A/N: I ended up having to move a scene over to the next chapter, because even this was getting a bit too long. Ah well. It fits the next chapter best anyway. At least this one finally tells you whether the Phantom makes it or not. XD
Thanks a lot to Keyanna for proofreading!

The pain is gone.

As soon as the thought crosses his mind, LaRoche clings to it. It's the first flash of real awareness after everything had gone dark, Blackquill's bloodied face – but it was his own blood, not Blackquill's; Blackquill is fine, he's safe – the last thing he remembers, along with the blazing pain on the left side of his body.

Not anymore, though. It's gone, and thinking gets easier by the moment. He's lying on his back on something flat, neither cold nor warm, neither hard nor soft. He can't quite open his eyes, each lid seemingly weighing a ton, but he shifts, and the half-expected wave of pain doesn't reach him. Even when he opens and closes his hand, the one that was turning black before he even passed out, there is no pain.

This isn't right, he thinks. There should be pain, and most of all there should be at least some sort of noise around him. Instead, there is nothing but deafening silence.

Is this what death is like? If so, LaRoche is more than willing to welcome it. It seems that dying was nowhere near as terrible as he expected it to be, after all. It is a relief, actually. The end of everything. The end of pain.

It seems that the moniker Blackquill gave him – Phantom – is more fitting now than ever before. But it's all right, he thinks: Blackquill is fine, and so is Cykes. As for him, he got the end he deserved. Now that he's felt hatred for the first time since he can remember, now that he knows how much you can come to hate the person who took someone important from you, how much hatred he deserves – because he's no better than Outis, he never was, and he's killed people who mattered to others just as much as Seymour mattered to him – he can see that now.

He had thought he had learned what regret was two years ago, but he was wrong. He never knew until now. Had he known before, then perhaps he would have had the decency to stay and face his he wouldn't have run away.

How much is remorse worth when what you have taken is something you can never give back?

Nothing, he thinks. It's worth nothing, much like him.

A sharp twinge in his chest causes him to recoil, and on impulse he does what he's been unable to do until a moment ago: he opens his eyes, and darkness gives way to grayness. Everything around him seems to be a dark gray, even the floor that doesn't look like a floor at all: only more barely consistent grayness. He can see no end to it, as far as the eye can see. And the gray nothingness isn't still, either. It seems to buzz and flicker, much like static on a television screen – and beyond the gray he can barely make out shadows moving, appearing and disappearing from his sight in a matter of moments as though they're past impalpable curtains.

And everything is still silent, unnaturally so.

LaRoche sits up, barely registering the fact that he's wearing the orange uniform he wore in prison, and opens his mouth to call out for whoever may hear him, to ask where he is. But a familiar voice reaches him first, causing words to die in his throat.

"They can't hear you. You don't belong here yet, not really."

This is impossible, LaRoche thinks, but even as the thought crosses his mind he turns to face the source of the voice, to face him. Seymour is sitting on a non-existent floor, cross-legged, only a few feet from him. He's holding something – the bird, LaRoche thinks, the crystal bird he stole for his thirteenth birthday – in his hands, and his head is tilted to one side as he observes him.

"... You didn't change much," he speaks up. "Well, aside from getting older. Not old enough, though. You weren't supposed to show up here for another while. You big idiot. What part of lunging for the one with the gun sounded like a bright idea to you? Did you even think that through? No, wait, don't answer. I already know."

What were you thinking? Bet you weren't! You never think!

LaRoche stares at him for several moments before he can make his voice work again. "This isn't real," he manages. "I'm hallucinating."

"You're dying," Seymour counters, and gestures at their surroundings. "You're not dead yet, though, so maybe they'll manage to drag you back. They don't have much time to, but you can never know. You have thick skin. That would be great – let him know he wasn't able to drag you down with him," he adds, and looks at something over LaRoche's shoulder. He turns to see a shadow, a human-like one, standing in the distance through a curtain of grayness. It's as though it's looking at them, and LaRoche realizes who Seymour just implied it to be one moment before the boy speaks again.

"Don't worry, he can't get to you. Not while you're in-between. Nor later, if you don't want him to."

