A/N: Man, only one chapter after this one and it's over! Saying that this whole thing got longer than expected would be one huge understatement, but hey. No regrets, though I like to think I made people regret reading this several times over!

Thanks a lot to Keyanna for proofreading!

"Aww, c'mon! Be a good friend and help me out!"

"You know I cannot."

"Pretty pretty please?"

There is a long sigh on the other end of the line. "I told you, my hands are tied," Deep Throat – whose real code name is Proteus, but it's not like the Yatagarasu has ever used it; Deep Throat is funnier – says for what's likely the fourth time. "He's compromised beyond repair. You're not in a much better position, truth be told, but at least you were not caught and won't need to be terminated."

"Protocol says I should be."

"Protocol can be fiddled with if need be."

The Yatagarasu grins. "Aww, see? You like me!"

"You make for a decent challenge at Fruit Ninja. Speaking of which, I beat your new best score last night."

"Hey, don't change the subject now! We're supposed to be talking about my partner in crime here. Don't try to pretend he's not your problem."

"He's a dead man walking even if he survives the toxin. He'll have to be dealt with; a fatal mistake in medication, most likely, for which a nurse will take the fall. Forget all about him," Proteus says, their voice flat. "You should hope he dies quickly at any rate. If he talks, if he tells them whom you two have been working for, you'll be at risk of being terminated as well. And there would be nothing I could do. I'm not that high up. Yet."

"He won't," the Yatagarasu says, her voice a bit colder now. "Do you think he's stupid? He knows that would be his death sentence for sure."

"Death is his only option now, no matter by whose hand. He may try to strike a deal in exchange for his life, or something else. That's what he did when he told the police all about his organization. Desperate men resort to desperate measures. He'll have no reason not to talk."

The Yatagarasu sets her jaw. "Yes. Yes, he will."

Proteus sighs. "Very well. Entertain me. What reason would that be?" they ask.

She pauses for only a moment before replying, her voice quiet. "… Me."

"I beg your pardon?"

"Don't go faking hearing problems now. You heard me. He knows that I was recognized, and he knows that they know we work together. If he talks, he'll completely compromise me as well. And he won't do it."

There is a moment of silence before Proteus speaks again. "And you think he'd stay silent for your sake?"

"Yes," she says, and smiles a little bitterly at the memory of Byrne Faraday and Detective Badd telling her to stay safe when she pretended to take on an especially tough case in court, at the memory of Lang's leap for her when he shielded her from Badd's bullet. "Isn't that what partners do?"

"You seem to have forgotten who you're talking about."

"I'm talking about the person who lay down his life to save that of Athena Cykes."

"And breached the protocol in doing so."

"Yup. So you do it now, and we're all even. Wouldn't that be great?"

There is another long sigh from the other side of the line. "Very well. Let me be clear with you," Proteus finally says. "I'm not against sparing the Phantom's life. He's caused us no small amount of trouble for a few years, I must admit. But, both on account of the excellent work he's done in the past two years and the fact that he was able to partner with you without murdering you, you could say I've grown to admire him."

She grins. "Great! I think he's taken, but you can still get him out and ask for an autograph. And who knows, one thing may lead to another…"

Proteus keeps talking as though she said nothing at all. "Let's say, for the sake of argument, that he truly says nothing when they'll obviously try to squeeze him like a lemon for information. Let's say I can try to use some leverage where it matters to have his life spared – he'll still be sent to the gallows as soon as he's recovered, missing limbs or not."

"Could be the electric chair, too. Or lethal injection."

"Whichever suits you best. What I'm saying is, how do you suggest we retrieve him without them realizing he's been working for us this whole time? Staging a fake death and an escape would be nowhere as easy after the stunt we pulled last time. They're bound to be much warier this time around. They won't let us simply wheel him out."

Even though she knows Proteus cannot see her, the Yatagarasu rolls her eyes.

"Are you kidding me? You work for the government of United States! Am I supposed to believe you can't even come up with an excuse to pick up an international spy? Just drop by when his condition is better and say some bullshit about information he has, about classified crap, about him being a person of interest or something! You can make anyone with the terrorist tag on them disappear into thin air like it's nothing and no one questions it – can't you do it this time as well?"

This time, her words are met with a brief laugh. "You make it sound dreadfully easy. Someone is bound to ask questions this time."

"So? You'll pull your classified information act, we can neither confirm nor deny, blah blah. You can say it's all about Outis, the Phantom knew him and no one else has a clue about who he was. Couldn't you make a believable excuse out of that?"

Her question is met with a brief silence. "… We might," Proteus finally says, and the Yatagarasu is relieved to see the opening. She has to press on, she thinks, she has to press on now.

