A/N: finally, some interaction between Blackquill and the Phantom! It sure took more than expected to get to it. And I even had to move a scene back by yet another chapter so that this wouldn't get overly long. I'm starting to think I was wrong when I said this fic was going to be "a lot" shorter than TttP was. Damn.
"Hey, birdbrain! Look here! Look what I've got!"
Seymour has barely the time to lift his eyes from his book when Robb just lands on the mattress next to him, causing him to yelp. "Hey! Watch it!" he protests. "You'll land on me and break some bone one of these-" he begins, only to trail off when Robb shoves something under his nose. He blinks, rearing back, and his eyes widen when he realizes what it is.
Robb grins widely at his surprise. "Like it? I saw it at the flea market, with the guy who's always selling old coins and jewels and whatnot. He didn't even see me taking it," he boasts. "And I'm pretty sure it's real crystal, too!"
The look of wonder on Seymour's face fades a little, and he looks away from the crystal bird in Robb's cupped hands to look up at him. "You should stay away from that guy," he says. "Didn't you hear that he broke someone's wrists when he caught them stealing from his stall?"
"Hah! He'd have to catch me first," Robb snorts. "I'm too fast for him. And I told you, he didn't even see me. I'm good."
"Why did you even take it? It's not your kind of thing."
The question causes Robb to roll his eyes a little. Really, Seymour can be surprisingly dense for someone who's so book smart. "Gee, what do you think? It's for you, stupid," he says, and puts the crystal bird on the still open book on Seymour's lap. "Happy birthday and stuff."
"... Ah," Seymour says, and for a moment he seems at a total loss; Robb is ready to bet he didn't think he'd remember. He reaches to take the crystal bird and holds it in his cupped hands. "For me?" he asks, sounding nothing short of incredulous.
"Can't see any other birdbrain around," Robb says with a shrug, finally moving from his crouching position to sit down properly.
"You shouldn't have...!"
"I do what I want," Robb cuts him off with a grin before he turns slightly more serious and reaches up to rub the back of his neck. "Look, I've been thinking-"
"Thinking? Hang in there, I'll call the press," Seymour says, causing Robb to snort.
"Oh, ha-ha. I'm being serious here!" he retorts, and the smirk that was widening on Seymour's face fades a little. It isn't often that he gets serious.
"What is it?"
Robb bites his lower lip before speaking, eyes shifting down on the floor. "I, uh... well. I'm leaving," he says.
That causes Seymour's eyes to widen, mouth falling open. "You... what?"
With a shrug and what he hopes is a confident grin, Robb looks back up at him. "Hey, why not? A lot of the others already did. I'm thirteen already. I can be on my own. And we'll be kicked out by the time we're fifteen anyway, so why wait?"
"You're not thirteen already. You're just thirteen!" Seymour points out, causing Robb to snort.
"Hey, so are you. You just turned thirteen today, really. I'm older than you are!"
"Except that I'm not thinking of going off to be on my own on the street!" Seymour retorts.
"... Ah," Robb says, dropping his shoulders, and Seymour blinks at the sudden change of attitude.
"What is it?"
Robb clears his throat. "Well, I was... I can be on my own, really. I'm good! I can look after myself. I just was thinking that it wouldn't be fun if I was really on my own, so... yeah, I was thinking... if you'd like to, you know... well..." he tries to grin at Seymour again, but the other boy just keeps staring at him, the crystal bird still held against his chest. "Look, why don't you come with me?" he finally blurts out before he can just run out of courage and just decide to forget about the whole idea.
Seymour blinks, staring at him as though he's just grown antlers. "You can't be serious!" he exclaims, and there is a sudden stab of panic in Robb's chest because he didn't seriously think he could tell him no until now, not really, and he isn't sure what he'll do if he refuses. Go anyway? No, he doesn't really want to be alone out there, but he doesn't really want to stay, either, and... and...!
"I am! Just hear me out," Robb says, holding up his hands. "We'd be fine! We can both get the stuff we need anyway! We do that all the time and we only come back here for dinner and sleep anyway! I also found a place to stay," he adds quickly before Seymour can object. "It's a good place! It could be our place, just for the two of us!"
