What pun? There you go, Stalker. Profile's OC section's been updated. I'm just glad people are reading this. xD

One note on Jacques : I made him before AAI came out, so unfortunately he shares the same name with Jacques Portsman. Not to be confused. I'm not using Portsman however, so it shouldn't be much of a problem. AAI characters are still in a box – hadn't gotten the motivation to play it. It's so..Darned long. The cases I mean.

I'm just happy someone's actually reading it - it sure doesn't make the most interesting plot in the world, but hey, at least it's fun writing in. =x


Two : Polynomial

-

Someone must have replaced Apollo Justice's head with a boombox.

No, not by sawing it off. Sometime within the night, someone must have dropped a bag of rice or flour onto it, and now it's thudding with that kind of rhythm that you hear on hip hop stations. It goes beep-beep-beep or boop-boop-boop, depending on who's currently talking on the radio (talking mind you, not singing), and depending on what kind of empty cans they've decided to use as their 'creative' expression. Certainly, Apollo decided, while he squinted slightly swollen eyes up at the ceiling, he's not getting enough sleep. He has the dark eye circles to prove it too. He can't see it lying down of course, but if he leans across and looks into the mirror above Trucy's trunk, the one that's been taped together countless times because they keep dropping it, he'll see it.

Just another typical day.

Nothing he can do about that – that's what you get when you're born a lawyer. Apollo dragged himself up, reaching out a hand to whack the alarm clock ringing off it's socks with one hand and massaging the kinks out of his face to get it working. He grimaces while he does this of course, because if he doesn't massage it more, then later that day he won't be able to smile, and you know what that means – his boss will get on his case again. Folding up the towel that doubles up as his blanket, he got up, and stretched.

Then he padded down their makeshift hallway that's made out of cardboard boxes, and into the next room. He doesn't have to go far of course, because there's only two rooms in their apartment, if it can be called that and not a rat hole. It has precisely two rooms and one bathroom. One is the living room, where two secondhand couches pile one side where the both of them sleep, and then there's the other room, where they eat and watch TV while they do it because it's impossible to not meet the TV's eye. It's only 10 x 10 after all.

"Good morning, Polly!" Trucy chirped, the moment he appeared in her line of sight, sniffing at whatever it was she's grilling. Somehow, Trucy always manages to produce food, despite the fact that Apollo almost never had any spare salary for her to buy groceries with, and no fridge for her to stick food in. So he's made a habit of not asking her what the food is...Especially when it's lumpy like this one.

He prodded a finger into the pinkish meat sizzling on the grill. "'Morning, Trucy." Apollo mumbled, frowning at the meat. He really wants to know what that is, but does he?

"Oh come on! Is that how you greet your sister? You look like an upside down clown!"

"Well, good thing I'm not aiming to be one then," He shot back. "Out of curiosity, what meat is that?"

"Chicken, silly!" Trucy stuck a spatula under the chicken (?) and flipped it around, making a sizzling sound where it smacked the sooty, overused black of the grill.

"That doesn't look like chicken." Apollo announced sceptically.

"Yes well, I lied. It's actually the shopkeeper downstairs."

"What!?"

"Oh come on, Polly – I was just joking. It's really chicken – it just looks super red 'cuz it's been supercooled, and all the blood's frozen."

"Oh," He muttered, relieved. He really wouldn't put it pass Trucy to actually make breakfast out of someone – God knows it's always disturbing when she makes dark and sinister comments under her breath about making people disappear. People find it funny, but Apollo just finds it creepy. Then again, many things creep Apollo out.

Like that, for example.

"Trucy, there's a roach on my box."

"Squish it." She muttered irritably, prodding the chicken. Another fresh supply of juice, and it sizzles again. If Apollo is a more disturbing sort of person, he would comment that their breakfast seems to be literally cooked in blood and not oil. Instead, he eyed the cockroach warily.

"I don't like it, Trucy," He complained. "It's sitting on my box – get it off."

Clicking her tongue irritably, Trucy made a grab for her staff, always lying close at hand on the counter next to the grill. She sends it flying over like a javelin, and while it doesn't kill the roach, it sure got close enough that it went scurrying away. Apollo breathed a sigh of relief and sat back down on his cardboard box – which doubles as everything from chair to table for them, depending on occasion.

"I don't know what I'll do without you, Trucy – I really don't."

"You'll go hungry perhaps?" The chicken let out a final mournful wail, and she bundle the thing onto a plate (Sad to say, but they pilfered that one from the dim sum shop a block down, 'borrowing' the plate and then 'forgot' to return the thing. It's a measure of how miserly they are that they prefer to go to jail for a plate than to buy one.) and plopped it in front of Apollo on another bigger cardboard box with a dramatic, magical flourish.

"Thanks Trucy," He grinned weakly, stabbing a fork into the chicken. "You're one in a million."

"I'm magical, that's what!"

She got another fork too, and together, they started jabbing and making holes in the chicken. Trucy ate hers in moderate, appropriate, and magical bites. Apollo choked on his chicken and nearly died. They made conversation.

"Oh yes, just in case you forgot – the call came in for you last night, remember? Something about a job."

"Yeah..." Apollo muttered darkly. His two antennas – his two only real source of vanities – drooped a little as he frowned. They're not gelled up yet, or not a storm in the world would be able to ruffle it. "It sounded like old man Griffoth – and you know what that means. He's going to be frothing at the mouth today, telling me what a danged good job I'm doing."

"Didn't he sound kind of excited yesterday?" She munched out.

"Guess so." Apollo shrugged, not really caring. A lifetime ago, he would be cheering at the thought of receiving another case – but that Apollo has since grown up, hit the age of 21, become his sister's legal guardian, and experience that concoction name and labeled 'Life'. Law was once a means, a way to claw himself out of the meager beginnings that he had, a way to give the both of them a better life. That's a joke now. Law doesn't pay shit, especially when you're serving as a public defender. No one who serves the state makes big bucks, and those prosecutors, always moving about in their flashy cars...Those usually have other ways to pocket their money. If you're not willing to suck up to people, and not willing to change verdicts for green bills, or in his case – let the innocent be charged guilty with a sizable bribe – then you end up like Prosecutor Payne. No money, no hair, no car, no nothing.

Trucy frowned at him. "Are you okay, Polly? You're so gloomy these days."

"Remembered a time when I wasn't gloomy?" He shot back.

"Good point."

They munched.