LaRoche turns away from the thing that used to be Outis and spares it no further thought: all he can focus on now is Seymour, who looks exactly like he did the day he died. He still thinks he's hallucinating, he must be... but he finds himself speaking regardless. "Where are we?"

Seymour glances around. "In-between. I passed over, but I can return here if I want to. I did last time you were here, too."

"Last time...?" LaRoche repeats, entirely at a loss. He has no memory of this, none at all.

"It was after he shot you, too. But you weren't really here – you just stared at nothing and didn't speak at all. I tried and tried, but you never reacted to anything. It was because you were in a coma, I think. You only spoke when you began fading because you were starting to wake up. You asked me who I was," he adds, and he gives a sad smile. "I didn't even have time to answer. After that, you went back. As in, you survived," Seymour adds, noticing his confusion. "That's what we say of those who get in-between and then survive. They go back."

The mere thought of going back makes LaRoche feel as though an icy hand has grabbed his insides. He doesn't think it's possible: he was shot several times and, even though he doesn't think any of the bullets hit a critical organ, the toxin in his system is unlikely to spare him. Even if by some miracle he doesn't die, he knows he's not going to make it through undamaged... and he knows that he'd have to face Blackquill again, then the gallows.

The thought of hanging doesn't scare him anymore; he's been through too much, felt pain that would make death a relief. But Blackquill – how could he face Blackquill again? What would he say? What could he say?

Nothing, he knows. Nothing but the pathetic excuses of a coward. Blackquill is safe; there is nothing else to tell him, nothing else he should tell him. Let this charade end, he thinks – let him die, let Blackquill bury his corpse in the grave that was dug for him two years ago and move on once and for all.

"I don't want to go back," he hears himself saying, and suddenly his voice is different, no longer an adult's. LaRoche looks down to see that his hands are different, too – a boy's hands. No scar is marring the back of his right hand anymore.

"That's not your choice, you know. Someone kills you, you die. Someone saves you, you go back."

"I can't go back!" Robb chokes out, and the next moment he's crying and he can't make himself stop, no matter how much he tries to dry his tears. "I must die, I should have died – I should have died with you, I should have stayed, I should have tried-!"

He doesn't realize Seymour has moved until he kneels right in front of him and reaches to pull him close. Robb holds him back, tight, and everything feel so real – he feels solid and warm and the embrace feels everything like those they shared when Seymour was alive and they though they could take on the world, no matter what was thrown at them.

"I left you to die. You screamed for me and I left you to die," Robb manages, burying his face in the crook of Seymour's shoulder. He can't stop sobbing, and something in his chest really hurts, more than even the toxin did. "I let him kill you and... and...!"

You ran away, he expects Seymour to say, as he did in his nightmares and hallucinations. You left me to die. I won't let you forget. You killed me, Robb.

Seymour's grip on him tightens, and what he says is entirely different. "There was nothing you could have done," he says, and his voice is shaking a little, too. "He would have killed both of us. And I would have kicked you ten ways to Sunday for doing something so stupid."

"I brought you there. I killed you."

"It was an accident."

"You were screaming, and I-"

"I'll scream again if you don't shut up."

And Robb does shut up, if only because he's crying too hard to say anything intelligible anymore. Seymour is crying, too, and by the time they finally stop Robb is feeling so tired that he couldn't pull back even if he wanted to. He opens his eyes again when he feels Seymour's hand stroking his hair.

"I missed you," Robb croaks. "Even when I didn't remember you. I just didn't know it."

"... I've missed you, too."

"I want to stay. Please, let me stay."

"It's out of our hands."

"I don't want to leave you alone again!"

Seymour seems to shudder, and it takes Robb a moment to realize he's laughing.

"Leave me alone? Really?" he repeats, and finally pulls back. He reaches up to dry his eyes and he's not laughing too hard anymore, but he's still smiling. "Do you have the slightest idea how many people have died before us? There's a lot more of us than there are of you! You just can't see them or... well, anything else. I can't tell you about the rest, though. That's the rule when we get to talk to someone who hasn't passed over."