"He'll keep his mouth shut about you, and there will be nothing linking him to the government," the Yatagarasu says. "C'mon, Deep Throat. I've literally just saved a shipload of people. Give me a hand here!"

A pause. "Very well. I can't promise anything, but I'll give this a try. Don't count too much on it."

She smiles. "Aww, you're the best! Remind me to give you a kiss if we ever meet in person!"

"In that unlikely event, a handshake will suffice," Proteus replies, a hint of amusement in their voice before they turn serious once more. "There is a catch, though."

She cannot say she didn't expect to hear that. "Is it too late to tell you I don't jump out of birthday cakes?"

"… I'd ask what kind of lateral thinking led you to that conclusion, but I'm not sure I wish to know how your mind works."

"Pwwhh—hahahaha! Just kidding! Don't be so dour all the time! So, what's the catch, Deep Throat?"

"You'll never call me Deep Throat again."

The Yatagarasu blinks. "What, that's it?"

"That's it."

She pouts. "Aww, but Deep Throat is more fun."

"You have a questionable idea of fun. Do you want my help or not?"

"Okay, okay! But only if it works. If it doesn't, I'll call you Deep Throat for the rest of your days."

"Or for the rest of yours," is the deadpan reply.

"Huhu, is that a threat?"

"I can neither confirm nor deny threatening you with death."

"Hahahaha! Hey, so even you have a sense of humor!"

"If the situation calls for it. Have we got a deal?"

Her grin is so wide it threatens to split her face in two. "Yup, we do. Hey, Proteus? Thanks."

Proteus scoffs. "Save your thanks for later. I can't guarantee success," is all they say before ending the call.

It takes three days before Blackquill is allowed to see him; three days in which he barely leaves the hospital, despite Athena's pleas for him to stay at the hotel room with the rest of them at night.

He has received near constant updates, and from the first day it was fairly good news – he's had moments of consciousness almost from the start, is responding well to treatment and no trace of toxin is left in his body – but Blackquill knows he won't be able to rest until he's seen him, talked to him. Athena shares the sentiment, too, and she's spent most of the past three days with him in the hospital – psychologically profiling some of the undercover Interpol agents that kept an eye on the place when especially bored. Still, she isn't there when he receives the news: she's at the docks for a few hours, to see her employer and friends off to the ship.

Phoenix Wright and Maya Fey both arrived the day after Thessaly reached the docks, looking a little green in the face – something to do with the driving of the friend who gave them the lift, one Larry Butz – and, unsurprisingly enough, worried sick despite having been told that all of them were fine. There were some rather amusing moments, he has to admit, when Fey and Wright clung to Pearl and Trucy respectively while firing out questions and exclamations of relief at Justice and Athena without even catching their breath. It took a while for them to be entirely reassured.

It took even more time for Wright to give his daughter permission to board on the cruise ship that would be taking Thessaly's passengers back to their cruise route the following day. They were discreet enough to discuss it out of Blackquill's earshot, but Athena later told him that she argued that the new ship would be safe, that she had a contract and that she was still expected to perform. With Athena and Justice backing her up, suggesting that Wright and Fey should take their place on board, she eventually won the argument. They're boarding right now, most likely, with Athena and Justice to see them off.

Blackquill is sitting in the waiting room, entertaining the thought of having a stroll outside and watch Taka flying, when a nurse approaches him. "Simon Blackquill?"

He stands. "Yes?" he asks, but he already knows what it is about. It can only possibly be about one thing.

"You can see the patient now. Please, bear in mind that he's still very weak and on heavy medication. If he gives any sign of discomfort, please leave him and alert the medical personnel."

Blackquill nods, thinking back of the last time he was given such instructions – when the Phantom was poisoned and just barely been snatched from death's maw. He remembers all too well how on that occasion the Phantom briefly reverted to Bobby Fulbright's persona. Will it happen this time as well? "I will," is all he finally says, and as he follows her he pulls his cell phone out of his pocket to send out a quick message.

Athena made him promise he'd let her know if anything happened while she was out of the hospital, and her wrath is not something Blackquill is looking forward to facing.

"Wait, you knew it? You all knew it and no one told me?"

"Us, and Mr. Edgeworth, and Ema and Gumshoe, and Larry and Blackquill and—"

"Edgeworth knew it and I didn't?"

With Mr. Wright's voice at least a couple of octaves higher than usual, keeping a straight face is impossible; both Athena and Apollo are utterly failing at it, really, and Maya is just laughing. Trucy's grin is so wide that her cheeks just must be hurting, an arm around Pearl's shoulders.