"It's probably just some dumb burglar or something who got himself arrested. With the election running so near, everyone's ra-ra about banishing evil and all that. Then the election blows over, and the whole 'fight crime, it's good' thing goes out of the window – ripped off like streetside posters."

"Oh Polly," Trucy sighed dramatically – which looked rather silly when one side of her cheek is still working on the chicken at rapid speed. "You're so cynical."

Apollo grunted grumpily, and spooned off the last of the chicken. He swiped at his mouth with some tissue – about the only thing in the house in permanent full supply thanks to his hypochondriac streak – and dusted off his hands, leaving the fork on the table. Trucy does the chores around the houses, you see – that's the only bright side to being the breadwinner around here. Unfortunately though, even that seems to be overshadowed lately, since Trucy makes almost as much as he does in the PD office with her bar magic shows. Apollo doesn't approve of course – a girl wandering up and down town like that on her own can't be good for his heart – but he's resigned himself to it.

They're broke, fact of life.

Apollo spends all his time wormed up on the cardboard boxes, trying to work files that don't make sense out and stretching every penny like someone's elastic rubber band. If Trucy doesn't pitch in with her earnings at the bar – which is sometimes literally more than Apollo's – they'll be flat broke and kicked out of their meager apartment.

Also fact of life.

Sometimes Apollo wished he had thought things out more thoroughly before taking Trucy off with him the moment he hit 21. But then again, Trucy really did missed him – walled out in the orphanage because Apollo had to leave the moment he turned 18 – and had bugged him endlessly about it. He's still broke. They're still broke. And the chicken they eat is still gross and lumpy and pink and utterly revolting, but at least they have each other now.

He leaned down and pecked Trucy on the cheek – if only a light one. Apollo's not a touchy feely kind of person, but then she IS his sister.

"Thanks for the uh...Chicken, Trucy."

"Mhmm. God is great, God is good, he sent you Trucy for these food."

Apollo laughed and ruffled her hair fondly, knowing no one will see how messy it'll be anyway, since it's always covered by that hat in public. He hummed, wandering off the comb and gel his hair up to it's normal spiky standards. Gelling his hair is really his hobby in life now, and it shows how little he has to do that he has resorted to this sort of thing for a hobby. Apollo grabbed the mirror on the trunk earlier and sat down on the couch, pulling his hair up.

First he parted the whole mess of hair he had (It looked frighteningly like Trucy's unless he slicks it back) and into two locks, then he shoved it up. Once he was satisfied with his handiwork, he whistled into the mirror.

"Take that."

"Apollo! Are you done with your hair? You're going to be late if you don't start cycling soon!"

"I'm fine!"

"The sun's warm! Hurry up, or you'll roast!"

"R-Right! Coming!"


It's raining homosexual rain.

Okay, technically rain doesn't have a gender, but it's definitely, for the moment – utterly and inexorably gay. Klavier looked up at the sky, so gray and cloudy and gloomy, with the rain, as he mentioned – utterly homosexual. It either comes in big fat drops or as pine needles. Then when you think it's almost over, it comes down in a heavy downpour. Once you pull up your maroon umbrella and Mary Poppins yourself, the rain stops completely, only to rinse and repeat again. Normal people would call this erratic – Klavier just calls it gay.

He picked himself through the leftovers of the building they blew up yesterday – not that anyone here besides him and Zee knows that. The whole things is a mess, now that he's seeing it up close and in the vague light of a gloomy L.A morning. The weather is really going to the bastards. Hasn't stop raining since before spring, and it's still raining mid-April. It's raining now, and it patters softly, the sky's crying for the Medical Center. It used to be a place for healing, a place where doctors tell you you have two months to live, then immediately pat you on your back and tell you it's okay – they have medication that had stretch that two months by two days.

It's a place for faith, if nothing else. A place where you hold hands and pray that sometime within the next minute or so, some Russian smartass is going to come up with a cure for whatever dastardly thing is inflicting you, and yes, that is a good thing – that's faith, and you should always have faith. Klavier doesn't really feel the urge for faith now though.

Let's chalked up all the reasons why he should be as gloomy as the sky, mm? About the same time that halfway across the city Apollo had received the call for him to put his best foot forwards tomorrow, Klavier had received an entirely different call. This one is to inform him that yes, his brother is arrested, and that he should keep himself on his toes in case he's needed to replace his brother. That's all. No additional information, no explanation, nothing. Klavier might as well be an associate, for all the respect they're giving him. Some replacement for his brother. He snorted. You might as well call him a dummy.

Klavier doesn't even know whose murder his brother's in for.

"What was that?"

"Huh?" Klavier twirled a lock of the blonde hair. Nail's looking up at him, clipboard in hand and scribbling furiously into it to chart up everything he's found in the rubble. That's his band mate – one out of three anyway. Nail Colfin, forensic scientist. The blue head bobbed expectantly.

"You were snorting." He said, when Klavier did not respond.

"Ach. Nothing, just thinking."

Nail turned back at the rubble, prodding his granite mess and muttering under his breath, ranting off scientific things like a bullet train. Klavier knew he should probably feel more something, more...Exuberant or something. Klavier Gavinne almost never sets foot on the crime scene, but this once, he does. There's nothing for him to do anyway. If he hangs around the prosecutor office, they'll just point at him more often, whisper more behind their hands. There's nothing for him to do, because he's a prosecutor, and unless he wants to prosecute his brother and taint his own record by giving out the lousiest performance ever, he'd do well to stay away from there. Kristoph said so.

He sighed, kicking at the rubble gloomily.

"Klavier?" Nail snapped irritably, righting his glasses.

"What?"

"Get off my rocks."

"Ach." Klavier moved off his rocks, and Nail started dusting the boulders underneath him. God knows why he needs something like that, but he's a forensics – they operate on an entirely different realm of understanding, even if Nail is one of his band mate. Somewhere down the rubble mess, a rescue team is at work, digging about the remains of the once stately building. "Rescue" seems to be rather a subjective term though. Can you rescue dead people? When you pull people who had been crushed and roasted alive, does it count as rescuing at all, or are you just doing your job?

"Hey, Zee!" Nail slapped at Klavier's leg from where he was squatting, and Klavier budged aside – feeling slightly annoyed. He's completely useless here, being a prosecutor and all. Those don't come in handy until they're finish dusting rocks or whatever, but he's been put on this case, as soon as they got a suspect that is. If they did, he wouldn't be prosecuting it at all – but they don't know that, so Klavier's stuck here 'getting more information' on it when he should be doing all he can to help his brother.

