A/N: so I got some free time and actually managed to write a chapter in a week. Wow. It's been so long since last time I was able to do that. XD

"... I must have hurt you."

Blackquill's voice is barely above a murmur, but it's enough to snap LaRoche out of his comfortable, trance-like state. He forces himself to open his eyes, but doesn't lift his head from Blackquill's chest.

"It matters not," he says, gaze fixed against the wall of his cell. There was pain, no point in denying it, but it truly doesn't matter: he's no stranger to pain, and they certainly couldn't call for a guard and tell them to fetch some lubricant. Pain was a more than acceptable price for what he could have tonight.

Tonight, and never again. Because come morning, Robert LaRoche will have to die once again – and the ghost that will be left will never again cross paths with Simon Blackquill.

The thought is like a spear of ice through his chest. He can feel Blackquill's own chest rising beneath his head as he draws in a long breath, as though he's about to speak, but LaRoche doesn't want to listen to anything he may say, doesn't want to listen to anything but Blackquill's heartbeat and breathing. He lifts his head and presses his mouth against Blackquill's throat, speaking first.

"It matters not," he repeats against his skin. "I'm about to die. This was the only... this once. Only this once."

You did nothing I didn't wish you to.

Blackquill stays still for a moment, then he exhales and reaches to hold him back, pressing LaRoche's head back down on his shoulder. LaRoche shuts his eyes when Blackquill's fingers tangle in his hair, the coldness in his chest a stark contrast to the warmth of skin on skin. The thought of losing that warmth is unbearable, but there is nothing he can do to keep it from happening. LaRoche will die, and Blackquill will move on. That's how it must go, he tells himself. That's how he wants it to go.

But that's not true; that's simply the only option he has aside from death. The thought of leaving Blackquill and his identity behind for good pains him beyond words. He doesn't want to, doesn't want to go.

What I want has ceased to matter a long time ago.

"... Blackquill," he calls out, and feels the embrace tightening just a fraction before Blackquill speaks.

"What is it?" is all he asks, his voice very quiet.

For a moment LaRoche almost bites back the plea that desperately wants to leave him. He knows that's not what he should ask for, that the whole point of facing execution and letting Robert LaRoche die is to allow Blackquill to move on – to give him back the life he stole from him seven years ago.

Don't turn back, he should tell him... but he can't find it in himself to.

"Don't forget me," LaRoche finally manages, and he doesn't even care that his voice is trembling and that tears are leaking from beneath his closed eyelids on Blackquill's skin. He could shut out those emotions, but he doesn't want to. Robert LaRoche is a human being, not a phantom; Robert LaRoche is about to die and he's allowed to be scared, he's allowed to be weak. "Please, please, don't forget me."

Blackquill pulls his hand away from LaRoche's hair and sits up, keeping LaRoche close with one arm – but his other hand reaches to grasp his chin and tilt up his face. LaRoche opens his eyes to find himself staring straight at Blackquill. It's hard to see his expression in the dimly lit cell, but he can tell that Blackquill is looking at him intently, perhaps memorizing features that, LaRoche knows, will soon be erased.

The thought makes him feel even colder. His breath hitches, and he feels tear rolling down his cheeks. If Blackquill sees them he doesn't say: he only presses his mouth on LaRoche's, hard.

"Never," he says against his lips, his own voice so filled with raw emotion that it's almost painful to listen. But it feels good, if horribly bitter, to hear that – because it's a promise, and one thing LaRoche knows for sure is that Simon Blackquill never breaks his word.

LaRoche presses closer to him and wills himself to forget reality for just a while longer.

"Never."

Blackquill's voice sounds oddly loud in his empty bedroom, and so does the bitter laugh that follows. "Never," he repeats, sitting up on the bed. He reaches up to run a hand over his face; his skin feels cold and damp with sweat. "I'll never forget. May you be damned, how could I? You haunt my dreams still."

It's not always like this; he can go on weeks without a single thought of LaRoche. But sometimes a memory strikes, sudden and unexpected, and it hurts every single time.

Perhaps it was the meeting with Lang that caused this: the little Lang said about this spy who infiltrated the Interpol long ago – Shih-na was her last known alias, apparently – was enough for him to know that, to Lang, this woman is what the Phantom has been to him. It was plain he wanted nothing more than catching the one who betrayed him so utterly, and Blackquill can understands that better than anyone. The sense of kinship was only strengthened when Chief Prosecutor Edgeworth told him something more about Lang's target.

