Some anti-climatic stuff to move the story onwards. Heigh-ho, sorry-O~

Thanks for the support, people!


Four : Vodka on the Rocks

-

Apollo balanced the two paper bags under one arm, reaching all the way down to support both by their bottoms. They glide left and right, and they nearly drop onto the ground and made a milky mess of themselves – but at the last moment he slams the two paper bags forward and clip them between the wall and his body – and naturally, sighed.

Too much groceries can be a bad thing too, eh? Let's hope that the milk hadn't spilled or spoiled from being jostled around so much during the whole journey home. In fact, come to think of it...Apollo chuckled as he pulled out his house keys, the paper bags still stuck between him and the wall to free both his hands – the Walmart guy had looked at Apollo like he had grown five new limbs and two new noses. To the point where he had actually consulted behind Apollo, as though Apollo is not in fact Apollo, but an imposter of Apollo.

Apollo's slight smile toned down a little as he grappled with the lock. Yes well, when was the last time he had walked into the place and walked out without haggling the attendants to death? It's gotten to the point where they allow him to cart the thing off just to shut him up – and sure, it beats on his pride every time that happens, but hey, free stuff right? No one says no to FOC things, even though every time you take one, every bit of you dies a little more.

Well, things are going to change around here. He's not going to have to haggle with Walmart dude anymore, not if he can help it. Things are going to go around, turn around, play a merry-go-round – and unlike said amusement ride, he hoped it'll be half as amusing and that it won't end up on the origin, just like the ride.

The lock finally opened (There's five of them, blame the paranoid streak) and Apollo toppled into the apartment, one arm around each paper bag. The apartment's dark, and he nearly stumbles over the nearest cardboard box and died impaling himself on yet another cardboard box. One of these day he really needs to sit down and have a talk with Trucy about where she stores her magical props – but at the moment, he's just too damned happy to care. Finally got a job – one that actually pays more than sticks and shit – and after a good whole year of wishing too. Apollo's almost forgotten that he had helped bailed out a monster. Almost.

"Trucy, I'm back!"

The light flickers on in the next room, accompanying Spongebob's obnoxiously squeaking voice. Trucy's always thinking of ways to scrimp on the money, and even though Apollo's told her countless time that even if you turn off the lights, the bill ain't coming any cheaper, she still does it anyway.

"There you are, Polly! I was starting to think you've gone and go sleep in the dingy bars again."

Apollo flushed. Sometimes, when Apollo is just feeling particularly stressed and messed up, he goes to the local bar and sleeps there. Sleep, because he can't afford the beer, but he goes there anyway – to inhale the fumes of stale beer and vomit and hangovers and unwashed armpits, because it makes him feel more in control of his life in comparison to the men who frequented those places. Compared to them, he seems a bit better than the washed-up individual with no open doors he is.

He answered instead, by plopping down the two bags of groceries on the table and huffed a self-satisfied little sigh in admiration of them. Trucy's eyes widened at the sight of the groceries – a rare sight indeed.

"Did you rob a bank or something?" Trucy climbed onto a nearby box and started rifling through the contents of the bags, making crumply sounds while she did so. She enthused, picking through them immediately like a child with her new toys.

Apollo snorted. "Yeah, I went to battle in a tie and my nightie."

She ignored him and emptied the bag, ooh-ing and aah-ing at every little thing. It made Apollo happy that she seemed to be happy – and angry at the same time at himself, because if he's done a better job of supporting the both of them, she wouldn't be squealing over groceries now, would she?

"Yeah well I uh..."

"You remembered the milk!"

"Yes well, Trucy?"

She looked up at him, beaming like he had done her a damned proud thing by remembering to buy his groceries. "Yes?"

"Here you go."

Apollo handed her the last package he had – an entire guidebook of the twist and turns of magic, bought exclusively on the advance Gavinne handed him. It sure did chafe at his pride, but as the man put it – think of it as a one-off sum for the deal, he's not getting anymore. Trucy's been bugging him about it for months and squealing over every penny someone drops, saving for the danged book. It really doesn't cost all that astronomical an amount of money, but there you had it.

But instead of smiling happily like he had expected, Trucy frowned at him. "Polly...Where did you get all these money?" She asked suspiciously, not taking the book. She looked like she wanted to reach out to grab it, but is afraid that she might open it and find pythons all over, or a cruel 'Return in 10 days' note stickied on it in those fluorescent papers.

"N-Nngh, just take it, okay, Trucy?"

"Not okay," She took the book and stashed it beside the paper bags, folded her arms, and glared at him. "Where did you get all that money, Polly? Haven't I always told you – no robbing, no burglarizing, and no buggering?"