Is Kristoph alright?

Naw, seems like a dumb question. When is Kristoph ever not alright? Knowing him, he's probably talking to the country's best defense attorney even as he's standing around here, looking like a pretty pillar. Maybe he'll even go down onto the battlefield on his own too, and Klavier would definitely attend that. The man used to be known as the coolest in the west – as well as the coldest – would put up the kind of trial you don't see very often. Flawless, precise, icy, just like everything his brother is, Klavier thought with just that tiny tinge of pride and hero-worship.

"Zydaline Zylinder - are you deaf? You need some itching powder to spring over?"

Zee scowled back. He had been squatting beside the deeper part of the holes – smirking down at it and pretending not to be smirking. He's scowling now though, and it's obvious he isn't too pleased to be here so early in the morning. Zee's rarely ever pleased about anything unless it came right out of this month's edition of Playboy or a really showy car showroom, and he's most definitely not pleased when he's at work. Dusting his hands off, the man walked over.

"Guten Morgan, Zee," Klavier raised a hand in greeting. Nail in return pushed the rock aside, and took up a whole handful of some kind of ash.

"Look at this." He told them.

Klavier looked. "Looks like dust to me," he said honestly.

"No, looks more like completely shattered rock foundation to me." Nail snapped irritably, ticking off another column on his list. Klavier shrugged, not seeing the point of this. Science is very wonderful and very exciting and all, but it isn't Klavier's cup of tea. Leave it to scientist and lab assistants like Nail – but count him out – his only job is to take their reports and land it down on someone like a ton of bricks.

"Everything here is kind of you know...Shattered."

"But this thing's been totally crumbled by whatever bomb blew it down."

"Meaning?" Klavier scowled at the dust. "It's a bomb, ja? It blows. Of course things get blown down, it's a fact of life, nein?"

"Meaning it's not a pipe bomb, yeah?" Zee rubbed the top of his head, where his tightly pulled braids slicked backwards. "It's a pro job, obviously. You think an amateur can pull off something like this? Gimme a break."

"Ach, chalk it up on wiki – I didn't know that."

"That's not it," Nail thrust the handful of dust in Klavier's face, causing him to sneeze violently. "It's some kind of...Gunpowder. In large quantities. I don't think it's even available to the general market in the first place, not even moderate underworld stuff. This is some amazing crap, from the looks of it."

'You can't tell?" Klavier frowned at the dust. It sure smelled like the thing you smell when you shoot someone in the head – and he traded a glance with Zee. Zee wasn't the thing that caught his eye though – it was what was beyond his friend's flaming red head. The black, nondescript car that pulled up beside the road. He recognized those sort of cars – when you've been hanging around the sort of people who drive them, you learn to recognize them in the blink of an eye. You see them for what they are – not anonymity – but what they really are. Quiet engines, specially customized to make the least amount of possible sounds. A name plate that's often several shade newer than the rest of the car. The kind of car that can blend into your subconscious, like white noise.

"I need some lab equipment...Bah! Why did they send me out on footwork? My algae and I can fare much better in the lab than out here..."

"Come on...You don't need a lab for that..."

"Excuse me, gentlemen." Klavier pushed up from the broken pillar he had been leaning on. Someone shouted 'Hey!' after him, but he's switched it off, narrowing his power of concentration onto the car and only the car. For all he knows, this could be someone here to shoot him. Paranoid, he knows, but in this world, paranoia is the medication that will extend your life. If you're not paranoid enough, you'll be sleeping with fishes before you know it, and it's with a cautious step that he walks up to the car. Surely they won't shoot him in public?

When the window rolled down though, he saw the man in there, and grinned a smile of relief.

"Mr. LeTouse – it's good to see you." He greeted one of his brother's right hand men warmly. The man nodded at him, though the grim set of the jaw doesn't waver.

"Mr. Gavinne. I think you had better come with us to the detention center."

Klavier frowned. "Someone is giving my brother trouble?"

"I wouldn't say so sir – I would say your brother's giving a lot of people trouble."

The blonde grinned. That didn't sound too good – and is it sinful that he's happier for the fact that he gets a little in on the action than he is at the prospect of helping his brother? But he's just a kid of course, don't fault him. He's still at that age, still wants his fun and drunken joyrides and fast action. He nodded once at the big man, and the door opened for him. He got in, and then the black anonymous car is driving off again towards the detention center.


Apollo slammed the file down on his desk so hard that the desk shook like a maraca. Certainly it made that rat-a-tat-tat noise, if only because all the files stacked up on one side of it slanted to one side, a paper version of the Tower of Pisa. He hissed when the papers shuffled rebelliously at this sort of treatment from their masters and made a papery attempt to escape the country of his desk, and lunged forward just in time to save all his files from toppling down onto the floor.

He needs. A bigger. Desk, dammit.

Apollo shoved the paperwork back onto the table and grimaced at the state his desk is in. Apollo's a neat sort of person – he's a Type A, and he needs everything to be careful compartments of four and four inches for him to be in his happy place. But circumstances are always there to thwart him, both at home and outside of his house. There's no place for anything at all in their apartment, much less space to be neat with – but at work is even worse. His small, generic sized desk isn't enough for the work that just keeps piling and piling. And because Apollo has garnered himself a reputation as a public defender with an astoundingly high acquittal rate in comparison to others – at 82%, according to his meticulous calculations – he's gotten himself signed up for more and more work, and the work, as they say, snowballs.

More work than he can finish at least, and when the senior P.D walked in half an hour later, Apollo was already elbow-deep in paperwork, irritable and feeling like the common secretary.

"Justice!" He announced gleefully, rubbing his hands together. Apollo looked up from the form he was copying and scowled. He knows that look – Grifforth has found an apple ripe enough to pick, and he's about to pick it. "There you are my boy – been looking up and down for you all day long!"

Considering that you just stepped out of the elevator, that seems, rather doubtful, don't you think?

Instead, he said. "Is that so, sir? I'm sorry to trouble you."

Grifforth beamed at him. "Such a polite boy, such a nice boy...Ho-ho! I can see why the seniors are so fond of you, my boy! Such good manners!"

Apollo sighed, putting down his paperwork and looked into the man's indiscreetly gleaming eyes.

"Is that something I can do for you, Mr. Grifforth?"

The man pounced at the opportunity with all the grace of a fat cat. "Why, of course! But I wouldn't dream of troubling you, my boy – just look at your table! I can tell you are a man of many things, but a man of leisure is not one of those."