Pearl is the only one who looks embarrassed, really, her cheeks a bright pink. "Sorry, Mr. Nick. I wanted to tell you before, but Trucy said—"

"I told you I was seeing someone!" Trucy says. Her grin, if possible, gets wider. "I just didn't tell you who."

"And you left me wondering for four months? Why?"

"To watch you squirm a bit, Nick!" Maya says, a hand still in front of her mouth to stifle a laugh. "You were – heehe! – you were stressing out so much and asking all those questions about what kind of unknown boy she was seeing! It was just too much fun! You kept thinking up the worst scenarios, and your hair was this close to going gray!"

"And I never even said it was a boy!" Trucy quips. "You did that all on your own, daddy!"

"I... you...!" Mr. Wright sputters, causing Apollo to laugh.

"She got you there," he says, but his grin fades a bit when Mr. Wright turns his attention to him and Athena.

"You were on to this, weren't you? Hope you're ready to clean the toilet a thousand times each!"

"Hey, hold it!" Athena says, holding up her hands. "Moment mal! I was bound by the girl code – a girl can't go telling older men another girl's secrets! If you want to blame someone, blame Apollo!"

"Yeah, she's ri- wait, what?"

"Older men?"

"Well, you're a man, and you're older..."

"OBJECTION! That's- that's a misleading statement!"

Maya pats his shoulder. "Careful, Nick. Mind your blood pressure," she says innocently, and Mr. Wright groans, letting his arm fall and slumping his shoulders.

"Uuugh. I hate all of you so much right now," he mutters.

"... You're not angry, right, Mr. Nick? About... about Trucy being my special someone?"

Pearl's voice sounds oddly small, and it causes most grins to fade – including Trucy's. Pearl is biting on her thumb, as always when nervous, and worriedly looking at Mr. Wright.

"Of course he's not!" Trucy exclaims, sounding outraged at the mere thought.

"You're the best special someone of all! Right, Nick?" Maya adds, eying Mr. Wright – who, on the other hand, looks nothing short of stunned by Pearl's question.

"Wha...? No, no, I'm not! Honest! I just... I couldn't pick anyone better, Pearly. Really," he says, and smiles at her before narrowing his eyes at Trucy. "I just wish a certain someone would tell me instead of keeping me guessing on this someone she was seeing."

Trucy sticks out her tongue at him. "A special someone," she points out, and Pearl blushes.

"Aww," Athena says, and she's about to add something else when her cell phone suddenly beeps. She takes it out of her pocket, and one look at the screen is enough to make her entirely forget what she was even about to say in the first place. All she can focus on is Simon's message.

He is awake and aware. We have permission to see him. I'm going. Return as soon as you receive this.

Blackquill isn't surprised by the sense of déjà vu as he approaches the bed LaRoche is resting on: he looks much like he did when Blackquill visited him after the poisoning, which is something he expected. Both have been near-death experiences, after all, even though the covers pulled up to LaRoche's neck hide his mutilations from view. The most striking difference, aside from the different face, is the lack of hair. LaRoche's hair was so matted with blood that apparently it had to be shaved off, and the fuzz that's barely starting to grow back is unmistakably blond. His own hair color.

The sound of Blackquill's steps causes LaRoche to open his eyes, the pale blue eyes Blackquill remembers so well, and turn his head to look at him. He stays silent until Blackquill is standing beside the bed, towering over him without a word of his own.

"… Prosecutor Blackquill," LaRoche finally speaks, his voice hoarse. It's obvious he hasn't been using it much lately, and the medication he's on is making him groggy. But he's awake and aware, and it is enough.

"LaRoche," he greets him back. There is a chair next to the bed LaRoche is lying on, and Blackquill sits on it. "You have seen better days, I'd say."

The man's lips curl in a faint smile. "I've had worse ones as well," he mutters. "By all accounts, I should have died."

"By all accounts, you should have died numerous times."

"Yes, I know. This is getting ridiculous," LaRoche says with a weak sigh. "How... how is Cykes?"

The question causes Blackquill to smile faintly. He's barely alive, barely recovering, and his first question is about Athena. "She is perfectly fine, if upset by what happened."

"Good," LaRoche murmurs, and draws in a long breath. "The arm is gone, isn't it? I feel nothing from the shoulder down, but I can't move to get the sheets off. My right arm is strapped down."

"Didn't the doctors tell you?"

LaRoche weakly shakes his head. "I think… I think the medical personnel has been instructed not to speak to me unless necessary. They won't tell me anything. So, is it… it is gone, isn't it?"