That causes Seymour to pause, his skepticism giving way to mild curiosity. "What place?"
Robb grins. "It's an old house! The one near the old market, remember? It's abandoned, but in a not too bad state. It's boarded up, but there is this board that can be moved to get inside – and I can put it back in place, too! It doesn't look like it's loose at all! And even if someone gets in, there are a lot of places where we can hide our stuff! Like my slingshot and your books and your bird," he adds, nodding at the crystal bird he just gave him. "We can make it our own place! Like... like a nest or something! We'll just need to get a couple of mattresses and blankets there!" he adds, still giving him no time to object. He's got to convince him, and to convince him he needs to keep talking, to explain why it's a really good idea and they should go through with it. "And we'd come and go as we please! No one to tell us what to do! And... and we can stay up late!"
Seymour bites his lower lip, and Robb has to keep his grin from widening – because he's starting to like the idea, he knows he is, and that means he really has a shot at convincing him.
"Are you... are you sure you want to go?" he finally asks, his voice shaking a little. Robb knows what he's really asking, if he wants to go so badly that he'd leave him behind in the orphanage and go, and he opens his mouth to say yes... only that he can't. He wants to leave and do as he pleases, sure, but he doesn't really want to do that alone: he wants Seymour to be with him. For a moment he almost wants to lie, to say that of course he would so that Seymour will get scared of being left behind and come with him... but what if he doesn't? What if he chooses to stay there without him?
Sure, he thinks, he wouldn't... but what if?
"... If you come with me," he finally says, and reaches to put an arm around Seymour's shoulders. "C'mon, birdbrain. We'll be fine, and it will be fun."
Seymour seems still hesitant, but now he's smiling a little. He doesn't shake his arm off, and he's still holding the gift he brought him close to his chest. "You really think we'll be fine?"
"I know we'll be fine!" Robb exclaims, now absolutely confident. "We can take on the world, birdbrain. Trust me."
"You have quite the impressive office."
The Phantom smiles, because this is exactly what Harrison Fire would do: pretend not to have noticed the fact Blackquill sounds anything but impressed and politely thank him.
"Thank you. I'm afraid I often fail to clean up after myself, but the cleaning service does an outstanding job at keeping it clean. You'd be far less impressed if it wasn't for them," he says with a pleasant laugh.
Blackquill hums, hangs his coat and turns his gaze to Fire's desk. It's large, though not as large as the CEO's, and made of metal. "I was almost expecting mahogany," Blackquill says. The Phantom knows him too well not to know what he's doing: trying to gather information about Harrison Fire's personality by observing his workspace. He can handle it, sure enough... but soon Blackquill's attention will focus on him.
He's not looking forward to it, but as he has no choice but put on his best act and become Harrison Fire.
"I was tempted by it, I have to admit," the Phantom – Harrison – says. "But I find it unpractical. I'm inclined to let my coffee fall over more often than I'd like to admit, and wiping the stain off metal is infinitely easier," he adds. Harrison Fire was – is? Does he still live, or have they ended him? He doesn't know – a competent man in his work, but tends to be rather clumsy at everyday tasks. If he's to try putting up an innocent façade, underlining this trait seems only logical. It won't be enough to sway Blackquill, he knows, but it's still something Harrison would likely attempt.
After all, Harrison Fire never met Simon Blackquill until today.
Blackquill hums and turns his full attention back to him. He looks somewhat different from how he did last time the Phantom saw him: his skin is less pale and his hair cut short as it was before imprisonment, the dark marks under his eyes having faded for the most part. The Phantom heard of him from time to time in the past two years, and he knows his career is quite successful.
Of course, he could hardly inquire about his state of mind... but he can tell now that he no longer looks haunted as he did until two years ago. It's as though a weight, one that stayed even after his shackles were removed, was lifted from his shoulders. It's good to see that, to see that he moved on, that letting Robert LaRoche die on the gallows was at least worth something. Painful, in its own way... but its what he wanted, he tells himself as he meets Blackquill's gaze.
His eyes have not changed: dark, hardened gray eyes that are now narrowed at him. Blackquill is not bothering to feign friendliness, but then again the Phantom didn't expect him to. He wonders just how much he knows of what's actually going on with YggdraCorp: for all he knows, he may know even more than he and the Yatagarasu do.