So why are you troubling me if you can see that?

Apollo clenched his jaw in irritation. Sometimes, he wonders, just briefly, exactly what the punishment would be if he snapped back at these guys and launch one of his remarks at them. But he doesn't, because he's Apollo Justice. He's not a bigshot lawyer in a bigshot firm, and if he loses this job, or make too many enemies, then he's literally screwed. He smiled at the man.

"I'm not particularly busy sir. If there's anything I can take off your hands at all, I'll only be glad to help."

There you go. A perfect textbook answer. The moment pasts, and some part of Apollo shrivels a little more, and he curses himself for being a coward.

"Oh-ho! Well, well...Youths these days! Always so eager to learn. As it happens, I do have a job, yes, my boy – I do! And it's a brilliant opportunity, one that doesn't come very often. If you do it well, you'll be the first to shoot to stardom! And then we'll all be watching you own your own firm, eh?"

He slaps Apollo on the back, white moustache quivering a little in laughter as he laughs at his own joke. Apollo manages a smile too, even though inside, he's going 'And why don't you do it then, if the benefits are so great?'

"An intriguing prospect, sir."

"That's right, that's right!" Grifforth snapped a finger at his secretary, whom as always, trailed after him in dejected misery. "Nichols! Go get me the Gavinne file, and for the love of God, Penny – don't spill anything on it!"

"I never..." She muttered under her breath, before turning off to fetch the file, light brown hair glinting almost angrily. Grifforth shook his head at her disappearing figure.

"Goodness, the secretaries they assign us these days..."

"You're the one who always spill coffee on your files, not her." Apollo growled. The old man's head whipped around, looking rather alarmed – as though he's looking at an Apollo who had dyed his hair blonde and grew it to shoulder length.

'Eh, what was that, son!?"

"Nothing, sir."

"Eh-Eh. Whispering is bad now boy – if you want to say something, say it out!"

"Yes, sir. I'm fine, sir." Apollo mouthed, reciting a well beaten line. Grifforth nodded appreciatively, like he had just turned back from said anomaly back to the little, slightly below average height, easily bullied lawyer. Penny Nichols reappeared, and she handed a thick bundle of files to Grifforth. He complains under his breath about how untidy it was, before handing it over to Apollo.

'That's the job I have for you. It's a really high-profile one, and I can't think of a better chance for you to stand to glory."

Apollo said nothing, opening the file and looking into it, There's the case summary, and then there's the picture of the defendant stacked there, pinned with a tiny paper clip. It's of a good-looking blonde man, and if he's a lady, he would probably stack a whole lot of adjectives along the line of handsome or beautiful or chiseled or whatever onto him. As he isn't, the only thing that he noted was that Kristoph Gavinne, the defendant, seemed to be charged with the crime of murdering a man. First degree homicide and...

"He looks like he can afford a lot better than a public defender," Apollo commented, snapping the file shut. That got him a disappointed gleam from Grifforth – he knew the man's dying to have Apollo tell him more. Anything would do, gossip, or just hints as to how the younger man does his job and do it so well.

"Well, yes," He said mournfully, sounding for all the world like he's saying 'Oh no, he's departed.' "That man is Kristoph Gavinne. I'm sure you've heard of him?"

Apollo hadn't.

Grifforth looked like he had just announced himself the love child of a passion fruit and an envelope. "But he's Kristoph Gavinne! You can't have not heard of him!"

"No sir, I'm afraid I haven't." And what does it matter anyway? He's a defendant. Maybe he's innocent, and maybe he's in the wrong – it makes no difference to Apollo. He might have once worshiped lawyers that had held truth and justice up in the air, but Apollo is just that slightest bit more materialistic than them. Truth and justice are important – but so is money too. And he can't lose his job – remember that like the commandments.

"Humph. Kids these days." Grifforth folded his arms, and leaned against the next cubicle, clearing his throat and preparing himself for a long long speech."Now, you can call me a reigning experts on these matters. In the P.D office, few are matched with me in their knowledge, don't you agree?"

"Yes sir. I'm fine with anything you say."

"Right well – the man you're looking at is Kristoph Gavinne. Quite the history, quite the history. He used to be a defense attorney you know, remembered him very well. He's one cool customer, colder than an ice pick and far more dangerous to be up against. Sadly – and this is sad, dear boy, never fall down this path of dark disgrace, because it'll be the end of you – he got into a bad crowd. He started taking jobs from the mob. They pay very well for people like him you know, people who can get your men out like magic."

Grifforth snapped his gnarly fingers in front of Apollo's impassive face.

"That's when he got really successful. Twice as rich as all of us put together – back when he was running with Zak Gramarye. (The mobster, son! You can't not have heard of him! For good grace my boy, what shell have you been living under!?) But then one day he just stopped – stopped everything. Stopped being a defense attorney, and stopped working for Gramarye. Instead, he took a small group of dissatisfied men from Zak, and in seven years, built from scratch a sheer empire."

"That's amazing," Apollo commented. Seven years really isn't much after all. In seven years, he certainly hadn't learned a single thing – though he was in school, so that's pardonable. "Now he runs his own gang?"

"That's right! And they're definitely a lot bigger than just your average chain and saw gang. He's an empire – a sheer empire! Never seen a man like that. If only I..."

"Are you saying you would like to be a mobster too, Mr. Grifforth?" He pounced, just because he couldn't resist needling the irritating man.

"No, no, of course not – goodness gracious, no. I'm just saying it takes a business mind to admire a business mind, that's all. Maybe you'll understand someday, my boy. Someday - Hah!"

"I hope so, sir."

Grifforth seem lost in his own dream fantasies as he patted Apollo on the shoulder. "There you go – that's the job I have for you. If you can get him acquitted despite everything, you'll be a legend in the P.D office – the first kid to get a mobster like that acquitted. You'll be getting the Defender's Paladin Award by the end of the year – trust me on this one."

And if I fail, naturally, I will be the greatest laughing stock around – the man who had actually dared to take the case of a blatantly guilty mobster...And fail.

"You still haven't told me why he asked for a P.D, sir."

"Ah, that, was it? Why don't you go ask him? He's right in the detention center after all. Maybe you can – cycle there, eh? Eh-heh-heh-heh!" Cackling manically like a certain goat in myth, Grifforth bounded off like said animal, Nichols trailing after him into their offices. Apollo waited until Grifforth disappeared into the elevator and the door shut, before slamming the file down onto the table. He watched as the Tower of Pisa disintegrates completely into Lake Paper, and glared at it so hard his antennas shook.