Blackquill nods. He sees no reason to lie. "Yes. And so is your leg. They were able to let you keep the knee joint. It will make it easier for you to walk with a prosthetic leg, or so they claim."

That gets a brief laugh out of LaRoche, one that dies down in a fit of coughing. "Walk," he repeats, breathless. "That's… that's rich. Like there's anywhere for me to go from here, except six feet under."

Blackquill doesn't waste time arguing that point. They both know that, after recovery, LaRoche's days are numbered. "You said the same thing two years ago."

LaRoche closes his eyes. "I know. I'm—"

"Sorry, yes. You made as much abundantly clear. I care not for your words."

"Blackquill—"

"Silence," Blackquill cuts him off. "I care not for your words because your actions have spoken loud enough," he says, and allows his voice to soften. "You have saved her life."

LaRoche's eyes open, and he stares at him for a few moments before he speaks quietly. "I owed her too much to let it happen. And..." he pauses and gives a weak chuckle. "Hell knows how much I wouldn't have wanted to face your wrath should she die. An equally painful death would have been on the menu, I'd wager."

"Hmph. On that, you're not wrong," Blackquill concedes. "Still, you have her gratitude. And mine."

"I deserve neither."

"That's our decision to make. Not yours."

LaRoche looks away, but he doesn't try to argue. There is a brief silence, one Blackquill doesn't expect to last. And, in fact, it does not.

"… She saved me first. I murdered her mother, and she still helped me. Made me someone."

"Yes," Blackquill agrees. Without Athena, Robert LaRoche would have never emerged from the shell the Phantom was. It's as though she brought him back from the dead. "She did. If you wish to thank her, or to beg her for forgiveness you already received, you'll have your chance to do so shortly. She's on her way here. She was... concerned."

LaRoche gives a small chuckle. "I supposed we had best get this over with now, then. I get the feeling the Interpol will be keeping me company through the recovery. They must want information, no doubt."

"You may be rid of them faster if you give them what they want."

"I'll tell them all they wish to know on what I found out about YggdraCorp and its dealings."

"What of your current employer? What of the ones who aided your escape?"

"That's something I'll have to take to my grave, I'm afraid. I can't speak of it."

"Not even in exchange for leniency?"

"We both know leniency is unlikely. Even if it was a possibility, speaking would be a death sentence of its own. There is no corner on Earth where I'd be safe from them. Not to mention that I'd put my partner in a dire situation. I owe her my life as well."

"... I see."

"She hasn't been found, has she?"

"To Agent Lang's chagrin, no. I suppose she's found her way back to whatever organization you work for now. I can't tell if Lang is worried she may be back for you, or if he's hoping she will."

"If that is his hope, he had best give up on it," LaRoche says with a tired smile, barely tilting his head to his left, towards his missing arm. "I'm compromised beyond repair. Unless they happen to need someone to take the identity of a double amputee, they have no use for me. And she couldn't possibly hope to get me out of here without their support. This time they can't simply pretend to carry away a dead body."

"So it was this new employer of yours that helped you fake your execution."

"Yes. They decided I could still be useful, apparently, and offered me a way out. Death... scared me too much for me not to take the chance. As long as I could be of use, as long as I allowed Robert LaRoche to die and left his facebehind for good, I knew I could still live."

Blackquill nods, his gaze fixed on LaRoche's new face. His eyes truly are the only thing left untouched, although the old scar, the bullet scar, still shows despite the clear attempt at making it less noticeable. "Whose face is this?"

"No one's. It's a face with no name nor history attached to it. Just in case I was ever caught and someone took off whatever mask I was wearing."

"I see," Blackquill says, and he finds himself hesitating for the briefest moment before asking something he's been wondering in the past couple of days. "... Were you already wearing Harrison Fire's mask when I spoke to him? Was it you?"

LaRoche shuts his eyes. "Forgive me," he rasps, and that's enough of an answer to Blackquill. All of a sudden, the man's odd behavior during their meeting makes sense – and to think that back then he had mistaken it for shock!

"What happened to the real Harrison Fire?"

"Detained, as far as I know, along with the one whose identity was taken by the Yatagarasu. I don't know where," LaRoche murmurs, and opens his eyes. "... Don't pity them too much. They knew YggdraCorp was using humans as guinea pigs. They knew people were dying because of it, and still went along with it. I'm no better than either of them, but what happened to them is not undeserved."

Blackquill's eyes narrow. "No one should be detained without a fair trial."