The Phantom keeps Harrison's pleasant expression up and nods towards one end of the office. There are a couple of armchairs and a small leather couch there. "Let's sit down. Do you wish for a drink as we speak?" I promised this one won't be poisoned. "I promise I'll be careful not to spill it on you."
Blackquill walks past him and to the couch without so much of a glance. "A glass of brandy, since you so nicely offered," he says, sitting on the couch, and doesn't take his eyes off him as he pulls out two glasses and a bottle of brandy from the liquor cabinet. Acutely aware of Blackquill's gaze on him, the Phantom can't help but think back to the first time they shared a drink... although they didn't quite share, did they?
I see you helped yourself to the liquor cabinet. I was under the impression you were a teetotal.
Fulbright was.
And you're not?
Apparently not. The more you know. You could have told me sooner you had this in your office. I would have come over a lot more willingly.
The memory of that afternoon – the afternoon he almost died after he barely managed to stop Blackquill from following his lead to the underworld – causes something in his stomach to clench, and the Phantom can tell thinking about it was not a wise idea. He tries to chase the memory from his mind, but it's too late, the thought of what happened next already filling his mind.
Don't. Don't speak, don't... God damn you, don't. I chased you for so long. Stay. Don't go where I can't follow, Fool Bright.
Who... W-who... am I...?
We'll find out. You have my word, we'll find out. We will. Don't die on me. We need to do this.
Our... last case... together... right?
That's right. We'll get to the bottom of it. You have my word.
And they did, didn't they? Blackquill didn't rest until the Phantom had a name to call his own; he kept his word, and asked for one thing only in return – for Robert LaRoche to face his demise as a man. He had promised he would; he gave his word.
A word worth less than nothing.
No, part of him still maintains, Robert LaRoche kept his word. LaRoche died that day; it is the Phantom who lived on. The thought is both comforting and painful, but he still clings to it, willing himself not to think of it as a mere excuse, willing himself not to think of what Blackquill would think of it.
He'd cut me down here and now if he knew.
But he will not know. He must not. He can't allow it.
Harrison puts down the bottle and puts up a pleasant smile as he walks up to the armchair and sits after placing Blackquill's glasses on the small table between them. He leans back, as Harrison would, and lifts his own glass the moment Blackquill picks up his.
"Well then. You're here to talk about poor Stan's death. Truly a tragedy. In what way can I help you?" he asks. He knows that is what Blackquill is there to talk about, and Harrison was never the kind of man to let someone else lead a potentially dangerous conversation if he can avoid it.
Blackquill takes a swig of brandy before speaking. "How long has Mr. Doff worked for you?" he asks, not bothering with preambles. He's not doing much to hide his suspicion, either, and it takes him some effort to keep well in mind that it's directed to Harrison Fire and not to the Phantom.
Harrison bites his lower lip as if in thought and glances down at his own glass. "Let me think... about... yes, it would have been nine years next month."
"Did you hire him?"
He shakes his head. "No. I wasn't the chief of staff yet back then. I think the CEO herself hired him. Stan had a most impressive curriculum; I cannot in all conscience fault her choice."
Blackquill's eyes narrow for a moment, but he doesn't press on that point. He's thinking of the Interpol agents who are talking to the CEO right now, no doubt. "You made quite the position for yourself. How long have you been working here?"
"Fifteen years," Harrison replies without missing a beat. "I became the chief of staff some five years ago."
"And you're the one in charge for hiring, aren't you?"
"Among other things and with the CEO's ultimate approval, yes. But, as I said, it was not me to hire Stan. That was a personal choice of the CEO, as far as I know."
"His role was that of R&D supervisor, is that correct?"
"It is."
"And yet he had his office in a separate building. One that did not belong to your company," Blackquill points out. "How come?"
Harrison sighs. "Ah, that was quite the hassle, to be sure," he says. "You see, Stan was brilliant – absolutely brilliant, you have to believe me – but he liked to set his own rules for his work. Not only that, but he kept working as a researcher in plenty of fields. I think he saw himself as a scientist who would work with us, sure enough, but not necessarily for us. Having his own, privately owned office was simply part of his way of working."