Keep positive, Polly.

Day in day out. It's the same kind of shit.

Smile, Polly! I'll make that smile disappear with magic, okay?

Oh goodness no, boy. That's not how you do these things – maybe one day you'll get it eh? Eh-heh-heh-heh!

So keep positive, Polly! It'll all be okay tomorrow, 'right?

...Cross your fingers and smile.

Quietly, Apollo knelt down and started picking up the papers.


"Brother, come here – I need to feel your forehead."

"Klavier, if you do not take your infected palm off my forehead, I will shoot you."

Klavier pulled his hand off off Kristoph's forehead and chuckled. "You don't have a gun with you here anyway."

"No?"

"Nein...I think."

"Reconsider, Klavier."

Klavier snorted and fell back onto his chair, tilting it backwards on two legs. He looked at the glass – but he's looking out of the same side as Kristoph. People working under the state have privileges that way, and he rocked the chair back and forth just to annoy his brother a little bit more. And anyway, what kind of mobster acts like his brother does sometimes anyway? He's...Knitting. Knitting, for God's sake! Kristoph had ordered that his sewing kit be shipped in, and now he's right there, knitting.

Klavier's heard of prisoners that are allowed to take pencils in because they won't talk otherwise, but he's never heard of knitting. Guess you see a new kind of boss everyday. When he got bored of listening to the rhythm of Kristoph's...Needles, or whatever, knocking at each other, he took it away from his brother. Kristoph looked up at him irritably.

"I don't need to tell you what I think of that kind of behaviour, Klavier."

"I don't need to tell you what I think of what you think either, ja?" He pulled his chair up closer to his brothers, and leaned forward to stare with what he hoped was an appropriately serious sort of glare. All it did was crack his brother up though, and he chuckled merrily.

"Stop it, that ridiculous expression of seriousness on your face is tickling me."

"Ach." Klavier shook his head firmly. "Now wait just a second, Kristoph – you can't slip by me like that."

"Hmm?"

"Why did you ask for that public defender?" He gnashed out before his brother could pounce on him with those famed tactics of evasions again. "I've only asked that question a hundred times, and you've only dodged it. Well, no more. Answer me, ja? There's only what, half a hundred thousand attorneys out there, and you had to pick the ones most likely to land you in jail? What, did someone attacked our piggy bank while I wasn't looking?"

"What a depraved individual, if such exists." Kristoph commented with an amused smile.

"Ach." He scowled at Kristoph's evasive answer again. Sometimes his brother's resemblance to an eel is uncanny. You can never get him to stop wiggling – not unless you pin him through the midsection anyway. "Answer me dammit, can't you stop playing this sidestepping game for five minutes in your life? If you get convicted, you realize that Zak Gramarye is going to seize the opportunity to take us all out, don't you?"

Kristoph smiled – but this time it's a cold, chilly smile. He's ready to divulge information, though in his own Kristophian way of course. Dangle the carrot. Here donkey, donkey – make an ass of yourself. "The prosecutor's office has told you nothing then?" He mocked.

"I haven't asked them for anything."

"They've been hiding things from you, you mean."

"That's not it. I just never asked for it, is all. I presumed that you would have yourself in good hands, but it seems I presume too much and presume too wrongly."

"Ah. Then you don't know whose murder I've been charged with then."

Klavier glowered. "Nein, whose?'

"Zak Gramarye."

Klavier nearly fell of his chair in shock. One minute passed, and the atmosphere is so thick with silence that you can almost hear the guards' footsteps pounding off far far in the distance. When he recovered sufficiently, he blinked at Kristoph, fingering his jaw just to make sure it isn't open, or if it had hit the floor with a thunk.

"Wha-ZAK? Zak's the one you kil—I mean, got accused of?"

"Mm, you do not know then."

"Of course I don't know! I haven't asked, and no one's volunteered!"

Kristoph arched a sky trimmed eyebrow. "Ah. Your friend hadn't celebrated it then?"

"Huh?"

"Nothing," His brother replied quickly, quirking a smile. "Yes, it's Zak Gramarye that I've been accused of. He caught fire and was burned to death at the Borscht Bowl Club last night, and unfortunately, - Phoenix Wright, Diego Armando and I were there. An unfortunate incident. I might not be able to attend the funeral, but I'll be sure to send a nice letter saying I approve of it."

Klavier scowled – something didn't match up here, smelt fishy – and he didn't believe those 'slip of tongues' of his brothers' They reek like a trail of dirty undergarments.

Ignoring the jab against Zak Gramarye, he snipped. "Why are you the only one arrested then? The other two – they should be here too, ja?"

"Unfortunately for me, they were the ones who had given the 'tip'. So naturally they have been bailed out, pending further investigation."

"You mean they set you up?" Klavier voiced, incredulous. His brother should be freaking piss – God knows he would be – except Kristoph is never verbally outraged. He just smiles that little smile of his.

"Don't worry about it, Klavier. I would do the same to them in a thrice – they just got there faster than I did, is all. As long as some things remain pristine...They may do as they please. It isn't like I'm going to jail."

"That's another thing!" Klavier snapped angrily – suddenly reminded of what he's here to bug him about in the first place. "We're still on square one, Kristoph. Why did you ask for that public defender? It would have made more sense if you had asked for one of our men, ja? Isn't that why you started the firm for Lee and Constans? To make a firm to bail out all of our guys that got arrested? Now that you're the one who got arrested, what, you're suddenly too good for the firm you set up?"

"Klavier..." Kristoph sighed like he was talking to the worse fool in the universe – and Klavier hated that condescending look on his face as he righted his glasses. "Exactly how many lawyers did you mention walk the streets of L.A again?"

Klavier threw up his hands in the air. Here we go again – more trick questions. Turn the vine around and watch as people trip on it. They might be in a gang, he might be the leader of one big piece of shit, but it doesn't change nothing. "I don't know! Half ten thousand? Are we talking about employed ones or not?"

"Hmm. A good estimate would be about five thousand just for the vicinity then. Now out of these, how many do you think are going to step out to defend me?" He asked him.

Klavier clicked his tongue irritably. "Gee, I don't know. Maybe I'll run out of here and run a survey for you? Here folks, take this one million dollars and stand in court for a day. I'll even send out leaflets - Keine Ursache! Don't mention it!"