"The stakes were too high. We needed to find out what they were working on. We needed to know everything about YggdraCorp, and-" LaRoche trails off with a hoarse noise and shivers. He licks his lips, and Blackquill only now realizes how dry and cracked they are when he speaks. "Water," he manages, turning his eyes to his right. On the nightstand there is a small bottle of water, and a still damp handkerchief.

Fully knowing that LaRoche is being nourished by IV drip and isn't supposed to actually drink, Blackquill does what he assumes the nurses have been doing: he wets the handkerchief with water and presses it on LaRoche's lips. He says nothing as he feels LaRoche parting his lips to suck some water off the fabric; it's not much, but it may be enough to make his mouth feel less dry.

"Thank you," he manages when Blackquill finally pulls the handkerchief away to put it back on the nightstand along with the bottle.

Thank you, Simon.

"Hmph. You can keep your thanks," Blackquill mutters. He sits back and reaches to slip a hand under the covers, to grasp LaRoche's remaining hand. Cold fingers weakly hold it back, but LaRoche's faint smile fades when Blackquill speaks again. "… That man, Outis. Who was he? I know nothing past what Athena heard, that he was the one to shoot you and your friend. But there must be more to it."

LaRoche's jaw clenches, and for a moment Blackquill thinks he's not going to answer. But he does speak, moments later, his voice somewhat distant. "He's the man who recruited me," he says. "The one who came to my apartment when I was still a killer for hire. I told you about that day, haven't I?"

Blackquill nods. "You have."

"I… I forgot most things about him, in time. His teachings stayed, but not much else."

"His teachings?"

"He personally supervised my training. He had a different name, then, and a different face, much like myself. His voice was different as well. I didn't recognize him until he decided to let me know who he was."

"He seems to have had an unhealthy fixation on you."

"He did. Sounds familiar?" LaRoche grins weakly, but his attempt at humor is met with an unamused look.

"If you wish to retain the use of your remaining limbs, you shall refrain from comparing me to that eel."

A small chuckle escapes LaRoche. "Heh. I have… almost missed your threats," he says before he resumes speaking about Outis. "He… used to say I was his greatest creation, which I suppose is why my downfall never sat right with him. I was his masterpiece. But I assumed he simply referred to the fine work he did while training me whenever he said that. I had no idea that he… he literally created me. Or destroyed me, depending on which way you look at it."

LaRoche's voice shakes, and Blackquill squeezes his hand tightly. His thumb brushes over the back of it, over the scar Athena gave him so long ago. "He did neither," he says harshly. "He never created anything, nor did he have the power to destroy you. He could only take away everything that was you for a time. But you took it back, all of it. Including a sense of humor I fail to appreciate."

For some reason, that causes LaRoche to give a sound that sounds halfway between a sigh and a chuckle. "And to think the Yatagarasu failed to appreciate the lack of it."

Thinking back of the woman's obnoxious laugh, Blackquill can't help but inwardly admit LaRoche's questionable sense of humor – no more questionable than his own, truth be told – is more bearable than hers.

Still, LaRoche's amusement is short-lived. When he speaks again, his voice is suddenly filled with raw pain. "… He knew. Outis. Umber. The whole time he trained me, he knew we had already met. I couldn't know it, but he did, and he said nothing. He even asked about my scar, several times, and when I couldn't remember he would... He was the one who shot me, he murdered Seymour, and I never imagined-" LaRoche trails off and shuts his eyes. A few tears escape him from the corners of his eyes to slide down his temples and onto the pillow. "He played me like a violin, and I never knew. Is this… is it…"

"Silence," Blackquill finds himself saying. Something about LaRoche's tears never fails to stir a painful sensation in his chest. LaRoche is not one to weep for anything short of pure agony, physical or emotional. Blackquill's free hand reaches to brush his tears away. "That man is dead. You have no reason to—"

"Is this how you felt when you knew the truth about… about Fulbright? Is this what I did to you when I took everything from you and then played you for a fool?"

The question catches Blackquill unprepared, causing him to freeze, hand in mid-air. All of a sudden, he finally realizes what it is that's bothering LaRoche: not so much the betrayal he was subject to, but the realization of what he must have put Blackquill through when Fulbright's mask came off and the truth was revealed. He may have regained a fair measure of empathy along with his memories and emotions, but this truly is the first time he's had to experience what he put others through. What he put Blackquill through, when he murdered his mentor and later lied to him for a year, knowing the truth but never telling him.

And Blackquill can't bring himself to lie to reassure him. It is an ugly truth, but it's the truth and Blackquill has long since learned that there's no escaping it. "… I suppose it is, yes. With the difference that I trusted Fulbright more than I assume you could possibly trust that man. And I trusted you, later. Before you escaped," he says. But, even as he utters those words, he keeps his grip on LaRoche's hand firm.