That causes Blackquill to further narrow his eyes, which is no surprise: he knows that Stan Doff was murdered, and if he suspects YggdraCorp then it's easy to think that the fact Stan Doff may have been less the dedicated to the company must seem like a possible reason. Still, it's not something Harrison would be able to hide – therefore, the best course of action for him would be explaining it with the least possible animosity. The illusion of a friendly environment won't be enough, the Phantom knows, but it's what Harrison Fire would attempt regardless.
"And the CEO was alright with it all?" Blackquill asks.
Harrison gives a pleasant laugh and takes a swig of his drink before replying. "Just between you and me-"
"Do not mock my intelligence," Blackquill cuts him off, his voice suddenly sharp. For a moment before Blackquill speaks again – just one moment – the Phantom's heart seems to skip a beat. "Whatever is about to leave your mouth is hardly something meant to be between the two of us."
It's not an unexpected outburst, but Harrison doesn't know Blackquill, and therefore he's surprised. He blinks at him a few times before speaking. "Well, true enough. That's just a manner of-"
"Silence. Spare me your jabbering and tell me how come the CEO tolerated this sort of behavior – or perhaps she didn't, after all?"
Harrison stares at Blackquill, allowing his expression to sour for a moment before bringing back up a polite, aseptic smile. Any attempt at being friendly now would feel forced, and Harrison Fire would want his act to feel as natural as possible.
The Phantom wants his act to feel as natural as possible.
"The CEO could get annoyed from time to time, yes. Why, I would get annoyed from time to time," he adds, and lets some warmth back in his smile as though he's bringing back fond memories. "Stan was difficult to work with, I'll give you that. In a company like this, teamwork is everything. I should know. But he wasn't much of a team player. He had his own times, his own rules. But," he adds before Blackquill can speak again, "as I told you, he was brilliant. If YggdraCorp is a leading company in its field, it's partly thanks to him. We put up with his oddities because it was worth it, prosecutor Blackquill. His death was a tragedy and a loss for this company."
There is a sharper edge to Harrison's voice towards the end, one the Phantom knows Blackquill will not miss. Harrison could be pleasant and accommodating as long as he ought to be, but he didn't appreciate being snapped at the way Blackquill did. Not that there are many people who would, to be fair.
"Hmph." Blackquill takes another swig of his brandy. "What was he working on before he died?"
"I'm afraid I don't know the details, as I'm not strictly a man of science," he says. "If an utterly unscientific explanation works for you, I can tell he was working on optic nerve repair."
"The optic nerve?"
"Yes. It was part of an ambitious project to create a functioning, fully artificial eye that would look everything like a real one. Once installed in the socket and connected to the optic nerve, it would allow people to regain their sight. As long as the area of the brain designed to elaborate images was not damaged, of course. But he was working on that, too. He was hoping to find a way to chemically reprogram and repair damaged brain areas," he says.
That much is true, he knows that for a fact – although it was a side project that is not... whatever YggdraCorp is truly working on with human subjects. Still, it's what he was told to tell Blackquill. A shame that Harrison Fire wasn't let on the details of what they're exactly working on.
Blackquill gives a lopsided smirk. "A true good Samaritan, wasn't he?" he asks, his voice dripping with sarcasm. Still, the Phantom pretends not to have noticed.
"He was a man of science, and I never said he wasn't a good man. He was simply difficult to get along with."
"Someone got along with him so little they murdered him and left his body to rot."
The emphasis on that last word is hardly surprising: the Phantom knows that Stan Doff's body was at an unexplained, advanced state of decay... much like that of the politician back in Reijam, whose trail had led them to YggdraCorp. If he's working with the Interpol, Blackquill must know it... and he must of course have guessed it cannot be a coincidence.
"A truly terrible crime, yes," Harrison says, putting down his glass. "But I'm certain the police will be able to find the murderer, eventually. Stan didn't deserve-"
"Were you aware that Stan Doff was involved with illegal, highly unethical experiments in a country called Reijam?" Blackquill cuts him of, leaning forward slightly – like a bird of prey ready to swoop down on a field rat. Like he looked at him in the courtroom, determined to take him down.