"She infiltrated this very courthouse, almost nineteen years ago. She worked for an international smuggling ring at the time," Edgeworth had told him. "She posed as a defense attorney, and murdered a fellow prosecutor she worked with. It's a long story," he had added when he had noticed Blackquill's confusion over a defense attorney working with a prosecutor. "The point is, Prosecutor Faraday was a threat to the smuggling ring she worked for. He trusted her, and she paid back that trust with a knife through the heart. I was but a rookie at the time, but I was able to prove her guilt. However, she escaped. When we met again seven years later, she was posing as someone else – and she was Agent Lang's trusted assistant."

Yes, Blackquill thinks now, that must be it: the parallels he's picked up between the spy Lang seeks and the Phantom must be what caused LaRoche to enter his dreams again.

Blackquill throws the covers aside and stands, walking out of the room and into the bathroom. He doesn't bother to turn on the light: he's come to know his new apartment like he knew his cell in these past two years, and he does have a tendency to awaken at night. In such moments, sudden light hurts his eyes.

Blackquill splashes some cold water on his face before closing the tap and looking at the mirror in the faint light coming from the window. He doesn't look quite like he did before his long imprisonment, but some of the marks prison left on him have faded: his is skin less pale, the marks under his eyes almost entirely gone. His hair is short as it was before, too: he rid himself of the unruly mane he had grown in prison shortly after LaRoche's execution. But the white hair is still there, as are the marks on his wrists, unlikely to ever fade out.

Blackquill reaches to touch his right wrist, his mouth a grim line. He remembers clearly how Fulbright – the man he believed to be Fulbright – would always be the one to take them off and then put them back on in the one year they worked together. He left that duty to no one else, and Blackquill sometimes wonders if that was a trait Fulbright had – getting so invested in those he was responsible for to the point of becoming downright possessive – or if something of the Phantom leaked through the mask.

But it doesn't matter, Blackquill tells himself, and pulls his hand away from his wrist; he never asked, and he certainly cannot ask now that he's gone. Still, it's almost ironic to think of it, of how he returned the favor by being the one to close the cuffs around LaRoche's wrists for the last time before he was led to the gallows.

This is the last time you'll have to wear these.

Heh. Somehow, I fail to find that comforting.

I know, he had said, and he had reached down to grab LaRoche's hands. They were cold, he remembers, as though death had claimed him already. One moment and it will be over. Don't be afraid.

But he was afraid: anyone could see that, let alone Blackquill. Still, LaRoche had said it didn't matter.

It's... it means I'm human, doesn't it?

Yes. It means you're human.

Thank you. For... for giving me a name, for making me someone. Thank you for for not giving up on me.

"... Fool," Blackquill mutters to the empty room, his eyes shut. "Did knowing your name make any difference for you once you crossed the Styx?"

He wouldn't have wondered as much, once: he would have thought of death as something final that would make one's name and identity useless. But he's long since changed his mind on that. It would be hard not to after witnessing what he witnessed, after meeting Metis Cykes once again seven years after her death.

Maya Fey had volunteered to channel LaRoche as well to let them talk one last time, actually, like she did for Justice and his friend, but Blackquill had declined the offer. Robert LaRoche was gone, and unlike Metis Cykes and Clay Terran he hadn't been unexpectedly murdered: they had known his execution was coming, and they could tell each other all they needed to tell, all that mattered enough to tell. It had been enough.

LaRoche is gone, and so is the phantom he has chased for seven long years; he's at peace, or so Blackquill hopes, and he needs to let go of him. He has managed, for the most part; he can only hope that, in time, LaRoche's phantom will cease plaguing his dreams.

"Look, Phantom of the Courthouse, I don't mean to be tiresome, but-"

"You are being tiresome."

"This could become a problem. You know that." The sudden sharp edge in her voice is what causes the Phantom to pause, his hand stilling an inch away from the glass of water. It's only a moment's hesitation, though: the next moment he simply pops the pill in his mouth and swallows it with a mouthful of water.