"But I will die," Robb insists. "Even if I make it back now, they will have me killed later. Or I'll be executed."

The smile fades from Seymour's face. "I hope not. Don't let that happen. I don't want to see your ugly mug again before you're old enough to wave a stick at kids on your lawn."

"But I-"

"Promise me," Seymour cuts him off. There is a sharp edge to his voice, and with his gray eyes narrowed under an unruly mop of black hair he looks more like Blackquill than he ever did before. And yet, what he's asking of him is the complete opposite of what Simon Blackquill made him promise two years ago. "Promise you won't let them kill you. Promise me you won't be back until your time is really up."

Promise me that when the moment comes you'll stand there as a man, and die as one.

Prosecutor...

"Seymour-"

Seymour's hands shot out to grasp his shoulders and give him a shake. "Promise me, Robb!"

Promise me, Fool Bright.

... I'll try, sir.

"I can't," Robb chokes out. "I can't do it, I can't make promises – I break my promises, all of them. I did it all wrong. I promised we could take on the world, and then I promised you'd be fine, and I promised Blackquill I'd die as a man, and-"

A sudden shudder shakes his whole frame, causing him to trail off. All of a sudden, he's cold. He looks down at his own hands, and he can see now that they're an adult's hands again – the scar Cykes left on him once again on the back of his right hand. But he barely notices it: all his mind can register is the fact that he can just barely see through them.

"They're bringing you back," he hears Seymour saying, wonder plain in his voice. "They're actually making it!"

Fear grips LaRoche's stomach in a vise-like grip. He can't even think of facing Blackquill again, of having to talk to him – and he doesn't want to leave Seymour, not after having found him again for such a short time.

"No!" he exclaims, reaching out to grab the boy, but his transparent hands pass right through him. It's as though he's the ghost, and not Seymour, who's looking solid and real as though he never died. A small smile curls Seymour's lips.

"Don't fight it. Close your eyes and let go."

"I can't go without you!"

"I can't follow you. Just go. And don't you dare show up again for another thirty years at least."

"No! No, I need- I need more time!"

Seymour's smile grows just a little wider, and just a little sadder. "Yes, you do. You need more time. But not here. We'll have all the time you want, later," he says, then lowers his head and starts speaking in a soft tone – reciting something LaRoche remembers him reciting before – a poem he read to him a lifetime ago. "There will be time, there will be time, to prepare a face to meet the faces that you meet. There will be time to murder and create..."

"Seymour...!" LaRoche calls out, despair starting to leak into his voice. Keeping his eyes open is harder and harder, as though something is actually trying to force his eyelids to close.

Don't fight it. Close your eyes and let go.

No!

The boy looks back at him, and his eyes are clouded with tears. "Time for you and time for me, and time yet for a hundred indecisions, and for a hundred visions and revisions," he says, his voice shaking. Some tears finally roll down his cheeks, but he smiles as he reaches to wipe them off with the back of his hand. "Promise me you won't be back until you're old and I can make fun of your bald spot. Or at least promise me you'll try."

… I'll try, sir.

LaRoche opens his mouth to say that he doesn't want to go, that he can't promise he won't die soon, that he can't promise anything – but the whisper that leaves him is to say something else entirely.

"... I'll try, birdbrain."

Seymour smiles and that's it, that's the last he sees before his eyes close. They close for only one moment, just enough time to blink, or so it seems to him – but when he opens them again everything is so much brighter, almost painfully so, and Seymour is gone. In his place, right above him, LaRoche can see the Yatagarasu's familiar Cheshire cat grin.

"Hey, Phantom of the Courthouse. This is the second time I greet your sorry ass back in the land of the living. If there's gonna be a third time, let Deep Throat know that I want a raise."

"What do you mean, I have to stay outside? The cubes are sealed off and I was given the antidote anyway! You have to let me go back! I need to show the doctor the way!"