Silence! Further investigation? More like plotting your escape. But no more! I will bring you to justice myself if I must, here and now!
He would do that if he knew who he's facing, the Phantom knows, and perhaps it would be for the best – because the thought of living to see what Blackquill would say, what he would think if he knew is unbearable. And as he rears back in shock, sputtering and stammering, the Phantom has to wonder how much of it is truly an act.
"What...? No, that's impossible! Stan's work ethics...!"
"His work ethics were non-existent. Smoke and mirrors, nothing else. There is proof of his involvement with experimentation on human beings in Reijam. He used humans as lab lats, and you truly believed him to be a good Samaritan? How pathetic."
Something in Blackquill's voice causes something in his chest to ache, and for a moment the Phantom forgets the mask he's wearing, forgets it's not him Blackquill's disdain is aimed to – because it would be if he only knew that he still lives, that he was too much of a coward to face death and would sooner keep living a mockery of a life and leave his face and name behind once more.
How pathetic. You can't even speak without wearing another man's face.
Ah, but that's the life of an undercover agent for you. My real face has no meaning or value to me at all.
...Or perhaps it is really the case that you don't even know who you are anymore. What must you see when you look in a mirror, Mr. Phantom? Not an awful lot, I'd wager.
No, the Phantom thinks in sudden terror. No, no, no, no. I know who I am. I am the Phantom. I was Robert LaRoche. That's who I was. I have a self. I didn't forget. I cannot forget.
Robert LaRoche is dead, and you will forget.
No.
Your forgot him once already. You forgot Robb. You forgot Seymour. You will forget again.
No, I-
"You forgot me."
The voice is frighteningly familiar, and hearing it feels like a cold shower. The Phantom slowly lifts his gaze to look at Blackquill, but he's no longer there and someone else sits in his place – a boy no older than fifteen with black hair mattered with blood and dark, accusing eyes.
"You left me behind to die and then you forgot all about me," he says, his voice quiet. Some blood drips down from the hole in his head and into his eyes, but he doesn't even blink. "Like I never existed."
It wasn't my fault, the Phantom wants to say. He wants to say he never meant to forget, that his memories were taken from him, that he's sorry he left him behind, that there was nothing he could have done to help him – but none of those words comes out, and Seymour Blaxton speaks again.
"I trusted you, Robb. Why did you let me die?"
I trusted you.
Humans can't truly trust each other, which is exactly why the illusion of trust is so enticing.
In justice we trust!
We can take on the world, birdbrain. Trust me.
Robb! Please, come back! Help me, don't leave me here! Robb! NO! Please, don't! Robert! ROB-
"NO!"
The Phantom screws his eyes shut and inhales, his mind reeling. This isn't happening, this cannot be happening, this is illogical. Seymour has been dead for almost thirty years now and there is no way, there is simply no way he's now sitting there before him and-
"Fire!"
The Phantom's eyes snap open, and he's taken aback to realize that Blackquill's face is right before his, his hands grasping his shoulders. He looks rather puzzled and somewhat alarmed, and the Phantom realizes just now he cried out loud. His eyes shift through the room, but Seymour – whatever he thought was Seymour – is nowhere to be seen.
He was never there; he couldn't possibly be.
Ignoring the terrifyingly powerful urge to cling to Blackquill, the Phantom draws in a deep breath and pulls away from Blackquill's grasp. "I... my apologies. I forgot myself," he says in a calmer, if still shaky voice. Blackquill seems still puzzled, but he does sit back and Harrison speaks again before he can. He has to explain the outburst – he needs to explain it. Thankfully, the situation is giving him just the right excuse. "I'm just... unsettled. I would have never thought... good grief. Do you truly believe Stan was involved with such a thing?"
Blackquill leans back, a thoughtful frown on his face. "The Interpol is fairly certain of it," he says slowly, eying him carefully. There is no doubt that he's not quite sure what to think of what he just witnessed, but that doubt speaks volumes to the Phantom: he came to the meeting convinced that YggdraCorp – and, by extension, its chief of staff – had to be behind the murder; now the suspicion is still there, plain as day, but the certainty is not.