"I can't see how it could be of hindrance. It's simply one pill each evening. No one will see me taking it."

The Yatagarasu rolls her eyes, leaning back against the kitchen's door. She's wearing a ridiculous pajamas with miniature scales printed all over it, which is a sharp contrast to her unusually serious tone. "Don't play dumb. It's not one pill anymore. You doubled the dose, and it's still not enough. You had two already, and one more now. I heard you getting up; you could have bothered to put on some pants instead of just walking around in your underwear, by the way. Didn't you say memories never come back twice the same night?"

The Phantom doesn't try to argue that point. Dream suppressants seem to be failing lately; he dreamed, sure enough, but this time it wasn't a memory of his childhood to come back – it was a much more recent one.

Don't forget me.

Never.

"I still fail to see the issue," he finally says. "No one will need to see me take the pills. Even if they do, I can pass it off as any kind of medication. Harrison Fire is not immune to migraines, after all."

She shakes her head. "That drug isn't even officially approved. It's still experimental. There is no data at all about possible side effects; let alone long term ones."

"While your concern for my health is moving, I have to inform you it's none of your business."

"Pffft... Hahahaha! Oh man," she laughs, bringing a hand up to her mouth. "You... Hahah! You're so dense! You really don't get this teamwork thing, do you?" she says, and snickers some more before turning reasonably serious again. "As long as we work together, it is my concern. If you're compromised-"

"I won't be," the Phantom cuts her off, putting the glass back down. "If I get, for the sake of argument, compromised, you already have your orders. Don't you?"

She stares at him for a moment before nodding. "Of course. And so do you."

"Obviously," is the flat reply. The orders are simple: if either of them is compromised and at risk of being caught, the other's orders are very simple – kill. "If I'm compromised, if I become a problem, kill me. It's nothing you haven't done before," he adds. It's a calculated blow, especially since they spoke of Byrne Faraday mere hours earlier, and her jaw clenches for a moment before she laughs.

"Hahaha! Like you'd let me! Or maybe you would?" she adds, tilting her head on one side with a smirk. "What would you pick – death, or facing Blackquill again once your disappearing trick has been revealed?"

Something in the Phantom's chest clenches, but he refuses to let it show. Part of him expected a similar remark the very moment he delivered his; the Yatagarasu isn't one to take a low blow without returning it. "But it's nothing you should concern yourself about, because I won't be compromised," he says. "You can quit worrying and focus on the role you'll take on from tomorrow morning," he adds.

From here on, their instructions are simple enough: they're to don their masks and show at YggdraCorp as Harrison Fire and Mary Goround respectively, ready to take on their jobs right away. Both of them have been taken into custody over the weekend, and both of them have been questioned. They have spoken, of course – they were made to speak, though the Phantom doesn't quite care to know by what means – and it has become clear that yes, YggdraCorp is involved with unethical human experiments in several countries.

Neither of them knew the details or the purpose; information between departments was strictly controlled even within YggdraCorp itself. But then again, that's why they're going to take their places: to find out more.

The Yatagarasu grins. "What, afraid I'll mess up? I'm hurt. And here I believed I thought higher of me."

"I probably would if that laughter of yours didn't nearly blow our cover in Zheng Fa last year."

Predictably, she laughs at the remark. "Haha! Still sulking over that? Nothing happened. You should give me more credit: I lasted years in the Interpol, and no one knew. Lang trusted me blindly, while I'm pretty sure Blackquill never let Fulbright even see your psych profile in the year you posed as him," she adds, and smirks when the Phantom's frame stiffens.

B-B-But I thought you believed me…?!

Silence! Ha ha ha ha ha! Oh, how you amuse me so!

Simon was only pretending to believe Detective Fulbright… he knew I'd notice if there was a lack of emotions, like joy or relief, in his response.

"... Lang must have been quite the trusting fool," is all the Phantom mutters before walking past her and out of the kitchen. She doesn't say anything, nor she tries to follow him, and it's a relief.

He longs for darkness and silence and dreamless sleep before he takes over someone else's life once again.

"This is quite the canary you've got."