The Interpol agent seems slightly intimidated by Athena's anger and clenched fists, but he doesn't budge. "Please, try to understand – this area may still be hazardous. We only had that man's word that there were no more than seven cubes, not to mention that there may be armed people still on board. We can't let any civilian in until the ship is safely in a port and the police can come in. One of our men is leading the doctor to the cabin you told us. There is no need for you to come. Please, go outside. Mr. Justice has been asking for you since the moment he woke up."

"… Oh," Athena finds herself saying, any retort she was about to give dying in her throat. Apollo! She almost forgot after asking Lang – how could she? "How is he?"

The shadow of a smile passes on the man's face. "Oh, fine enough. I believe he had to be dragged out kicking and screaming. He was truly worried for you."

"Ah," Athena manages, the guilt for almost forgetting all about him in the midst of chaos getting stronger. And Trucy and Pearl, too – how are they holding up with all that's going on in the ship? They're probably worried for her, too. "I… I guess I should go outside and look for him, then."

"Do that. And don't worry about a thing – whoever is need of medical help will receive it shortly. You have our word. Actually, it's very likely that a doctor is already there."

Athena can only hope he's right.

"... Chrysalis?"

The moment LaRoche's weak voice reaches his ears, time seems to slow down for Blackquill. He's alive, is all he can think – he's alive, and he's awake.

Blackquill finds himself moving before the realization has had time to truly sink in, the sense of unreality that's clouded his mind from the moment LaRoche passed out in his arms finally starting to fade.

"LaRoche," he breathes, pushing the woman aside to kneel next to him. He doesn't lift him again, but he does reach to grasp his good hand. "Can you hear me?"

LaRoche's gaze stays unfocused for a few moments, then his mouth twitches in what may be an attempt at smiling. "You brought me back," he rasps.

"Hey! I did that!" the Yatagarasu protests somewhere behind him, but Blackquill pays her no mind.

"Tch. When will you cease your attempts at putting me in your debt? You should know that I won't have it."

"You did nothing," the Yatagarasu points out.

"Be quiet," Lang snaps.

LaRoche gives no sign of having heard either of them. He weakly tightens his grip on Blackquill's hand. "Debt?" he repeats, and gives a noise that may even sound like a chuckle. "If that's... that's what you... may I... will you do something... for me?"

It feels as though something is stuck in his throat, and Blackquill needs a moment before he can speak. "... Within reason, yes."

LaRoche's grip, which has slackened after a few moments, tightens again – if barely. "Will you... lie to me, only this once?"

"Lie to you?" Blackquill repeats. For a moment he's sure he hasn't heard right, but LaRoche's next words wipe away all doubt.

"Tell me... tell me you have... missed me."

Blackquill stares at him for several moments before what he just heard sinks in. When it does, he finds himself grasping LaRoche's good hand with both of his own. "You fool," he hears himself saying. "You know I vowed no lie would leave my lips ever again. I'll keep that vow."

LaRoche shuts his eyes and shivers. "... I know. I'm... I'm so-"

"What you ask of me is nothing but the truth. I have mourned you, and... and I have missed you."

"Aww!"

"What the hell are you-" Lang starts somewhere on his left, his voice a couple of octaves higher than usual, but there is a smacking sound and he trails off with a yelp.

"Down, boy. Don't interrupt. Besides, you know you missed me too."

"What gave you such a ridiculous idea?"

"The fact you've been looking for me around the world for some ten years?"

"That was to arrest you."

"Sure thing, Javert."

"What are you even-?"

Blackquill almost snaps at them to be silent or at least to go solve their obvious issues somewhere else – he can barely work out his own, let alone theirs – but he opts to ignore them when LaRoche just stares up at him for several moments, eyes searching his face for any trace of a lie... and then slowly, painfully, smiles.

"Thank you, Simon."

Simon. It's the first time Blackquill has heard his name coming from him, and for a moment it causes something in his chest to ache. "Silence," he mutters. "Spare your thanks until you're out of danger."

Another weak noise that might be a chuckle. "I... I doubt I'm long for this world... either way. But I wouldn't mind trying to... to stick around... as long as-" he trails off and draws in a shuddering breath. Whatever little strength he had left seems to be fading fast, and he speaks with greater difficulty by the moment. Blackquill can tell he'll sink back into unconsciousness soon. "Will you... stay with me?"