Or at least, if he still believes YggdraCorp to be involved, he may be starting to doubt Harrison Fire had a role in it. That would suit him just fine, because there is nothing he wants more than getting Blackquill's attention well away from the man he's impersonating right now.
Harrison reaches for the handkerchief in his suit's breast pocket and uses it to wipe his face. The mask allows perspiration, of course, and the cold drops of sweat on it are real – as is the slight tremor in his voice when he speaks again.
"I can hardly believe it," he says, his voice shaking. "It is... not my intention to doubt your word or that of the Interpol, of course. It simply seems surreal to even think of. It goes without saying you can count on our complete cooperation, although I'm afraid it won't help much."
That statement causes Blackquill's eyes to narrow again, the earlier surprise entirely fading. "Let us be the judge of what. Did he not work for you?"
Harrison nods and reaches with a shaky hand to pick up the glass and empty it in one gulp. The Phantom assumes that what Harrison would do when upset or when trying to appear upset, but at this point hardly any acting is needed: he's shaken, and he can't pretend to ignore it for one instant.
"As I told you, Stan didn't quite work for us as he worked with us," Harrison says. "As you recall, he had his own separate office and... wasn't quite the team player. But he was a leading authority in his field, and I'm certain YggdraCorp wasn't the only company he worked with. If he was indeed involved in something so inhuman through this company, I'm certain I would know," he says , then pauses and gives a weak chuckle. "But then again, you do only have my word that I didn't. That's... fair enough. Am I a suspect, Prosecutor Blackquill?"
"We're still looking into the matter," is all Blackquill says before leaning back. He's still observing him carefully, but his words are spoken slowly and he seems less outwardly aggressive. "I have a few more questions about Mr. Doff and his work here. Questions I believe you may be able to answer."
Harrison immediately nods and straightens himself. "By all means, ask away," he says.
Blackquill does ask, of course, but it's nothing he doesn't know how to answer to. The rest of the meeting is relatively easy to go through, but until the very end of it the Phantom feels as though an icy hand is gripping his insides – and he knows it's not only because of Blackquill's presence. As he speaks and speaks and speaks, he can hear the Yatagarasu's voice echoing in the back of his mind.
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.
Now he knows one of the side effects of dream suppressants, if anything: daytime hallucinations. And it's not good, it's not good at all. He's supposed to be in control of everything, and seeing things that are not there - things that can throw him in such a state of distress is the opposite of being in control. He was able to turn the tables at his advantage this time, but he can't hope to be this lucky again.
Another hallucination, another moment like that could be his undoing – especially now that there is a spy set to work for YggdraCorp as well, someone meant to be on the lookout for him and the Yatagarasu. He needs to regain full control, and quickly.
He can only hope that interrupting the intake of the dream suppressants will make the hallucination end right away without lingering any further.
The Yatagarasu knows even before setting foot out of the labs that this is not her brightest idea yet.
She's not supposed to leave the labs with the Interpol walking around, talking to everyone they can catch – interns, receptionists, anyone going out for a cigarette break. Especially not knowing that Lang is there as well. But really, who is she kidding? Lang is the reason why she's out of the lab.
It's not like her absence would make anyone wonder: she stayed over the lunch break to work – and to wire the phones while she was at it, because being able to listen to every communication going in or out of the lab is certainly worth a shot – and no one would see anything odd with her taking a cigarette break now.
Not that she has a cigarette on her right now, but that's far from a problem.
She spots Lang right at the entrance, talking with one of his men. He looks annoyed, and she can tell right away he wasn't able to get much out of the CEO. Blackquill is nowhere to be seen, which leads her to assume he's still talking to the Phantom. She can only hope the Phantom won't mess this up, but then again hell would have broken loose by now if he did.
Besides, Blackquill is his to deal with. She's going to be busy with Lang now.
"I'm sorry, do you happen to have a cigarette? I left mind back in my locker and I really don't feel like going back down three floors."
Both Lang and his agent turn to look at her. She recognizes the other agent as well, one of Lang's men – and a smoker, she recalls, which works perfectly for her right now. He's the one to nod and hand her a cigarette before holding out the lighter as well.