His brother rolled his eyes daintily – if that's even possible. "Sorgenkind...Why must you always be such a problem child?"

"I'm not being the problem here, you are!" Klavier got up to stamp around the place, just to put some oomph into the statement. His men are out there, running about like headless chicken thinking that their boss is suicidal, and there is his brother – seemingly hellbent to get himself convicted. "Do you have any idea how worried we all – they all are?"

"Ah-ah – don't draw on my heartstrings now. The only thing they're worried about is their livelihood. I'll be surprised if some of them hasn't already applied on Phoenix's immigration list. Now, you still haven't answer me. How many do you think are going to step out to defend me? And sit down, Klavier."

Klavier sat, like a good dog. He folded his arms and glared at his brother though. "I'll put it on three thousand. Maybe four. Depending on what kind of money you pay, ja?"

"Ah, but there you are wrong, Klavier. The amount of attorneys in this city that will represent me at the moment is unfortunately stuck at four – as far as I know."

"Four? You must be stingier than you look, brother."

Kristoph chuckled, but his humour was dark when he spoke again. "No, Klavier. The thing is, you've forgotten to take into consideration this : Who am I?"

"Kristoph Gavinne, class-A bitch," Klavier replied automatically.

Kristoph allowed that to slide. "No, I'm Kristoph Gavinne, the current head of an entire mob. And now, I stand defendant to the charge of first degree murder. If someone stands up to defend me, and fail – they will be punished...Severely, shall we say, by the rest of the gang. Not all the money in the world can exorcise fear. If they represent me, and I am charged, then I'm sorry to say, but that's it – they're doom. Any one of our more...Spirited members will catch them off a corner and finish them off. No lawyer in their right mind will take such a risk, not unless they're confident they can win – which they cannot be."

That thought hadn't occurred to Klavier. It struck him a little, that despite how arrogant he was, his brother does indeed know more than he does. That seems to hit too close to home though, and he shrugged it off carelessly.

"There must be some, ja?"

"None that have accepted, that's for sure."

'So who's the four?"

"Hmm.." Kristoph raised four fingers into the air, and stared off dreamily like they were discussing their holiday in Milan and not which defense attorney is acting for Kristoph. "There's Liam Lee and Jacques Constans – as you pointed out. They haven't contacted me, but then these things, it is I who should contact them, no? I'm sure they will accept the moment I request of it. That's two."

Klavier nodded, fingering his brother's knitted mess with a frown.

"Then of course, there is the obvious solution. I represent myself. I fortunately haven't turn in my badge yet, and while not exactly shiny anymore, it'll function – don't you think?" Klavier nodded absentmindedly, and Kristoph continued. "But I digress. I have not been in the courtroom for a long time now, and I don't wish to return to the shouting matches that so often pollute one. So there is one last option left of course – throwing it to the P.D hounds."

At this, Klavier snorted, letting go of the string of yarn that he had disentangled and twisted around his forefinger. "If all the lawyers in the city quake at the mention of your case, what makes you think they will accept?"

"Oh, they will, of course. They'll push it around, but eventually, someone will come forth. It is amusing, if nothing else."

"And that's why you're doing this? Because it's amusing?"

Kristoph chuckled merrily. "Why not, Klavier? Why not? It's amusing, isn't it? Watching them pass it up and down like an unwanted chain of garlic. I'm so depressed, being backstabbed and all. Don't you think I must have some entertainment at once?"

"You don't look too depressed to me." Klavier retorted. "But this is your idea of fun, ja? You always did have weird standards."

His brother merely smiled, and Klavier was about to open his mouth and ask him exactly why he had finished Zak Gramarye off – hypothetically speaking of course, you never know how the walls have ears – when the door twisted apart.

Klavier turned around, and watched as two ridiculously spiked locks of hair preceded a man in a blood-red suit. He frowned. He's seen him before of course – it's hard not to when you work for the state and move in and out the same offices all the time to get the same papers approved of – but he didn't remember requesting for papers to be sent to him.

"I ah..." The man looked into the room, standing with the door slightly ajar and a confused frown on his forehead. "I'm sorry, am I intruding?"

"Yes," Klavier snapped bluntly. "Ja, you are actually."

"Oh uh, excuse me then, I need--"

"-To intrude, ja?" He raised an arrogant eyebrow at the man. He couldn't resist needling the man – he just looked like those people who get nervous breakdowns when you shoot them full of sarcastic comments – and he's just that little bit annoyed that he had chosen to intrude on him and his brother. "You need to intrude, that is it, ja?"

At this, the corners of the man's mouth tightened just a little, and he looked from one to the other. "I'm afraid I'm going to have to intrude anyway." He moved into the room, and Klavier could see his arms were heavily laden with files. He immediately pegged the man – without even knowing his name – into the Type A category. Or maybe type S – S for secretary. They're those 'secretarial' lawyers who go into courtrooms looking like they're stepping onto a battlefield – with paper as their ammo. Laden on both arms like a camel with it's cargo, they never make an opening statement without consulting the law textbook. Annoying as hell, and Klavier doesn't need lengthy introductions to know what this guy is.

"Which one of you is Mr. Kristoph Gavinne?" The man asked. Kristoph smiled, taking on the beatific expression of a man you wouldn't accuse of cracking apart an egg, never mind beating a person to death with it.

"I am actually."

"R-Right." The man frowned some more, and is clearly at a loss for words. Then he shook himself and was all business again. "I'm from the P.D department sir, and I'm there to consult you for your case – KP-47, wasn't it?"

At this Klavier got up, folding both arms with the world's most arrogant sneer on his face. "Wait, what?"

The man narrowed his eyes back defiantly. It takes all of one point five seconds for them to not like each other.

"Sir, I'm dealing with a case here. Besides – visitors aren't allowed here – you're supposed to be in the other compartment...Which you would know if you read the sign," He added under his breath.

"Goodness."

"Yes," He plowed on, nonplussed. "So if I were you, I'll do something – like obey the rules – and move to the next room...With all due respect of course."

"Really? What makes you extra special then? You don't look like anything more than a paper boy."

At this, anger flash on the other man's face, and his cheeks reddened slightly in frustration. "I have all the right in the world to be here!"

"Because you clean the room?"

"I happen to be the attorney in charge of the case – I can go wherever I please!"

At this, Klavier's expression turned from annoyed to incredulous.

"Wait – you're the attorney in charge of this case?"


Bloody...Little...