Blackquill's lips curl in a faint smirk almost against his own will. Normally, he wouldn't allow anyone to call Taka a canary without being cut down, or getting to taste his hawk's talons. But, he has to admit, it isn't truly bothered by Lang's use of the word – especially since Taka doesn't seem to mind, either, and lets Lang scratch the back of his head. That's quite a sight: Taka's trust is even harder to gain then Blackquill's own, and he can't think of anyone who's allowed to pet him aside from himself and sometimes Athena.

Fulbright could.

The thought is like a sudden, cold shower. That much is true: for quite a while the only other person who could touch Taka aside from himself was Fulbright. It wasn't Fulbright, of course, it never was, but Fulbright was the one Taka had come to know – to the point he wouldn't even recognize the man who once fed him once the mask was down. LaRoche told him as much, in this very office.

I was told he still shows at the clink from time to time. They told me he come to rest on your cell's window.

Yes, it happens from time to time. I assume he still thinks you'll be found there. He never stays much, though. He... doesn't recognize me.

Blackquill chases the memory away, ignoring the bitterness it never fails to cause, and turns his attention back to Lang. "Taka doesn't usually let strangers touch him. Do you have experience with falconry?"

The question seems to amuse Lang for some reason. "Hah! I'm afraid not. I'm more of a dog person myself. But I can appreciate a fine predator," he adds, smoothing down the feathers on Taka's back before turning to Blackquill and walking up to his desk. "Speaking of predators, here's something you'll like – we have permission to access to the YggdraCorp's headquarters here in LA any time we see fitting," he says, and grins. "Will you be joining me this afternoon?"

His expression is that of a man who knows what answer he should expect, and Blackquill has no intention to disappoint him. "Hmph. Like you need to ask," he says. "That was remarkably quick."

Lang nods. "Lang Zi says: before aiming for the throat, chew the neck shield off," he says. "There would be no advancing the investigation if we didn't get through their refusal to cooperate first. Thankfully, the Interpol could put enough pressure on the CEO; she must have realized that refusing would make them seem even more suspicious. Of course, officially we're only looking into Stand Doff's death and past."

Blackquill isn't surprised to hear that. With no real proof of wrongdoing from their part, Interpol must be very careful not to expose what they know, what their investigation is truly about. If YggdraCorp is indeed involved in something illegal they'll obviously try to hide it, but it's for the best that they don't know how much they know. "You're leading them to believe you suspect Doff, and not the company, of wrongdoing."

"Precisely. How much they really believe that is debatable; people with a dirty conscience are more alert than a hare in a field, ready to spot dangers where there is none. But you shouldn't concern yourself with any of this," he adds. "Lang Zi says: a wolf who aims to hunt for two rabbits at once is bound to fail. I'm rather certain the same applies to birds of prey."

"In other words, you wish me to focus on the investigation on Stan Doff's death and leave the rest to you."

Agent Lang nods. "Yes. Don't get me wrong – if you happen to find relevant information, do share," he says with a laugh. "My pack is far from picky. And, as a certain prosecutor taught me, truth can find the most unexpected ways to make itself known. But we have different goals, you and I; you have a murder to look into, while I'm out to find out the truth behind whatever business YggdraCorp is involved into... and to track down a certain venomous snake who made the mistake of hiding in my very bosom for years."

"The two things are very likely to be connected," Blackquill points out. He finds it rather preposterous to assume otherwise. Lang himself pointed out as much, after all.

"They are certainly connected," Lang concedes. "Which is why I'll hold back no information from you should we find any. But, for the moment, I think it's best we focus on our respective cases at hand. Even though, at least officially, we're on the same case."

Blackquill can definitely see his point. He nods. "Very well. I'll focus on everything concerning Stan Doff and let you know what I uncover. I believe a talk with YggdraCorp's chief of staff is in order. Even though Mr. Doff had his own office elsewhere, he still worked for the company. Its chief of staff is bound to have at least some information."

Lang smirks. "Sounds good. I'll have a nice talk with the CEO and see what my men can find around. I'm sure working with you is going to be interesting. I'm curious to see what you're made of on the field," he adds. "Mr. Pros- the Chief Prosecutor speaks very highly of you. I look forward to be impressed."

"I look forward to deliver, then," Blackquill says, and he means it. If Stan Doff was truly involved with experimenting on human beings, he certainly deserved his fate – but his murderer must still be caught, and Blackquill will leave no stone unturned to find our precisely what happened to him.