LaRoche keeps his eyes screwed shut, and chokes back a sob. "Blackquill, I'm-"

"I know," Blackquill silences him. "Spare your breath. Don't waste what little liquid you have left in you."

LaRoche swallows and draws in and out a few deep breaths, and a minute later he seems far calmer. When he finally opens his eyes again, they're barely damp. He opens his mouth to speak again, but he never gets to: the door opens suddenly before he can even make a sound, and they both turn to see who is it.

Blackquill isn't surprised in the slightest to see Athena in the door frame, panting as though she just ran up all the flights of stairs leading there – which she probably did, now that Blackquill thinks about it. He wouldn't be surprised at all.

When he first hears the door slamming open, LaRoche's first thought is that someone must have come to end him; his second thought is that Blackquill may be in danger of sharing his fate just for being there and that he won't allow it, can't allow it. He draws in a sharp breath, ready to scream to draw the Interpol's attention or that of anyone who may hear – because he's restrained and crippled and there is nothing else he can do – but, the instant he turns, it's immediately clear that there will be no need for him to scream.

The person standing in the doorway is Athena Cykes.

She's on her way here. She was... concerned.

"... Miss Cykes," he rasps. It's not much to say, nor is it much of a greeting, but she doesn't seem to mind.

"... Hey," she says, and smiles, drawing in a deep breath; her hand is resting above her heart. She takes a few steps towards him and Blackquill. "So, uh… How are you feeling?"

LaRoche allows himself a weak smile. "Alive, if anything. I… apologize for making you worry."

Cykes scowls. It's such a quick change that LaRoche is taken aback. "Worry?" she repeats, her hands balling into fists as she covers what little distance was left between them with quick steps. "Worry? I'll wring your neck next time you try to die on me! I'll wring the neck of anyone who ever tries to die for me again!"

The Phantom opens his mouth to say that it wasn't about her at all, that it was for Blackquill's sake he decided to keep her alive – but he finds himself unable to. It wouldn't be truthful: it was for her sake as much as it was for Blackquill's own, and he won't deny it. After all that's happened, she deserves nothing less than the truth from him. "You wouldn't have been in that situation if it wasn't for me. It was… only fair," he says.

That much is true: if it hadn't been for him, if it hadn't been for her mother's murder, she and Blackquill both would have very different lives right now – one without the pain of the loss, one where seven years were never lost, one where no phantom loomed over their lives. One where they still had a mother and a mentor with them. But he had taken her from both of them. A single thrust of the blade, and her life was over.

"A bullet to the head was enough for him."

And Cykes had seen him: a child too terrified to think when she threw herself at him with that utility knife. She had been fast, but not fast enough to catch anything but the back of his hand before she lost consciousness.

"You tried to run, but couldn't go far. You were fast, but not fast enough."

He remembers clearly standing above her unconscious form, his hand dripping blood – evidence, he thought back then – and thinking that she had seen him, that killing her as well would be the most logical step. He couldn't tell, back then, that trauma would make her forget what she had seen for years. Still, he didn't kill the defenseless child lying at his feet – a decision whose logic he couldn't comprehend, at the time.

The man brings something up, holding it before Robb's face, and it's with a sudden flash of clarity that Robb can tell it's a gun – a gun aimed straight at his head.

"Of course, I meant to kill you... but you were harder to kill than your friend was, apparently."

… Perhaps he can understand now. He can understand all too well – but it's too late, much too late.

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

"Don't give me that!" Cykes is saying above him, clearly unaware of his thoughts. "Will the two of you stop making up excuses on how it's somehow okay to get yourselves killed for- Wait, what? No, wait! Don't cry!" she exclaims, surprise replacing any trace of anger in her voice.

"LaRoche?" Blackquill's voice reaches him next, sounding slightly alarmed, but he doesn't open his eyes to face either of them. He can't even raise the arm he has left to shield his face: he can only keep his eyes shut and lie there, tears rolling down his temples, more vulnerable than he's ever been.

How can they not hate him? He was like Outis to them, he was just like him – and the fact they're not showing that hatred against him, the fact they were worried for him, somehow cuts deeper than anything else before. It's illogical and pathetic, but most of all it's painful.

"Hey. What happened to the apology for making me worry?" Cykes' voice reaches him. A hand grasps his remaining one, fingers too small to belong to Blackquill intertwining with his. "You're doing just that now."

"You shouldn't be worried," he rasps. "You should wish me dead as much as I wished him dead. It makes no sense. You make no sense. I don't understand, I never did, I-" he trails off with a choked-back sob. There is a brief silence, neither Cykes nor Blackquill speaking, then it's Cykes who breaks the silence.