Apollo owns a good punching arm, and at the moment, he's not averse to the idea of applying [ONE] forearm to [ONE] face, the way he rightfully should. The thing is – Apollo really isn't a mean person normally. He's a friendly person, even if he's the only one who says it's so. It's not like he has any other friends outside of work anyway, and even those can be numbered with one hand and maybe three fingers. It's just that Apollo is caught in between expectations and reality.

By rights, he should be pathetic, an orphaned kid who barely scraped pass his college and law school years with part time jobs and studying 'til even the fireflies got bored of circling around his window. By rights he should be the defending version of Prosecutor Payne – except he isn't. He wins his cases, perhaps in a combination of luck and sheer persistence – no one knows, but he does it anyway, and currently, Apollo will tell you this and tell you this with just the slightest hint of pride : He's got the highest acquittal rate in the entire P.D department, short of maybe one or two seniors.

But he's also a mismatch – he just doesn't fit the idea of a good attorney. He's easily flustered, easily nervous – and about the only time he can actually let his sarcasm surface long enough to show is when he's riled up – like he is now – or facing people who have no respect for the orderly routine of life – also like now. Apollo just isn't...Glamorous enough. He doesn't have that 'it' factor. Doesn't wear leather to work like some prosecutor he's heard down in the P.O. Doesn't wear cravats, isn't flashy, isn't elegant...Apollo just looks like someone's secretary, in short. And because of that – people like him, like this...Annoying little prick, just decide within one minute of meeting him that they can step all over him and leave him looking like someone's pavement behind.

"I am, actually." Apollo announced to the man, just a touch snide. Hey, at least he understood what the posse comitatus is, which is more than could be said for this man – who looked like he should be putting on a stage show, not dancing attendance to the detention center.

"Ach....This is - unsagbar blöd! Unutterably stupid ! Who in their right mind put you in charge of the case!?"

Apollo stretched his lips into a respectful smile. "That would be Mr. Grifforth. Senior P.D, room 1543, 13th floor. Perhaps you would like to file your report...At his office?"

A not so subtle remark. Would you like to get out, sir? Here's the door.

"Oh no you don't." The man brace an arm when Apollo tried to move pass him to consult the mob boss. The prospect of meeting a boss earlier had made him slightly nervous – you hear things about the L.A underworld after all, it's no slow-simmer soup – but now he's emboldened by sheer anger from the man. Not to mention the man didn't look so intimidating. He looked like one of those fancy pants lawyers down in Trite and Boreux.

"Would you please..." Apollo stuck all his files under one arm and slapped at the outstretched purple tentacle. "MOVE?" He looked at the other man for help, but all he's doing is smiling this little amused smile of his.

"Nein, actually – I think not. You'll explain to me, I'm afraid – exactly how you came to get the job. Surely you can't be the best the P.D have to offer?"

"We don't do status here – just because you have buckets of money, doesn't mean we have to pull out our best monkey from behind our ears!" He snapped back. Screw courtesy – if he got sue, hey! Apollo's got a free defense attorney in mind. A slow smile started working it's way up the blonde man's face, though he clamped it down a moment later and announced, all matters of seriousness, with a grim face :

"I don't think you're up to the job."

Wow, that was blunt. Anymore blunter, and it wouldn't even hurt.

"Thanks for your vote of confidence, Mr..."

"Gavinne. That would be Gavinne. I'm his--" He jerked a thumb in Apollo's case's direction. "-Brother. I'm his brother, ja?"

"Excellent. I will keep in mind your apparent confidence for me, Mr. Gavinne. Now if you'll excuse me, I need some information regarding the case."

"Exactly how many cases have you taken?" The man interrupted him with a scowl. "One?"

"Plenty, actually." Apollo shot right back.

"Ach, that explains it. Quantity doesn't substitute quality, ja? Just because you've sat in a lot doesn't mean you're good."

"Well! Good thing I have both quantity and quality then, isn't that right, Mr. Gavinne?"

The man's mouth tightened, and he turned back to glower at his brother. "See? Do you see? Do you see why I told you you should have put a line down for Lee to come in? You leave it to the state and this is what they give you – one step short of no attorney at all."

Kristoph Gavinne shrugged, looking like he couldn't care less if the state gave him a vase of flowers as an attorney. "Which is why I told you – let things run it's course. We will see. Worse thing comes to worse, I will step down myself."

Apollo cleared his throat loudly. "I'm sorry, Mr. Gavinne – but that's impossible. You can't represent yourself like that."

The man flashed him a friendly – or at least comparatively friendlier smile, compared to some people – smile, showing an envious blend of good genes to Apollo. "Oh, I can actually. I used to be an attorney myself."

"Oh."

Yes, Mr. Grifforth did mention something about that. He had no idea that he can still remember the ropes though – and the more Apollo looked at the way he's smiling pleasantly, the more Apollo doubted Grifforth's source of information. If this is a mob boss...What kind of mob boss smiles like that, for goodness' sake?

The two rattled off angrily in some foreign language. Kristoph Gavinne was pointedly refuting whatever was in the other one's angry barrage, and the other is just as adamant...About whatever. Apollo opened up and consulted his files in the hopes that some gem of knowledge will shine through the thing and illuminate their conversation like a lamp. Shiny, shiny, shiny – maybe that'll help them notice the man in the room that hasn't left yet, mm? Notice that Apollo isn't invisible? No point whining though.

You hate your job? There's a help group for that. It's called EVERYBODY. They meet at the bar.

"You realize that I am going to have to put Prosecutor Payne on this, ja?" Gavinne announced suddenly, reverting back to English. He looked rather like a rattlesnake. Not that Apollo's ever seen a rattlesnake, but if it rattles half as much as it's name does, then it definitely looks like Gavinne.

"Das ist nicht nötig. Don't you think it'll be more amusing to see him face off against vonKarma?"

"No it isn't! Are you dying to taste the air inside of a prison, brother?"

"Not really. I just thought it'll be ah...More fun this way."

'More fun for who?"

Back and forth, back and forth. They're going nowhere fast, if they're going anywhere at all – and at last Apollo slammed his folder shut with a loud bang. It's certainly more guts than he's shown in the P.D department, but then neither of these are capable of removing his job from him.

"Excuse me, sirs. I happen to be visible."

The purple one blinked at him.

"Ja, I can see that – though I wish you were otherwise."

The other one just smiled.

"Look," Apollo growled. "I'm not asking you for your life benefits. I'm asking you for information – which I will need if I'm going to win this case."