"Thank you! You saved my life," she says, smiling at both of them even though Lang didn't move nor said a word to her. He's looking at her, though: what he sees is a woman in her thirties with dark skin, wiry hair escaping her lab hat and dark brown eyes. Those eyes are still her own, for it's a feature she shares with the real Mary Goround and no contacts were needed, and somehow the notion sends a familiar thrill up her spine when her gaze meets Lang's.
He shows no sign of recognition – of course not: why should he? He has no reason to even suspect she's involved – but he finally tilts his head slightly to acknowledge her presence. "Do you work in the lab?" he asks, as though her clothing isn't making it obvious enough. She ignores the temptation to point out what a useless question that was – well, duh – and nods.
"Yes. Are you the police? Are you here for what happened to Mr. Doff?" she asks, taking a long drag of her cigarette and leaning against the wall just outside the entrance. She keeps her tone casual, but curious enough. Mary Goround had no personal connections to Stan Doff, and thus it would make little sense for her to be overly upset. Somewhat unsettled, maybe, but nothing more.
Lang gestures for his agent to leave before turning his full attention back to her. He doesn't seem to think much of her – why should he? – but he clearly isn't letting any chance to ask questions pass by. "We're the Interpol, actually. We believe Mr. Doff's death may have ties with another case we're working on; your CEO has been rather cooperative, so we'll be taking our leave shortly. Did you know the victim personally?"
She shakes her head. "No, not really. He was brilliant, I know that much, but he rarely came here personally," she says. She doesn't try to ask for more information about the Interpol's case: she already knows Lang would never divulge details of any kind to people who are not supposed to know. "I met him a few times while I was on my cigarette break and he was coming in or going out, and he always scolded me. A ugly habit, he called it."
Lang snorts lightly. "He had a point."
The Yatagarasu chuckles and man, isn't it hard not to let it turn into a full-blown laugh. She manages, too, which is good for her: laughing before him in her own way would blow her cover in a moment. "Aw, not you, too. It's only a cigarette a day, doc, I promise. Working here can be stressful."
Lang narrows his eyes only a fraction, but she knows him well enough to tell he thinks he might have seen an opening. "You do look tired, sister. Mind if I ask what you're working on?" he asks, and maybe he really believes he sounds casual.
Oh, Lang, she thinks with an inward laugh. Never change.
"Basic stuff, for now. Just growing batch upon batch of stem cells. They'll be used for... something, I guess. I can't tell what, communication between departments is pretty limited. But from the little I heard, Mr. Doff was working on some repair on the optic nerve. It seemed a really neat project, shame he won't get to- oh, wait. Guess the CEO already told you all you needed about that," she says, and the grim line that is now Lang's mouth is enough to tell her she's right.
"Lang-dono!"
Blackquill's voice reaches them a moment later, nipping any further conversation right in the bud. Lang immediately turns his attention away from her... which suits her just fine, really, because a moment's distraction is all she needs to put a folded piece of paper in the pocket of Lang's jacket. She isn't supposed to be doing this – she's supposed to be doing nothing like this – but then again, how could he know it was Mary Goround to put that in his pocket?
For a moment she entertained the thought of putting a ladybug on him as well, but decided against it: she knows all about Interpol's security measures, and a ladybug on Lang would be detected very soon. Blackquill would make a better target for a such thing, and she's sure the Phantom hasn't let the chance pass by. And, now that Blackquill is here, looking perfectly calm, she can tell the Phantom's presence stayed undetected. Good – one problem less.
As Lang takes his leave from her with a nod and walks up to the car with Blackquill – they'll be filling each other in with what they have found out, she's sure of it, and the Phantom's watch will record everything – the Yatagarasu takes a last drag of her cigarette before throwing it away.
"See you soon, idiot," she mutters under her breath before turning to get back in, to take on Mary Goround's role for the rest of the afternoon.
Outis can't say he was really bothered when he got a call from YggdraCorp telling him that he should wait until the next day before showing at the company to start his assignment.
A nuisance with Interpol, the CEO had said, but he hadn't really requested an explanation. As long as they paid him in full, he didn't care how long it would take to get to work. Besides, the unexpected free day has allowed him to take the necessary step to verify a certain matter here in Los Angeles... one that may or may not be related to this job.