"... Of course. Now rest. A doctor is coming, and I won't be listening to another word from you until you've received medical help," he adds, but he doesn't get to know if LaRoche even heard him: he sinks back into unconsciousness just as Blackquill utters those words, his eyes closing and grip on his hand slackening.

There is a long moment of silence, finally broken by a sigh. "Ah well. Guess there's nothing more I can do here," the Yatagarasu says somewhat thoughtfully before grinning at Blackquill. "I'll be on my way. You take good care of my partner, okay? I'll pick him up when he's less of a pathetic mess."

That causes Lang to snap out of his confusion. He turns to glare at her with a snarl. "Your only way from here is in prison! Lang Zi says-"

She cuts him off with a laugh. "Pwfff- hahahahaha! Oh, you and your Lang Zi! Never change, Lang. See you around!" she exclaims, and before Lang can even take one step towards her she lifts her hand to her right ear, tears off her earring and throws it on the ground.

"Ah!"

The bright flash of light hurts Blackquill's eyes, causing him to shut them with a curse. From what he can hear, though, Lang is far more creative at cursing than he is. He can hear him stumbling around, too, clearly trying to get to the door and after her even while blinded. It's a futile effort, Blackquill is sure, but he knows he'd be attempting the same in his place. There are more noises, more curses, gradually getting more distant. By the time Blackquill can make himself open his eyes both Lang and the Yatagarasu are gone, and he's once again alone with LaRoche.

Still blinking, Blackquill lowers his gaze to LaRoche again. Now that he's been given the antidote his breathing is no longer as difficult as before. He even looks peaceful, despite the blood still coating his face, and things seem less bleak than they did not too long ago. Blackquill reaches to brush off black hair – dyed, no doubt, because his natural color is a straw-like blond – off his forehead.

All of a sudden he's reminded of last time he was on the brink of death, in his office, in his arms; he had been as desperate for him to live as he is now.

God damn you, don't. I chased you for so long. Stay. Don't go where I can't follow, Fool Bright.

He... saved my life, Simon, he did, and now he's losing so much blood, and... the toxin, he was poisoned – we both were, but he gave the antidote to me!

"You dotard," Blackquill hears himself saying, his grip on LaRoche's limp hand tightening. He just kept his promise to face death as a man, as he failed to do two years ago... but to Blackquill it's like he's just now returned from the dead and he's not ready to let go of him again, not yet, not before they can talk things through. He opens his mouth to say something, he doesn't even know what, but before he can make a noise there is the sound of rushing steps.

Blackquill turns to the door just in time to see one of Lang's men pausing on the doorway, along with a man he recognizes as the doctor in the infirmary. They both look a little green in the face, their eyes darting from Outis' cooling corpse to LaRoche, and then to Blackquill – who finds it in himself to smirk.

"Well, doctor," he says. "I should hope you can guess who your patient is."

He can.

"ATHENA!"

She has barely enough time to recognize Apollo's voice – the Chords of Steel are easy to recognize, even without her hearing – and almost no time to turn around before he's on her. All three of them are, because Trucy and Pearl are there as well, and in a moment Athena finds herself caught in the tightest group hug she can recall being caught in – and it doesn't help that they're in a crowded outside deck, with other passengers pressing on all sides.

"Are you alright? Whose blood is this? You're not wounded, are you?"

"We were worried sick, and the Interpol didn't know anything...!"

"Where have you been? What happened?"

They're all speaking at the same time and Apollo is holding her tight enough to steal her breath. When she tries to speak, to explain what happened, only a croaking sound leaves her and she realizes she's weeping. So is Pearl, really, and Trucy's voice is shaking a bit, and Apollo's heart is crying out his relief louder than even his Chords of Steel ever could.

"I thought I'd never see you again," she manages, and for a while there is no need for words: they know she's safe, and their hearts are telling her everything she needs to hear right now.