'Which you also won't need, if I remove you from the case."

"You can't remove me from the case – there's no one else who's willing to take it!" Apollo shouted. That at least seemed to got through the man's delusional fog, because he blinked up at him stupidly – like an eggplant. Yes, exactly like one – he chose his colour well.

"Isn't that clear enough for you?" Apollo jabbed a finger in Kristoph Gavinne's direction. "No one wants his case – they avoid it like it's a fifty kilo brick falling from the fiftieth floor at their heads. I'm the only one who's willing to take it so far, so unless you can come up with a better alternative or ask your brother to go down to court like a man no one wants to defend – a guilty man – then by all means, remove me from the case."

The man growled – but Apollo's won this round.

"And besides, you have no authority to say either way."

At this though, the smirk returned. "Nein? I happen to be a prosecutor – and I happen to have the ear of the Senior ."

Apollo was nonplussed for a moment. A little startled, a little shock – though he hid all reaction from his face. He doesn't need another thing for this man to gloat over. He'd never imagine that the man was a prosecutor, but then again, with some of the prosecutor's he's come across, he supposed that isn't such a stretch of the imagination.

"Must be why I felt such respect for you the moment I laid eyes on you...Sir."

The man hissed. "That's it. There's got to be some other guy who can be on the job – some other guy that can actually do it."

"What makes you so sure I can't?"

"Are you kidding? Look at yourself! You don't look like you can defend a girl against a candy thief – and my brother is-- my brother is who he is." He glowered at Apollo, but this time, he had an answer all ready and round for him.

"Arbor dum crescit; lignum cum crescere nescit." Apollo retorted.

A tree while it grows, wood when it cannot grow.

The man's eyes narrowed to slits. "I'm taking you off the case."

"Then by all means, go – and may the force be with you." Apollo snapped back.

The man growled, and then he was stomping out – designer boots clocking clicks the way a heavy grandfather clock would. He opened the door, disappeared pass it, and then slammed it shut violently, all the way muttering furiously about how the state's out to get his brother after all, and why didn't he foresee this, and then there's a lot of swearing in that foreign language of theirs.

By the time the man fully disappeared, Apollo was so angry that he forgot what he was here for – glaring after the man's closed door like it was an eggplant he severely needed to smash. He hated people like these. Not so much as the man himself but everything he's come to represent. A boss who overlooks him on accident. Coffee spilled on his paperwork. Spikes. People who tell him to his face he shouldn't be in this field. People who don't tell him to his face that he shouldn't be in this field. The dead potted plant in the corner. Everything.

"Don't blame him...Mr. Justice, was it?"

Apollo turned around to face the man he's assigned to. He's still smiling at him, a pleasant soft smile that made Apollo both comfortable around him – like he wanted to pull up his chair beside him and tell him his life's story from Day One – and uncomfortable at the same time. Just that tiny inch to the right of his mouth, where it sometimes sinks – not quite like a dimple.

"I have no right to judge him, Mr. Gavinne."

"Ah, but you do – that's the thing, isn't it?"

"I'm human, Mr. Gavinne." Apollo retorted. "I can't help judging."

He righted his glasses and smiled. "Yes, but don't judge him too harshly. He's just worried about me...And what happens to our little group if I am gone, that's all."

"Doesn't give him the right to act like a jerk..."

"I'll pretend I turned temporarily deaf to your loud internal monologues, Mr. Justice."

Apollo coughed and blushed to the hairlines, and the man pointed at the chair his brother had just vacated. "Now, I believe you were about to ask me some questions concerning the case...?'

"I – r-right. Of course." Apollo opened his file, and retrieved his lists of questions to asked. He's got it divided into three categories – will be answered, probably won't, and additional things that might help him gain an advantage in the trial tomorrow. He pulled up the chair and folded himself neatly into it, placing all his files on the table in neat stacks and opened up his small brown notebook to write down everything Kristoph Gavinne says.

And say he does – though Apollo had no doubt that he did indeed murder the man. Apollo's had time to come to terms with the whole defend-the-innocent thing however. He's accepted that this is real life, and not every defendant you place in front of him is innocent. It doesn't mean he can skim on the milk just because they're guilty. After all, the court works like a machine – the defense defends, and the prosecution prosecutes, it's as simple as that. If the prosecution cannot prove a guilty man guilty, who is he to correct them?

Besides. His livelihood depended on it. Pull one too many stunts, and you'll find yourself flat on your back on the streets, especially when he doesn't have pedigree and rich and famous parents to back it up.

So he extracted all the information he could from Kristoph Gavinne, though God knows that wasn't much. The man knew not to lie outright though, because lies are often the easiest to disprove. Rather, he simply worked around the truth, sidestepping it with the grace of a dancer – and Apollo believes that he's a lawyer. None but one can be so skilled to dance around that beautiful gem called truth.

Within an hour, he was done – things progressed so much faster without an intruding blonde asshole – and he packed up his stuff. Nodded once at Kristoph Gavinne, and then he was out of the door, brain riddled with thoughts as to how it's going to play out tomorrow. For once, he's actually just the slightest bit thankful that the other man said he's going to replace the prosecution with Payne – that should increase his chance of winning, not that he particularly felt like defending such a blatantly guilty man. But life's life, a dice is a dice no matter which way you look at it, and he's going to go out there and throw everything out into the court – if only because he rather liked the man. At least Kristoph Gavinne smiles at him. The last time someone other than Trucy did was a long time ago.

As Apollo's feet went clicking down the hallway however, Kristoph started drumming his fingers on the table. The guard came in, but he doesn't rush Kristoph – Kristoph can stay in there until he rots, and no one would dare tell him to do otherwise. He cocked a finger in the officer's direction, and he immediately rushed forward – a butler always ready to please.

"Hand me your phone please."

The phone was handed over without a word of protest.

Kristoph punched in LeTouse's number, and the man picked up exactly eight rings later – just a tiny code amongst them.

"Yes?"

"LeTouse," Kristoph announced himself silkily. That slippery voice needed no introduction. "I mentioned, did I not? Put Klavier in charge of everything while I am gone. If he falters, pull him up. Also..That other matter..."

'Of course, boss. Looking into it."

"Excellent."

"If I may ask, boss – what do you have planned?"

"Nothing. At least not now. But it's always safer to have more pawns you can work with on your side, no?"

"Alright. I'll get to it immediately."

"Good. Go."

LeTouse hung up, and Kristoph returned the phone to the man.

Then he started chuckling.