy, but then again that's probably the point.

Robb has come to like this nightly routine more than he expected. They wait a bit after the light out order in the orphanage and then, when they're sure the other guys in the room are sleeping – they don't think they'd rat them out or anything and the orphanage's director is too much of a bleeding heart to punish anyone even if he knew anyway, but the sense of secrecy makes everything better – he climbs down on the lower bunk with Seymour. They hang the covers to make their 'tent' and then Seymour starts telling the story, usually from whatever book he read that day since he's always reading.

It's a fair exchange: Seymour tells a story, Robb brings the candy.

"So, we left off with Odysseus and his companions blocked inside Polyphemus' cave, right?" Seymour is saying. Robb takes a candy from the small sack between them – a liquorice candy, his favorite – and pops it in his mouth before nodding.

"Hu-uh. And Polyphemus ate two of Odysseus' companions before leaving," he says. "How did Odysseus get out of that?"

"Hey, one thing at time," Seymour says before he clears his throat and resumes talking in an eerie whisper. "When Polyphemus returned to his cave that evening with his flock, he had no more mercy than he had in the morning. He walked in, blocked the entrance of the cave with a huge rock again, and grabbed two more men. They screamed and screamed, but there was nothing Odysseus could do for them. Polyphemus smashed them against the rocks, and ate them whole."

"Clothes and everything?"

That causes Seymour to frown in thought. "Don't know. The book didn't say anything about undressing, though. Guess he wasn't picky. He ate the bones as well anyway."

"And the content of their stomach and bowels, too."

"And the content of their... eew!"

"And also their di-"

"That's not the point," Seymour cuts him off with a disgusted grimace "He just ate them. The point of the tale is another. Want to know it or not?"

Robb immediately shuts his mouth and nods. Fun as it is to gross Seymour out, he really wants to know how Odysseus got out of this one. "Fine, fine. Go on," he says, popping another piece of candy in his mouth.

"Good. So, the same thing happened the next morning: Polyphemus took two more men, smashed them on the rocks and ate them before leaving with his flocks, sealing Odysseus and his remaining men inside. But while he was away, Odysseus came up with a plan."

"I knew it!" Robb says, catching himself just on time so that he won't speak aloud. That's why he likes Odysseus – because he's clever and cunning and full of tricks, and can always outsmart everyone and think his way out of trouble. "What did he do?"

"While Polyphemus was away, they took a long pole they found in the cave and sharpened one end, then they hardened it with fire. They hid the stake under straw, so that Polyphemus wouldn't suspect a thing when he got back. When he did, he took two more men. They screamed for Odysseus to help them, but he could do nothing for them. They were smashed against the cave's wall and eaten."

"Whole?"

"Don't even start."

"Killjoy. So, what did he do?"

Seymour grins again and puts the flashlight back under his face. "After Polyphemus was done eating his comrades, Odysseus stepped forward and offered him wine."

"Wine?"

"Yes. Strong and undiluted, to get him good and drunk. After drinking, Polyphemus asked for Odysseus' name, promising him a gift in exchange. Odysseus told him that his name was Nobody."

Robb blinks. "Nobody?"

"That's what he said, yes. It's something closer to Odysseus in Greek, though. Otis or something. Anyway, that's what it means – nobody."

"But why...?"

"Shh. We'll get to that later. So, Polyphemus promised him that, as a gift, he'd eat him last."

"Charming."

"Not the best host, I agree. But Odysseus got the last laugh, because Polyphemus was so drunk he fell in a deep sleep. So deep that he didn't awaken until they took out the sharpened stake and drove it in his only eye to blind him!"

Seymour speaks the last words in a feral growl, and Robb is entirely caught by surprise when he thrusts the flashlight right before his face, causing him to rear back and shut his eyes. "Hey!" he protests, blinking quickly to get his eyes working again, and he can hear Seymour snickering.

"Imagine if I put out your eye for real," he says, causing Robb to stick out his tongue at him.

"But I have two, jerk. So I'd still know my way to your neck," he says, sitting upright again.