"An Interpol investigation?"

Surprise is not something the Phantom needs to fake just know, very much unlike the voice and mannerism: that of the Interpol being onto YggdraCorp is news to him as it would be to the real Harrison Fire. How could he not know such crucial information beforehand? The government certainly would know if the Interpol was investigating on a company on American soil; why was no such information passed on to him or the Yatagarasu? Has there been a mistake, a miscommunication of some sort? Or perhaps they knew too late to pass on the information to them on time?

Either way, they certainly have had rotten luck this time around: this is quite the hassle to land in on their first day impersonating those two.

Entirely unaware of the Phantom's thoughts, the woman – Ann Tylor Dote, renewed researcher back in her youth and now CEO of YggdraCorp – nods. She's sitting at her desk, chin resting on her folded hands as the looks at her company's chief of staff: a man with pale skin, rusty red hair and dark eyes, impeccably dressed as always. "Precisely," she says calmly. Nothing in her posture and mannerism shows the slightest amount of concern. "In relation to Mr. Doff's tragic death, apparently."

Stan Doff. The Phantom briefly searches his mind for information connected to that name, and finds it readily. Harrison, the real Harrison, said he was murdered – by the CEO's order. He had said he had been meddling with things he shouldn't have meddled with, apparently trying to double-cross them in some way, but he hadn't known the details. That's annoying, but very convenient right now: the less details Harrison Fire knew, the less the Phantom needs to remember now.

But then again... "His murder was a local matter. The Interpol's involvement must mean there is more to it," Harrison Fire says in a slow, calculated voice.

Dote nods, reaching up to run a hand through her hair. It's iron gray now, but it used to be black. "That much is certain. We know the Interpol found the facility in Reijam shortly after it was abandoned. The spies who forced us to abandon that place seem to have done us a favor, whoever they were," she adds with a smirk. "Hadn't it been for them, the Interpol may have found our men still in... along with quite some damning evidence. We'll make sure to thank them before they die should they meddle with our business again."

Harrison nods. He knows – because the other Harrison knows – that, while they still have no real clue who was it to infiltrate their facility in Reijam, they have hired someone to be on the lookout should they show up again. If he could allow himself feel amusement right now, the Phantom could consider it quite amusing: they're already there and no one has the slightest clue.

"Are you certain our man is trustworthy?" Harrison asks. The real Harrison Fire had some misgivings on the man the company had hired to look out for more spies, he knows. He isn't a very trusting man, and apparently this man used to be a spy himself. He knows nothing more about this person, though: Dr. Dote didn't share many details on the matter with her chief of staff.

The CEO chuckles. "We're not going over this again, Harrison. It takes a spy to catch a spy, after all. He was supposed to be here today, but I'd rather get the Interpol off our back first. Them, and our local police. This annoying prosecutor wouldn't take a no for an answer, and the Interpol forced me to let him in as well," Dr. Dote adds with a sigh. "But it matters not. I'll deal with the Interpol; you'll talk with this Simon Blackquill and tell him we know nothing- Harrison?" she calls out, frowning slightly. "Is everything alright?"

No.

"... My apologies. I skipped breakfast this morning; my low blood pressure didn't take it well," the Phantom – Harrison Fire – says with an apologetic smile. "I'll grab something from a vending machine."

Not Blackquill, not him, not him of all people. This wasn't supposed to happen, is all he can think. It shouldn't have happened, should never have happened. I can't do this, I can't face him, I can't-

The Phantom forces himself to end that line of thought, forces himself to shut down all emotion – all of it – before he starts screaming, or laughing, or crying... or all of it at once.

Control. Mind over matter. Mind over matter.

I am no one. I am nothing but an endless abyss.

There is nothing inside as long as I will it. Nothing.

Dr. Date nods, clearly amused and entirely unaware of the turmoil that's been going on behind the mask. "Do that. It would certainly make the wrong impression if you fainted before this Blackquill. Last thing I need to deal with are accusations of working you into exhaustion."

Harrison Fire gives a polite laugh, as expected of him, and promises he'll have breakfast before dealing with Blackquill.

Pity that he needs to keep his mind clear, because some alcohol to go with said breakfast would be much appreciated right now.

"What does it mean, an Interpol investigation?"