"… We got all of them, and the ship should be good to go if—"

"We'll keep it here a while longer," Lang says, cutting of the agent's report. "Lang Zi says: successful investigations are the result of multiple returns to a crime scene. We'll be getting our own experts here to take another good look around. Not to mention that there is the matter of the sealed room with the toxin's gas. From what little information we have gathered on it, that door won't be safe to open for at least another week. I sure hope the navigation company has a plan B."

"Yes, shifu. They'll transfer the passengers to another cruise ship in two days so that they can resume their cruise. They'll stay in a hotel until then. The ship will be at our complete disposal as long as it's needed to carry on the investigation."

"Good. Civilian casualties?"

"None."

"Hmm. Our injured men?"

"They'll all make a full recovery."

"Excellent. I'll visit each of them as soon as I get a break to do so. Blackquill?"

"No further injury aside from the stab wound on his leg. He and a few others left when the Phantom was transported to the closest hospital."

Lang nods, already having a rather good idea of who the other passengers are: Cykes, no doubt, and certainly Justice as well. The two kids who got on board with them may have gone with them, too.

"I should have imagined he'd go with him."

"Should we send someone, or…?"

"No. Leave them alone for now – there is enough security in that place as it is. There will be time for them to testify – plenty of it. And the Phantom certainly isn't going anywhere anytime soon," he adds. It seems that Blackquill's phantom has been apprehended… while his own is still on the loose after her latest disappearing act.

There is a brief pause before he speaks again.

"… Any trace of her?"

"No, shifu. We couldn't find her anywhere – we only found a mask with the features she had when you last saw her. She must have mixed with the passengers after taking it off. But we could send someone to-"

Lang scoffs. "No. Until the others reach us we're spread thin enough, and it would be a waste of time and resources. We have no more chances to find her than a wolf to catch a crow up in the air. The wolf will wait for the crow to come close to the ground, and so will I."

The agent shifts a little uncomfortably beside him. "Do you think it will come close to the ground? I mean, do you think we'll hear of her again?"

That's a question Lang has no rational answer for. There is nothing telling him that he and Shih-na may cross paths again – nothing but a gut feeling, and what she said to him before making her escape.

Never change, Lang. See you around!

"Who knows," Lang finally says slowly. "Lang Zi says: the truth lies not at the exit, but rather, shines outside the maze itself. We may meet again, and that day she had better be prepared," he says, and smirks, letting his gaze wander past the docks and to the horizon. "Because I know I will be."

"And… and that was when Simon found us."

As Athena's voice fades, a long silence falls on the waiting room. Neither Trucy Wright nor Pearl Fey seem to know what to say, and Justice's usually annoyingly loud voice isn't heard either – although, if he looked, Blackquill would see his grip on Athena's hand tightening. He's been holding her hand since the moment they got there after the Phantom was rushed to the emergency room, and he has hardly let go of it since.

But Blackquill doesn't see it, because he's not looking at any of them: he's keeping his gaze fixed on the tiled floor, not really seeing it, for Athena's tale is all that fills his mind. That LaRoche had willingly given the antidote to Athena when forced to choose was something he knew: even in her panicked state, Athena had told him as much when he found them.

What he did not know was in how much pain LaRoche was in before he even made that choice, one that would make anyone falter. He must have felt like he was in Hell already, and he still chose to use what strength he had to give Athena a chance at living, not even knowing whether or not Outis would let her live once he had condemned himself.

Outis.

Blackquill clenches his teeth. His death was gruesome, but Blackquill's fury is still far from sated. After what he did to Athena and now that he knows what he did to the boy who would become the Phantom, how he was the one to set everything in motion, he wishes he had a chance to cut him down himself. What he said at the phone makes sense now, all of it.

Why, I think I can see why he found you so interesting. Pity it was also his downfall. That's something I can't quite forgive you for, I'm afraid.

I want to help you this one time, Simon Blackquill – even though you ruined my finest work.

Did he try to warn you? He couldn't save his friend, so now he hopes he can save you? How pitiful.

"… It was me he wanted," Blackquill finally hears himself saying. "That's why he showed himself while Justice and I were trapped. He probably planned on taking us somewhere else, get Justice out of the way and take me down to be a bait. He may have succeeded, hadn't LaRoche warned me with that picture. Outis was certain I had never seen his face. The fact that I recognized him ruined his plan, and he took Athena instead," he says, and hangs his head in shame.