Seymour grins. "But Polyphemus only had one. And with that one eye reduced to a gory mess, he was completely blind. Odysseus and his companions hid in the huge cave's nooks, and he was unable to find them. He screamed for the other giants to help him, but when they came outside his cave to ask him what was wrong. 'Who is hurting you?', they asked. And guess what he screamed back?"

Robb barely holds back a laugh. He's starting to see where this is going. "Nobody is hurting me," he says with a grin, which widens when Seymour nods.

"Yup! Polyphemus screamed: 'Nobody! Nobody is hurting me!'. And so they left, telling him that if he felt pain and nobody was hurting him, then his pain came from the gods and he should pray his father, Poseidon, to be healed."

With a snicker, Robb reaches for another candy. That's a good one, he thinks. Of course there was no way Odysseus could know for sure that Polyphemus would be stupid enough to use the name he gave him that way, but still. That was smart thinking. Had the giant been able to tell the others what was going on, Odysseus and his men would have been lost. "So, Polyphemus can't find them. But they're still trapped in. How do they get out?" he asks.

Seymour shrugs. "Don't know."

"What doesn't it mean, you don't know?" Robb protests, starting to frown.

"Hey, the library was closing down and I don't get to bring any books here. I'll go read the rest tomorrow," Seymour says, and turns off the flashlight, leaving both of them in darkness. The room isn't completely dark – the windows let in enough light from the street to see well enough to go around – but the covers around them keep out the light the same way they mostly kept in the flashlight's. "Besides, it's getting late. We should get some slee- hey!" Seymour protests when Robb sighs dramatically and throws himself on him, causing them both to land in a heap on the mattress. "Get off!"

"But I'm tiiiired," Robb whines, clinging to Seymour's torso. "I don't want to climb all the way up to my bunk, mommy!"

Seymour sighs, his attempts at getting Robb – who's both taller and bigger than him – off him ceasing. "You're too lazy to put your covers back in place, aren't you?"

"That too. So, can I stay? Pretty please?" Robb says in a perfect impression of a little girl's voice. Beneath him, Seymour chuckles.

"Okay, okay, you can stay – just get off me!" he mutters, and Robb grins before rolling off him and hogging both pillows. There is a bit of squabbling over them – quiet squabbling, because they have to keep their voices low not to wake the others up – which ends as it always does: with one pillow each... because Robb was nice enough to let him yank one from his grasp, of course.

There is some shifting next, because the bunk is narrow and they have to rest very close to fit in, but Robb doesn't really mind: the room gets kind of chilly at night and the covers aren't always enough, so getting to share come body heat isn't that bad. It doesn't even matter that Seymour's black hair is tickling his nose a bit.

"Hey, birdbrain?"

"What?" Seymour mutters sleepily. He yawns and reaches to yank the blankets they're sharing a little further up over both of them.

":.. Nothing. It's just that I realized I hadn't called you birdbrain the whole day. That wouldn't do," Robb says, and chuckles when Seymour snorts and elbows him in the ribs before settling down again.

"Ah!"

The Yatagarasu is not surprised at all when the Phantom gasps and sits up on the couch, drawing in long breaths and bringing a hand up to his head. She's been watching him toss and turn for a bit in the faint light coming from the window – the most interesting thing to look at in that hotel room, which says a lot about how boring it is – and she expected him to awaken with a start at some point.

She reaches for the nightstand beside the bed she's resting on – "ladies first", she told him before taking over the bed and leaving the couch to him – and turns on the light. The Phantom hisses shuts his eyes against it. "I take it you forgot to take your dream suppressants," she comments. He takes a pill every evening to keep himself from dreaming at all. Since this is what happens every time he forgets to take it or has no chance to, she can definitely see why.

"They ran out. The assignment took too long," the Phantom grits out, a hand pressed against his forehead.

"Don't you ever have pleasant dreams?"