"... But I did. I didn't even know who or what I should hate, but I hated you. For a time I hated you so much I was afraid of what I could do," Cykes finally speaks. "When I first asked you why you had tried to have me convicted for Clay's murder, black Psyche-locks appeared. Forcing such locks open could permanently damage one's soul, and I knew it... but for a moment I wanted to go on. I wanted to do it," she adds, and her voice trembles. "But I couldn't. It wasn't me. And I... I didn't want to let you change that. You had taken so much from me already. Giving in would have felt like... like letting you win," she adds, but even as she speaks she gives his hand a gentle squeeze. "After that… well. Stuff happened, you know. I may want to wring your neck for doing something so stupid, but I'm also kinda grateful you saved my life. Even if you knew it would cost your own, and that it would hurt."

"I don't deserve your—"

"I told you it's not your decision to make, LaRoche," Blackquill speaks up, his voice harsh. LaRoche opens his eyes to look up at him through the veil of tears. "We have been through this. You may feel undeserving as you wish, but it's ours to give. You don't get a say in it."

"Yeah, what he said. It's our call. Deal with it," Cykes adds with a feeble grin. Her thumb brushes over the back of his only hand, and LaRoche is acutely aware of the scar there, the one she left on him as a terrified child. "Just… don't worry about it. Try to get better," she adds, but her voice is suddenly a bit less firm. She must be perfectly aware of the fact that there is hardly any future for him.

Promise you won't let them kill you.

LaRoche needs to swallow the knot in his throat. "I… Cykes, I—" he starts, only to be cut off by a knock on the door. The nurse in the doorframe looks almost apologetic.

"I'm sorry, but you should leave. A longer visit may tire the patient too much."

"... Very well," Blackquill says, and looks down at LaRoche. "We'll see you again as soon as we receive permission to. Don't waste your energy weeping. You know better that that," he says, and turns to leave.

Cykes gives his hand one last squeeze before letting go of it. "See you later," she murmurs. LaRoche shuts his eyes, unable to even look at her, and gives no answer. He doesn't open his eyes until their steps have faded, until the door closes again.

He doesn't know that they won't be able to visit him again.

"What kind of claptrap is this?"

Simon's voice is loud enough to make Apollo wince, let alone her with her sensitive hearing. Still, it seems to have no effect whatsoever on the person standing before him – someone with dark eyes and hair, wearing a black suit and an impassive expression, nothing in their body or face giving any indication at all of their sex or age. They're not much taller than Apollo and Simon is literally towering over them, but there is no trace of fear in their voice or posture. They're not intimidated at all, and it shows.

"This is no, as you put it, claptrap," they reply tightly, chin tilted upwards and hands folded behind their back. There is something militaristic in their voice and stance. "The spy known as the Phantom – or Robert LaRoche, as you will – is a person of interest with valuable information. Therefore my men and I are here to take him into custody. As we are entirely authorized to do, as Agent Lang can explain to you."

Simon immediately turns to Lang, eyes livid. Lang is avoiding his gaze, teeth bared as though in a silent snarl. It looks as though he likes the situation no better than Simon. "And by whose authorization?" he asks.

Lang shoots the person in the black suit a furious glare. "That of your accursed government."

"The government?" Apollo repeats, surprise plain in his voice. Athena cannot say she expected it, but she's not really surprised, either. She still remembers how the government was involved in the hasty cover-up of the HAT-1 sabotage, and how said cover up kept her mother's murder from being investigated as thoroughly as it should have. Had it not been for that interference, then perhaps someone would have viewed the security tape showing the Phantom leaving the crime scene, and Simon would have never-

"The government, yes. Your government, as Agent Lang found fitting to remind you," is the smooth reply. "Not that I need to give any explanations to you – this is not Los Angeles, after all. We're well beyond your jurisdiction. Besides, considering how easily he could escape your custody, I daresay it's best for everyone if we handle this from now on. As I already mentioned, the information he holds is extremely valuable. From this moment on, everything about him is strictly classified information. You'd do well to forget about him."

Simon scoffs. "He won't talk if that's not his desire," he snaps. "And he made it very clear that it's not."

His words are met with an empty smile. "We have means to make terrorists talk, Prosecutor Blackquill. He will tell us all we need to know and more. Fear not, we won't be keeping him with us one moment longer than necessary. We haven't forgotten what sentence he escaped. Once he's told us everything, he'll be promptly executed for his crimes. Your department will be sent his remains so that you can put that empty grave to use."