"Trucy!" He gasped, outraged. "Where did you learn that sort of vocabulary?"

"From school," She shot back. The glare hitched up a notch. "You still haven't told me exactly how you came to get all that money."

"Yes well..." The correct answer would be ' Trucy, dearest sister mine, the truth is, I just saved the guts of a very rich, immensely wealthy, and fabulously evil man today. That's why he paid me. I feel kind of like a whore now, my dear sister – cash and carry, you know what I mean? Yeah, definitely like a whore. Do you think I should consult a priest, sister dear, to purify my tainted soul? Probably not, you say – very good. My soul's probably beyond redemption anyway.

"Maybe we should uh, sit down?"

Trucy's glare did not waver, but she produced two cardboard boxes for them to sit on. Knowing Trucy, her imagination would have shot beyond saving mafia bosses to somewhere along the likes of going down to Wall Street via speeding bullet train, rob it blind, and come back in a couple of hours – all in a day's work. Apollo took the left box, and she took the right one – and after a lot of glaring and a lot of verbal buggering, Apollo started reciting, in obsessive order, the chronicles of the day's events.

He could hardly believe his own voice as he spoke – it's kind of like telling someone about someone else's life story. He woke up that day, Apollo Justice, kind of competent lawyer in the P.D. Now he's going to bed a soon-to-be partner in Contans and Lee – and who hasn't heard of that firm? They're hardcore bastards, and all the prosecutors hate their guts. They do their job, and depending on who you ask, maybe a little too well for the city's comfort. Kristoph Gavinne doesn't give them much to contend with – just bail everyone who needs bailing out, and if he's no longer having any use for the person, feel free to drop him five feet and sixty-seven inches into a hole, and please, cover it up.

Some part of him still found it surreal. Every time he thought of himself working for the mob, the only image that comes up is him in a pimp hat – and he doesn't know which one is a more horrible thought – the fact that he would be a bona fide gang member, or the fact that his hairdo would be squished.

By the time he finished telling Trucy though, it seems a little less surreal, a little less clouded up. Voicing things out have a tendency to do that – just like by repeating something over and over to yourself, you sometimes become more convinced of it, no matter it's impossibility.

"...And that's all. You're looking at the newest addition to the firm. I think. I don't know, no papers have been signed yet but--"

"But that's great news!" Trucy cheered tackling him in a semi-hug. What came was instead, a punch to his shoulder – far too manly for his taste. Girls should be...I dunno, demure or something. Certainly not like his sister can be sometimes. "Why didn't you tell me, Polly? That's so mean of you – waiting 'til the last moment!"

"Last moment of what? I just got home, in case you didn't notice."

"You could have called me the moment you got the news or something!" She looked around the place. "I think I need my staff – something like this calls for some celebratory flowers, don't you think?"

"Oh no you don't," Apollo shot back, shooting out an arm to stop her before she can do something like conjure up a whole roof of doves. The last time that had happened, the pet shop next door suffered massive losses. "And I did – except..."

They looked at the telephone.

"Oh yeah."

"Yeah."

"Yeah, it's been cut, hasn't it?"

"Uh-huh. But it's going to change now – with my new and improved job, I swear we'll soon be able to actually afford real chicken." Apollo announced. "And those cracks on the walls are going to get plastered, you hear me? Plastered!" He slammed a fist down onto his palm just to show how plastered it would be, and Trucy laughed. She got up to put the groceries away before they curdled and rotted, sounding muffled when she spoke from inside the fridge.

"It sounds a little too good to be true though," She noted. "Why would someone as influential as Gavinne want you in his firm? No offense, Polly – because while you're the best brother in the universe and the best lawyer around here, you don't exactly come with a shiny golden name tag."

"I'm feeling the love, Truce – I am." Apollo flicked the channel away from cartoons to something more constructive, like Discovery, and a man's voice floated into their makeshift living room, ranting on and on about the Grand Canyon's rock layers.

"'Zis true. You're not shiny, Polly."

"Pardon me, but a certain prosecutor is going to disagree on that," He shot back, remembering the man's incessant comments about his forehead. If he hadn't known better, he would have thought his forehead is so damned reflective that it stung his eyes or something – with the way he kept staring at it with that slight frown of his.

"Well, okay. Shiny as in overall – not just your forehead." Trucy announced. A box went flying out of the fridge. "Clean up after yourself, Polly! Stop putting back empty OJ cartons into the fridge. And do you still want that pudding or not? It's starting to look like my science project."