The Phantom snorts and reaches for the backpack on the floor right by the couch. He pulls out what the Yatagarasu recognizes as migraine medication. Unlike the dream suppressant he uses – a drug that's not supposed to be even distributed, let alone used with no medical supervisions – that kind of medication can be bought everywhere. "Whether or not the dream itself was pleasant is irrelevant. It's what comes next I'm not fond on," he mutters before gulping down a couple of pills without water. That's unsurprising, too: he has a tendency to get terrible migraines whenever a memory from before comes back to surface... which can happen when he's sleeping and his guard is down, having taken no drug to prevent it.

"Was Blackquill involved this time around?"

The Phantom stiffens for a moment, but he replies with a flat voice. "The dead won't stay dead. That's all."

"Your friend?" she guesses. She knows little enough of the Phantom's past, though not that much less than the Phantom himself, but she knows of this boy the Phantom grew up with, this Seymour. She knows he died in the same incident that resulted with the Phantom losing all his memories and great part of his emotional spectrum. Those seem to have come back, at least partially, but of course his friend never did... if not in his dreams. He doesn't seem to be a welcomed presence.

The Phantom doesn't reply to her question; he hardly ever does whenever his past is involved. "Turn off the light," is all he says, leaning back down on the couch.

"Shouldn't you take the dream suppressant as well?"

"They never come back more than once the same night. Turn off the light," he repeats. His voice is flat, but he's screwing his eyes shut against the pain and she decides to just keep quiet and do as she's told for once. There will be plenty of occasions to mock him when he's feeling better, she decides. Maybe tomorrow, when someone comes to pick them up from the hotel and lead them to the headquarters.

Well, before then; maybe over breakfast. She knows better than bringing up that little problem of his in front of anyone who might consider it a fatal flaw.

She lies awake for a time, listening. The Phantom's breathing turns slower after a time, more regular, which can either mean he's asleep or that he's pretending to be. It's hard to tell with him.

The Yatagarasu stops listening soon enough, but she can't quite fall asleep yet. She keeps stating at the ceiling, wondering what must it be like to have memories from before. She has them, sure enough: she remembers the institution she grew up in, she remember the first name she had – but it's the name Alba chose for her, not hers. When the Phantom remembers his life before, he remembers a boy called Robert LaRoche. She has no clue what her birth name used to be: she was too young when it was taken by war along with everything else. To her, there is almost no before. Almost, because there is something, but it's so muddled an distant it feels more like a long-faded dream than a proper memory. She was barely one year old, perhaps, so young that she knows the memory – those bits and pieces of one – is not even supposed to be there at all.

A deafening sound of gunfire, shattering glass, screams. A smell – blood and smoke and gunpowder; even though she couldn't recognize them as such back then, she can tell now . More screams, shouts, orders. Then someone picking her up and running for what felt like an eternity, away from the smoke and fire and cries. But the smell of blood and gunpowder was still there, right on the rough fabric her face was pressed onto.

A Cohdopian army uniform, she would think later, but that only shows how muddled the memory is, how tainted by perceptions from later. General Alba had been wearing civilian clothes when he had torn her away from death's maw: she simply thought it was an uniform because that was the clothing she would come to associate him with later. Much later, when her legal tutor would bother to see her again sixteen years later.

The Yatagarasu lifts herself on her elbows and glances at the Phantom's still form on the couch, then at the box of medication he left on the floor after taking a couple of pills.

If that's what remembering before feels like, maybe it's a good thing she has little to remember to begin with.

"Those bastards!"

Agent Lang's words came out as a feral growl as he tore his gaze away from yet another empty room. He walks back to the hallway most of his men were standing in, anger barely in check. They were so close to a breakthrough, so close – but it's now obvious that those rats have packed up and left, taking any proof of the activities he knows were carried on in that facility away with them.

While the Interpol is certain that someone has been conducting human experiments here, there is nothing left to prove it... and the only target whose name they knew, a local politician, died in unclear circumstances days before they could get him. Raiding this place may have been their only way to learn more, and yet they turned out with nothing. Or almost.