Simon grinds his teeth, but there is nothing more he can do or say... and Athena can't say anything, either, because she's too busy focusing on what she just heard – discord. It's weak, almost entirely hidden, but not hidden quite well enough.

"Now, I believe this ends our pleasant talk," Black Suit says, and turns to leave without another word.

"... I'm sorry, hawk lawyer. My hands are tied," Agent Lang mutters, and leaves with quick steps before Simon can say anything. Not that he tries to speak: he stands on the spot, gaze locked dead ahead of him, hands balled into tight fists. Athena glances at Apollo, who still seems rather taken aback by what's going on.

"... Hey. Can you give us a minute?" she asks. She doesn't really like keeping anything from him, but... with how he feels about the Phantom, telling him about her suspicions may not be the best thing.

"I... yeah, sure," he says, and walks away a little awkwardly. When he's some distance away, Athena steps forward and reaches for Simon's sleeve.

"Simon. Don't react to what I'm about to tell you, okay?"

That sure gets his attention, and his gaze shifts to her. "What is it?"

"That person. They were lying," she says, her voice very quiet to keep anyone else from hearing her.

To his credit, Simon lets little to nothing show at the revelation. When he speaks, his voice is just as quiet – his words for her ears alone. "Did they lie about working for the government?"

"No. I think that was the truth. But that whole thing about making him talk, and then about executing him... there was discord right there. It was a lie."

"Out, all of you – that's an order."

LaRoche is brought back to awareness by the sound of footsteps and orders being barked. He opens his eyes to see a couple of nurses being escorted out of his room by men wearing black suits; groggy as his mind is, he can still tell who they are. It seems that they're going to end him sooner than expected.

He shuts his eyes and thinks back of his promise to Seymour. It was only a dream, certainly, a vivid hallucination, but it felt so real it feels like he truly spoke to him, truly made him that promise.

I'm sorry, Seymour. I never stood a chance of keeping it.

"Well, well. Look who the underworld has barfed back up."

LaRoche's eyes snap open as soon as the familiar voice reaches him. He looks up to see a woman standing over him, wearing the same suit as that of the government officials he's seen before. Her face is not familiar to him, but the grin she's giving him is. "Hey there, Ghost of the Space Center. Ready for a little trip?"

"... I take it you're not terminating me?"

Her grin widens. "Officially, you're a person of interest and everything about you is classified information from now on. You'll be held at an undisclosed location, executed as your sentence says when we're done with you, blah blah. No worries, they're not really putting you down. Guess who managed to get Deep Throat to put in a word or two. Apparently, you're still a prime asset or something. Or maybe they just couldn't find anyone else willing to work with me. So we're taking you back. Any objections?"

Blackquill would have more than a few, LaRoche wants to say, but he knows far too well that Blackquill is likely already objecting, and that nothing he has to say will matter. For a moment all he can think of is Seymour, sitting before him with the crystal bird Robb gifted to him once in his hands. He shuts his eyes.

Promise you won't let them kill you. At least promise you will try.

"Hey, don't fall asleep on me! Haven't you got anything to say? Like, dunno, thanks for saving my ass?"

LaRoche opens his eyes and looks up at the Yatagarasu, mind still slightly clouded by medication. He finds himself smiling weakly. "It's good to see you," is all he manages to rasp.

"Hah! I'd like to say the same, but you're not a pretty sight, really," she says, her grin widening, and her eyes shift on the bandages around the shoulder where his left arm used to be. "Hey, if you do get you those robotic limbs, do I get to call you RoboRobb?"

"No."

"Sheesh. The usual spoilsport," she mutters, and she seems about to add something – but the next moment someone walks in, and the act is back on.

The Phantom closes his eyes, not bothering to listen to whatever they're telling each other. All he can think of is Blackquill, and how he's now forced to watch as he's taken away for good to be executed at a later date, unable to exchange another word with him. As far as the government is concerned, no one outside its intelligence – not Blackquill, not the Interpol and certainly not Cykes – will ever know whom he actually worked for, why he is really being taken, and that he's not truly headed for execution.

They will never know he's actually going to be allowed to live – like his previous faked execution, all over again. No one has any reason to suspect he's been working for the government in the past two years. Yet another fake death, another chance for those who lost a loved one because of him to be sated, another chance for Blackquill to move on. It makes sense. It sounds just as convenient as it did last time.

But it would still be a lie, and there are two people in this wretched world LaRoche will never lie to again.

Promise you won't let them kill you. Promise me you won't be back until your time is really up.

I'll try, LaRoche thinks tiredly. I'll try, birdbrain. But the choice won't be mine to make.