Did she say just that? That you were looking for a ghost?
Well... I think she said 'phantom' rather than 'ghost', but yeah, that's more or- I-I mean...
The Phantom. Such a ridiculous nickname, and yet he had taken to use it after rookie Prosecutor Blackquill chose it to refer to him. Outis should have recognized it as a red flag, a sign part of him wished to cling to an identity of some kind... but he hadn't. He had been willfully blind, in a way he'll never be again.
"Mr. Outis, sir?" one of the men he hired calls out, his voice hushed. Outis turns to look at him. In the light of the flashlight the man looks almost like a ghost himself; the fact they're in a cemetery at night isn't quite helping matters. "We retrieved the coffin. We're about to open it. I suppose you'd want to...?"
Outis takes one last drag before flicking his cigarette away, painting a red line in the air for the briefest moment. He turns to the man and smiles. "I ask for nothing better," he says, and follows him to the grave they just opened. The coffin is already laid on the ground, and one of the men has already a crowbar fit beneath its lid – ready to press down and open it any moment.
Outis delays that moment for a little while longer, gaze lingering on the wooden surface.
Will you be found in here, my boy? Are you beyond my reach for good? Or are you still out there somewhere, a rabid dog with a new master you'll turn around to bite as well someday?
The thought of his greatest masterpiece and greatest failure having to live on despite being defective – despite being broken – is somewhat painful; Outis would rather see him dead now, bones and ashes resting in a coffin. But on the other hand, part of him wishes to know that what's left of his creature yet lives – so that he can put him down himself, as it should be. He must have made a mistake with him along the way; it would be only fair that he put a remedy to that. "Open it," Outis finally says, his voice barely audible.
There are a few grunts and creaking, then then the coffin's hinges give in and the lid slides aside – not by much, but enough to see part of what's inside once one of the man points the flashlight on it.
For a few moments, nobody moves nor says anything. Then, slowly, Outis smiles and reaches for something inside the coffin. He lifts the small sack of sand, one of the several inside, and gives a brief chortle.
"Not bad, my boy. Your best disappearing trick yet," he murmurs, and he lets the sack fall back into the coffin. It falls on the other sacks with a dull thud, but Outis pays the sound no mind and stares at the name on the headstone, weakly illuminated by the flashlights. Robert LaRoche.
His name. The surname is new, but Outis has known his first name for a long time because he can recall that same name spoken – screamed – once already, in his presence... a long time ago.
Robb! Please, come back! Help me, don't leave me here! Robb! NO! Please, don't! Robert! ROB-
He had done the boy a kindness, he recalls: a quick death to end the pain of his broken legs before he and the others were off to chase the other one, the one who tried and failed to escape. A shot in the head should have ended him as well. But it didn't, and he hadn't known he lived until he met him again ten years later, with no memories and under a different name. A nobody, ready to be shaped into anything he wished, so of course there had been no reason at all to tell him he knew, to tell him what his name was.
It looked like he had found out, eventually: he had sold them to obtain it... only to shed it once again, like a snake shedding old skin. But this time he won't escape, not from him. There isn't one single trick in the book he knows that Outis doesn't, because there wasn't one single trick in the book he hadn't taught him.
I shouldn't have failed to kill you the first time. I should have rectified that mistake and killed you when I recognized you. But it matters not. I'll put a remedy to that soon. And it won't be as quick as it was for your friend, my dear Robb. Johan. It won't be so easy. It won't be so merciful.
"I have seen what I needed," Outis finally speaks up, tearing his gaze away from that name – Robert LaRoche – and nodding at the men. "Put the coffin back in and close up the grave again. It must look untouched by dawn. It goes without saying," he adds, "that you're not to breathe one word of this."
"Of course not. We'll keep our mouths shut, sir. But..." the man pauses, clearly torn between his curiosity and doing something his occupation must have taught him not to do – ask questions. But this time he seems unable to resist. "Who was supposed to be in there? Who are you?"
Far from bothered by his question, Outis smiles – a cold, cold smile. "You may call me Victor Frankenstein, if you wish," he says, letting his gaze wander through dark outlines of the graves all around them. "And I'm looking for my monster."