"We have found something, sir," one of his men had told him, standing rigidly before him. "Luminol revealed a large bloodstain in a room on the ground floor, plus a few smaller ones that appear to be drips. There may be enough traces for some DNA testing."

Lang had nodded back at him. It's not much, but it's better than nothing... and it appears to be all the information they'll manage to get from this blasted place. "Lang Zi says: search where the water is deepest. Do take samples and have the tests run immediately. Highest priority. And take several samples in different spots. The blood may belong to several people. Go."

And the man is coming back just now, which is the only thing that keeps Lang from further cursing against the worms they're after: perhaps the blood samples will give them a lead to follow, something that could at least make this raid and all the work behind it worthwhile.

"I have the results, sir," his man speaks, but something about his tone and posture isn't quite right – and it doesn't escape Lang how his gaze shifts away from him as he speaks.

"Well?" he asks, reading himself for a negative answer. It's not what it gets.

"There... there is a match with our database, sir. The blood in the room belonged to two individuals. We could identify one of them," is the reply. It's good news, but his subordinate still avoids to look at him as he handles him a slip of paper. Lang frowns in mild confusion as he takes it and looks down at it.

And then he can tell exactly why his subordinate won't look at him while speaking.

MATCH FOUND
Code: 24601-2019
Name: Unknown.
Known Aliases: Calisto Yew; Shih-na
Status: Unknown.
Highest Priority for Capture.

For several moments, all Lang can do is stare. There is a cracking noise he doesn't pay any attention to; he simply opens his hand to let the remains of his sunglasses fall on the floor and looks back up at the subordinate who just gave him the report. Who, on the other hand, is standing rigidly and sweating profusely.

Her blood. Why is her blood here? Was she hurt? Was she killed?

Lang chases away the thought from his mind like a wolf chasing a scavenger off its prey. No, it cannot be – he can't allow it to be. She's his to deal with, and he won't let anyone take that from him. "You said that you found blood of two individuals," he finally says slowly. "You also said there was a large bloodstain and a few smaller ones. Which one was hers?"

"Her blood sample was taken from a small drop, sir. The rest of the blood belonged to someone else. Someone who's unlikely to have survived after such a loss of blood, I may add."

Lang nods, eyes turning back to the results of the DNA testing. This is good to know: while something did happen to her – something that caused her to lose a small amount of blood – there is nothing indicating she may have been killed. Lang gives a barking laugh. It's almost amusing how a single drop of blood gave her away – just as one single drop of blood damned Quercus Alba once. He turns to his men with a predatory smile. "I want you to scour this place from top to bottom. Now."

"But we already-"

"You'll do it again!" Lang cuts him off with a snarl. "And again and again until something comes up! Lang Zi says: successful investigations are the result of multiple returns to a crime scene. Now go!"

As his subordinates scatter in all directions, their hurried footsteps echoing in the hallway, Lang looks down to realize he crushed the sheet of paper in his hand without realizing it – much like he crushed his sunglasses. And he liked those glasses, too. Shih-na is going to have quite a lot to answer for when he finally captures her once again... and this time there will be no great escape for her. He'll make sure of it.

"What were you doing in this place?" Lang asks aloud. He receives no answer but the fading sound of his subordinates' footsteps.

"... Do you have any last words?"

LaRoche recoils and looks over the glass wall separating the gallows from them before he closes his eyes not to see the noose and speaks. "Prosecutor Blackquill," he calls out. "I... Blackquill, I..." his voice fades, and he falls silent for a few moments before he can resume speaking. "Prosecutor Blackquill. Miss Cykes. Thank you. For... for giving me a name, for making me someone. Thank you for for not giving up on me. And..." he hesitates now, and needs to draw in another breath, and he's about to speak again...

… then the Steel Samurai tune rings, causing Blackquill to awaken with a start and covered in cold sweat. His mind reels, and it takes him a few moments to realize his cell phone is ringing. He slams a hand on the light switch and grabs the cell phone with the other one, narrowing his eyes against the sudden glare.