Her tone of voice usually ranging from 'high' to 'very high', it takes the Yatagarasu some effort to keep her voice low. The room she's in is empty, sure enough – no one is back from the lunch break yet, and Mary Goround is the hard-working type who often skips it – but one can never be too sure.

"Just what it sounds like it means," the Phantom's voice – well, not really his now, is it? – comes from the receiver built in her watch. "Apparently, the Interpol found the facility in Reijam and somehow made the connection with YggdraCorp. They must be on our same trail. I have no idea why we were not informed, but that changes nothing. Fact stays that the Interpol will be here shortly, along with Blackquill. They should have no reason to talk to you, but that doesn't mean you should be unaware."

"... Are you going to have meet him?"

"I'll have to talk to Blackquill, yes," the Phantom replies. His voice is absolutely flat, no emotion at all showing... but she knows he's shaken, he must be. Having to face Blackquill is perhaps the thing she fears the most in the world; she come to know that very well. "He's here in relation to Stan Doff's murder. I already know what lies I have to feed him on YggdraCorp's behalf. It won't be hard. Besides, I have no choice. There is no way to avoid it without causing suspicion."

"You could get out through the sewers, escape to Eagle Mountain and hide as a nun in Hazakura Temple."

"... Which part of the chief of staff running away would not, pray tell, cause suspicion?"

She sighs. "That was a joke. I was trying to make you lighten up," she says, absentmindedly glancing out of the window. She can see the entrance of the building from there... and the car that is now stopping before it. She looks on as the car's door open and a man steps out. A man she knows well. "... Lang," she says.

"What?"

Oh, right. The Phantom is listening to her; she almost forgot for a moment. "Agent Lang. He's coming in."

"That Agent Lang?"

"No, the evil twin."

"I'll assume that was a joke."

"Obviously," she says. There is a moment of silence as the Yatagarasu stares out of the window, watching Shi-Long Lang striding towards the door with Simon Blackquill by his side. He hasn't changed these years, she thinks – he hasn't changed one bit. And somehow it feels good to see him there, even if she knows he may be a pain in the neck and, who knows, maybe even get her. It's like seeing an old friend again. "Ha. Hah. Hahahahaha! Quite the coincidence, huh? Lang and Blackquill at once! Well, isn't this exciting."

"Not quite my choice of words," is the Phantom's flat reply.

She grins. "Oh? And what would your choice of words be?"

"Something along the lines of 'fuck this' and 'why me', I suppose."

"Pfft, hahaha! It's funny to hear you cuss. How do you stay so deadpan while saying everything?"

"At least one of us is amused," the Phantom says drily, and the next moment the communication is cut off.

She sighs, smile slowly fading. Despite all the excitement and thrill – he's here, Lang of all people is here, what are the odds? – she has to admit that there is nothing funny about the thought the Phantom is about to have to face Blackquill again.

Nothing too funny, anyway.

"You'll be received in a minute, sir. Please make yourself comfortable as you wait."

Blackquill merely nods at the receptionist and goes to sit on one of the black leather couches in the foyer. As he waits – not for long, hopefully; Lang was led to the CEO's office right away – he takes a look around. The place is impressive, but that's no surprise: YggdraCorp is an extremely successful company. Not that Blackquill is impressed: human experiments cross the border between unethical and abhorrent by a fair bit.

"Prosecutor Blackquill, I presume?" a voice calls out. Blackquill turns to see a man walking up to him, a man with rusty red hair and a pale complexion.

He stands and nods at him. "That's correct. And who may you be?" he inquires. The man gives him the aseptic smile Blackquill has come to associate with high ranking corporate executives.

"I'm Harrison Fire, chief of staff. Pleased to make your acquaintance," he adds, holding out his hand. It's a hand which Blackquill has no desire to shake, so he deliberately ignores it. Fire keeps holding it out for a few moments before he lowers it with a small, embarrassed cough. "Er. It's my understanding that you're here in relation to Stan Doff's tragic death. We were all deeply shocked by his passing."

"I can imagine," Blackquill says drily. "We can take this to your office, I presume?"

"Of course. This way," Mr. Fire says, turning and gesturing for him to follow. And follow he does, readying himself to force the truth out of this man if he must. Because he shall have answers – no matter what.