"Throw it away," He answered quickly.

"Okay."

Off went the science project, and the door slammed shut.

'What do you think, Polly? Why did he ask you?"

"I don't know..." He scratched his head in answer. It's puzzling him too – the fact that Kristoph Gavinne had chosen to hire him. Apollo might be pretty good at what he does, but he lacks the glamour factor, as he had put it. And he thought these underworld types were all about appearances. Certainly, Kristoph Gavinne himself had looked extremely...Ah, how do you put it – groomed? Like someone who's just been put through the whole works at a fifty-starred spa, getting all the works, manicure, pedicure, and goodness what sort of cure. He looks pristine, but not in a natural way, like a mannequin who's been stuck into the perfect pose, but wasn't that way in the first place.

"Maybe it was my abundant charm and charisma?" He tried.

Trucy snorted indelicately. "Or maybe you just shouted him stupid."

"Good point."

"Ah well!" Trucy sighed contentedly, stretching both arms up and pulling herself upwards. "Guess we can just chalk that up on our lucky day!"

"Really?" Apollo poked his forehead, still trying to puzzle it out.

"Oh come on Polly, relax! You're such a worrywart!"

"Oftentimes with good reason," He retorted. "Remember that time I told you putting an egg in the microwave is not a good idea? You said no then too--"

Trucy cut him off by hugging him from behind, perching on their table. She thwacked his antennas, just because it makes him all the more worked up, like radioactive signals. "Relax, Polly! L.A's a love town – you're a clown, with a frown – so turn that frown, upside down!"

"No-no, stop hugging me Trucy, this is serious, I think we need to work this out step-by-step, do you have a spare algorithm I can use..."

"Oh gosh, I've never seen someone as straight-laced as you..."

"I'm not straight-laced, I just think ahead!"

That night, the both of them would argue all night long – though they both agree on one thing. It's a spot of good fortune, alright.


When Apollo got up the next morning, his first thought was that last night had been nothing more than a dream. Then he pinched himself, and got up – but Trucy's book is there, opened on page 91 on hat tricks, and placed on the table in brazen disregard for society's rules on how a book should behave. So it's there, and unless he broke the bank for no reason in a drunken stupor last night, chances are that yesterday probably did happen.

Now that that's established, his next seizing thought was to check the calender – maybe yesterday was April Fool's or something, and the whole thing had been a prank from Gavinne, a little love from him to Apollo. But no, his phone and calender both agrees that the day is not April the 2nd. Still the nagging thought did not go away, he's still seized with that inspiration that maybe they might change their mind and not want him after all, in which case he wouldn't know to thank his lucky stars he escaped that one or start shouting very loudly.

He resolved all these tension and issues by doing a little Chords of Steel training, and that woke up Trucy, who in turn show him back some love by purposely putting so much salt on his eggs that it resembled little more than pickled substances. That resolved with a lot of sibling hugging, and then Trucy was on her way to school and Apollo was on his way to work – even though he really didn't feel like it. Until Gavinne prances in with his big head and further instructions though, it's not like Apollo is going to walk in and diss people in their faces – he's not so stupid as to cut off his own escape route.

Right before they left though, the doorbell rang – five times in a row. Apollo was busy dealing with his hair – and it's not like it's going to be anyone except the mailman anyway, with maybe some presents from one of Trucy's more hardcore fans – and he ignored it. Five rings later, they were getting faster and more impatient, and Trucy hurried off to pull the door apart.

She goggled up at the man.

It's a blonde man – certainly not one Trucy is used to seeing around here. And might she add that mister? That is one good-looking man.

"Hello, mister!" She chirped. She takes a step back, and she takes it all in, with the eye of a connoisseur. Yes, very nice indeed. Blonde hair, tanned skin – white teeth that sparkles in a permanent half grin, and will you please take a load of that chest peeking out from that shirt? Very nice indeed! She turned around to call out to Apollo.

"Polly! Did you order a stud!?"

"What!?" Came the shriek from the other room. It's not like they had many, and Trucy closes the door down to a tiny slit – enough for her to peek out at the man and not enough for the man to see their dismal place. Privacy, mister – is the prerogative of a healthy, growing girl, especially a teenager! A girl doesn't show herself until the time is right – that's part of a magician's secret too.

"A stud! Did you order a stallion!?" She shouted back – completely oblivious to the fact that yes, he – that is to say the man, can probably hear them.

"What the hell are you talking about, Trucy? That's not funny!"

Trucy turned back to the man and grinned through the slit. He looked mildly amused. "Hi, I'm going to guess you're here for Polly?"