"Who?" he snaps, his voice still hoarse with sleep. He refuses to let himself think of what he awoke from.

"Good morning to you, too," an unimpressed voice comes from the other side of the line.

He snarls, immediately taking the opportunity to distract himself from the dream – the memory – with anger.

"Skye. I trust you have an extremely valid reason to call me at this ungodly hour of the morning."

"Hey, it's... what, still five thirty?"

"It is ungodly. Does this mean you spent the night at the precinct?"

"Looks like it. I wasn't paying much attention at the time. It was for science. Anyway, I have news!"

Ema Skye sounds so pleased that Blackquill can't help but worry. "I trust no ill fate has befallen Prosecutor Gavin by your hand," he says. It's unclear to him why she dislikes Prosecutor Gavin so much, but she does dislike him quite a lot and he'd rather not have to accuse another detective of murder.

She hums, and with the mind's eye he can just see her shrugging. "Not by my hand, no."

"... Does that mean something did happen to him?"

There is another hum and then the sound of chewing. "Not that I know, but a girl can dream," she says. She can't seem to keep herself from guzzling down those sugar-coated snacks of hers even while talking; it's a habit he finds rather annoying, but he knows that more than a few people may complain just as much about his habit of holding a feather between his lips. "So, do you want the news or not? It's about Stan Doff. You know, the one who was a bit too alive for a dead guy on Sunday evening."

That causes Blackquill's tiredness to vanish. "Have you found out something?"

"Well, I ran some tests on the tissue samples. Some tests I came up with, no conventional crap."

Blackquill shuts his eyes and holds back a sigh. Typical. "And I suppose it's not a formally approved one."

"Hmph. They're late with approval, that's all. They're too slow. Law can't stop science," she says.

That's rather worrying coming from a one of the precincts' forensic experts. "Law is there for a reason."

Skye sighs. "Oh, come on. You sound all the world like Bobby used to, you know," she says, and Blackquill finds himself unable to say anything to that. Skye pauses, too, and they share a few moments of silence before she speaks again."Alright, listen. It may not be conventional, but it worked. It shows something the other tests failed to pick up. Isn't that the important part?"

Blackquill supposes she has a point. It's not like he can object to someone using less than strictly legal means to obtain something important: claiming the guilt of a crime he didn't commit wasn't precisely legal, either, but he hadn't hesitated to do so when it came to choosing between that and Athena's life and happiness.

"Fair enough," he finally says. "What did you find?"

"Something."

"... I have grasped as much. Would you care to elaborate?"

Skye sighs. "Okay, I'll try to make it simple," she says. Back when they first began working together from time to time she'd eagerly explain the scientific details to him, but she's since come to realize he's not enough of an expert to really make enough sense out of technicalities. "Decomposition is caused by two factors: autolysis and putrefaction. Putrefaction is the breakdown of tissues by bacteria. Autolysis is the breaking down of tissues by the body's own internal chemicals and enzymes; the very beginning of a body's degradation, starting about four or five minutes after death. There is something odd about that here."

"Something odd?"

"Yes. To make it baby simple for you, it's like autolytic cell destruction started before the victim's death."

Blackquill blinks, any protest he was about to voice for her dismissal of his scientific understanding dying in his throat. "Are you saying that the body's own internal chemicals and enzymes began breaking down the tissues while the victim was still alive?"

"Hu-uh," she replies through a mouthful of her usual snacks. "I figure that would be painful, rotting alive. But the guy seemed pretty healthy when he took the money from some ATM the night before dying, right?"

Blackquill nods, even though he knows Skye cannot see him doing so. "He seemed perfectly alright. So what you're saying is that he began rotting alive in the hours between Sunday evening and Monday morning?"

"It seems the only explanation that would make any amount of sense, yes. Which isn't much, considering that it doesn't make sense. How could something like that even happen? And that fast? The body was so decayed even I thought he must have been dead for at least three days!"