Some protector he's been for her: he put her in the worst possible kind of danger by failing to have her watched, by failing to take down Outis when he could. That weasel had played dirty, but he was a spy and Blackquill should have expected him to have some dirty trick up his sleeve.

Athena seems to sense his guilt, and reaches to put a hand on his arm. "It wasn't your fault," she says, her voice a bit shaky. "You told me to stay away, and I came snooping around anyway."

"We both did," Justice speaks up, and makes a remarkable attempt at smiling. "Actually, I think I've been the useless lump there. At least you two took down a security guard or two each."

Athena returns his hesitant smile with one of her own, and squeezes his hand back. "Well, technically you helped. I threw that guy on your head to knock him out, after that bucket of ice hit him in the face," she adds, her smile widening just a bit, and all of a sudden she sounds everything like herself again. "Ice bucket challenge, Cykes style!"

That gets a weak smile even out of Blackquill, although it's not because of the joke as much because of the fact that even now, even after what she's been through, her first thought is reassuring others. Her mother would be proud of her, he thinks, and he's about to voice that thought – but Trucy and Pearl speak first.

"Wow, so you took one down with your hair horns? That's better than a magic trick!"

"That was really brave of you, Mr. Apollo!"

"Hey, knock it off! Aww, it was nothing, Pearl, I just—Trucy, knock it off!"

As Trucy laughs and so does Athena – it's good to hear her laughing, it truly is – and turns his gaze back to the floor. It doesn't last long: both his musings and the laugh are interrupted by the sound of a door opening, and footsteps. Unsurprisingly enough, it's one of the surgeons who's been attending the Phantom. She looks tired as she approaches them and they stand.

"I have no clue what kind of toxin he was given, but I know I'll be a happy woman if I never have to deal with it in my life. He was lucky to be provided the antidote on time. He would have certainly died without it."

"Does that mean he's out of danger?" Blackquill asks, mildly surprised by how firm his voice sounds.

The surgeon nods. "I believe he'll live, yes. None of the gunshots wounds he suffered is lethal, and the toxin seems to have been washed away from his system. Not without causing significant damage, I'm afraid. His left arm had to be amputated at the shoulder: there was nothing left to save."

It's what Blackquill expected to hear, although judging from the perfectly audible gasp that leaves Athena and Pearl and the way Justice and Trucy suddenly shift, he was the only one to know just how bad the situation was.

"I understand. What of his left leg?"

The surgeon reaches up to scratch her head through the surgical cap. "We had to amputate there as well. Everything beneath the knee had to go. The gunshot wound seems to have let quite a lot of the toxin out, though. With the knee joint intact, he'll find it easier to walk with a good prosthetic leg. There could be a solution even for the missing arm: robotic limbs have come a long way since 2020. All in all, I believe he'll be able to lead a normal life."

Blackquill holds back a bitter laugh. A normal life? This woman clearly has no idea of who she's just treated. She'll be told as much soon, no doubt – but right now Blackquill has no reason nor energy to explain it to her. He simply nods.

"I see. Thank you."

"Can we see him?" Athena asks, only to be met with a slightly disapproving gaze.

"Not for a couple of days at the very least. He barely escaped death and he's extremely debilitated. His body went through some terrible damage and an enormous amount of stress. We'll let him know you asked when he awakens, but no visits for now."

"But-!"

"That's fine," Blackquill cuts her off, and nods at the surgeon. "Do tell him we'll be seeing him when he's recovered enough to hold up through a visit. Tell him he has my thanks. And most of all," he adds, his voice growing harsher, "tell him that next time he attempts to cross the Styx without my permission I'll personally drag him back and slice off his remaining limbs."

The surgeon's eyebrows go almost all the way up to her hairline. "… Most people simply send a 'get better soon' card, you know."

For the first time in a while, Blackquill smirks. "Don't concern yourself. Tell him precisely that. He'll understand all that there is to understand."