"If you can't think of an explanation, Skye, I can't see how can you expect me to," Blackquill says drily. "Do write a detailed report and have Gumshoe deliver it to my desk as soon as he shows up," he adds, and hangs the phone without even waiting for a reply. He'll likely get a few snacks thrown at him for that later – snacks he'll slice in mid-air with practiced ease, as usual – but right now his mind is entirely taken by other matters.

While they have no explanation on how this may have been possible, what Skye found may just change everything – starting with the cause of death, so far believed to be a blow on the head. He can't think of any natural way that could lead someone's body to start rotting while they're still alive; not quickly enough to kill them in hours and make them look like a several days old corpse upon discovery the next morning.

But then again, murder is rarely a natural occurrence... and the wound on the victim's head proves this to be a murder, or at least something somebody wanted to pass as one. But what could possibly cause a body to deteriorate in such a way...?

Blackquill leaves his bed and walks up to his desk, and glances down at some of the case's documents he brought with him for further reading. With Gumshoe's wife – Maggey, was it not? – as the prime suspect, it was assumed that the murder's motive had something to do with money; perhaps, the police had suggested, the victim had caught his secretary stealing from him. But now that Maggey's innocence has been proved without doubt, it's likely that the motive was entirely different. They're going to have to look more closely to the Stan Doff's life to understand what the motive may have been; and, after the conversation he's had with Skye, Blackquill has a gut feeling that the man's work just might be something to look into.

The victim's profile is among them, and it's the first thing Blackquill picks up. He opens it, and there it is – the role Mr. Doff used to have in a company whose name Blackquill couldn't recall.

R&D supervisor for YggdraCorp, Los Angeles.

"Stan Doff? Who in the blazes is this Stan Doff?"

Lang's snarl causes some of his men to recoil, but he barely acknowledges that. Honestly, when he was told that the investigation had led to finding some fingerprints that could be identified he had expected the name to belong to at least one of the suspect names they already had – but this one name tells him absolutely nothing. The subordinate he spoke to looks back down at the tablet the information is being displayed on.

"It appears to be an American, sir. R&D supervisor for YggdraCorp."

That is a surprise, too: it's not a name Lang has heard until now. "What the hell is YggdraCorp?"

"I'm requesting more information from the headquarters as we speak, sir," his subordinate replies. "As for this Stan Doff, he Resides in Los Angeles and... oh."

The surprised noise that leaves the man causes Lang to frown. "What is it?"

"He... he appears to have recently died in his office in LA, sir. In odd circumstances very reminiscing of those of our, uh, previous target. It seems that-" he trails off with a yelp when Lang takes the tabled from his hands and stares down at it for a few moments, eyes narrowed. Then, slowly, he smiles and looks back up.

"If this isn't connected, then I'm Little Red Hiding Hood. Call the headquarters. Tell them the investigation is moving to Los Angeles. As for me, I'm going to call an old friend in LA for support," he adds, and gives a low laugh. "I'm certainly he's going to be delighted to know our mutual friend is back in the picture."

"See, I told you we'd be getting the assignment. I've got to say I kinda missed Los Angeles. Didn't you?"

The Phantom gives his partner a blank look. They have just been told the assignments is theirs – no real surprise there – but are still waiting to see someone who'll tell them what they're precisely after... and whose identities they'll need to take.

"What I'm missing now are a few minutes of blessed silence," he says. However slim the chances of running in anyone he knows during this missions are, he can't say the thought of going back to LA fills him with joy.

Not that there are many things that do, if any. But her incessant talking isn't helping matters.

The Yatagarasu gives a snort of a laugh, applying some more make-up to hide her still swollen lip. "Stop being so serious. I'm sure it will be fun."

"Your idea of fun is questionable to say the least," the Phantom says, standing up from his seat when a door at the far end of the room opens and an agent gestures for them to go in – to be told more about their new assignment, no doubt. She laughs, and gets up as well.

"Oh, come on now. We had fun that time in Allebahst."

"You and I remember Allebahst very differently," he says dully.

A/N: yes, the last line is a reference to The Avengers. I promised someone I'd slip in some from time to time, and I did. XD