"If Polly is as charming as her voice seemed to be, fraülein," The man teased. "Probably not."

Trucy nearly stumbled over nothing. What had he called her? Froooo-lein? Sounds like a brand of coffee, but never mind! What a charming smile! What...Teeth! Oh, she's really running out of praises. He's kind of like a prince, except princes are only for fairy tales and Trucy's outgrown fairy tales quite a few years ago. No...This must be the uh...Unicorn. Yes, the absolute unicorn of the unicorn game, all dazzling almost-six feet of him.

"Polly should be out soon," She glimmered at him. "Then you can tell that to his face."

Since he wasn't here for her – obviously, she'll remember having met someone like this unless he charmed it clean out of her head – Trucy made an educated guess that he was probably here for Apollo. Maybe a prosecutor or some sort from the office? Or maybe a boyfriend – in which case Trucy would disapprove and disapprove gravely. She'd rather he waited permanently for her instead.

"He?" The man blinked – then apparently deciding that they've joked long enough, opened his mouth to correct her. "Actually, I'm looking for Herr--"

Apollo stomped out of the next room loudly, clearly displeased. If he doesn't watch it, he'll stomp a hole right through their flimsy floorboards and through the soles of his shoes. Just because he's going to make millions in a couple of days doesn't mean he gets to have a temper like that – he's already winging the pressure figures.

"Trucy, we really need to talk about this new vocabulary of yours--" He stopped dead at the entrance to the cardboard hallway – which Trucy's always fancy looked rather like the tunnel Alice tumbled into when she's in her more fanciful moods – and glowered at the slit of the door and pass it at the Fabulous Specimen of Mankind.

"You," He growled – almost violent in it's vehemence. That's strange, and Trucy looked back up at the man. Apollo usually doesn't get mad at a lot of people. When he does, it's probably people from the office who's been ridiculing him. Most of the time though, he just keeps it bottled up because Polly's never rude to anyone – he's just so...Nice, you know? Too nice, in fact – sometimes people just step all over him and leave him as a stain on the ground. So in conclusion, maybe Trucy shouldn't have opened the door for this man.

"Eh, just as a preliminary sort of question – who are you?"

The man's lips quirked between a smirk and smile. "Shouldn't you have asked me that before you opened the door for me, fraülein? If I wanted to kidnap that pretty face of yours, I could be doing it now."

"Oh you don't have to kidnap me," She sighed dreamily. How does one say no to a face like that? Not in her vocabulary, that's fore sure. "I'll go with you anytime," She gushed.

"Hey!"

"Really, fraülein? Am I so charming now?"

"Definitely – Mr...."

"Gavinne. Klavier Gavinne."

The spark of recognition flashed, and her head immediately connected the name to what Apollo told her yesterday – and the smile slipped off her face. She took a step back, and the door swung all the wider because of it, and now she's looking up at him, but the smile's gone, replaced with a slight puzzled frown. He didn't look so much like a mafia guy than a rock star, but then how many Gavinnes do you know who walk the street?

She didn't like it if he's really the guy from yesterday though. If he's here looking for trouble with her brother, then...

Apollo recovered long enough to comment haughtily. "I see being a prosecutor must be a very burdening job, Mr. Gavinne."

"Ja, it is so."

Her brother gnashed his teeth in answer. "I was referring to the fact that you seem to have a lot of free time despite that fact."

"Ja, I know that too."

What a way to shoot down sarcasm with the power of deadpan. Trucy inched closer towards Apollo protectively.

"What do you want, Mr. Gavinne? I think you're lost – this isn't the way to the prosecutor's office." She announced pointedly. The man smirked at her, noting the way she had turned a hundred and eighty the moment he had announced his name.

"Ah, but that's the thing. I'm here to pick up your brother." He smirked. "He's got a lot of stuff planned for him today."

Apollo's eyes widened. "Now? I mean, today? Isn't that kind of fast?"

"Ach, I don't know – maybe you need to consult your daily horoscope? How about I get down the street, sing me a tune, and wait for you to consult all 12 horoscopes and choose your favourite reading, Herr Justice?"

"You don't have to be so snarky." Apollo gnashed out.

"You don't have to be so slow." The man shot back.

Trucy looked back and forth at the both of them, head going like she's at tennis match. Yes, exactly like that – there was this once when fat Al had a tennis match with thin Alfie, and it's exactly like – No, never mind. They sure didn't look like friends though, even though their repartee seemed so friendly.

"Where are you taking Polly?" She peered up at Klavier Gavinne.

At this, the man pulled out his phone and started tapping into it. When he was done, he slammed the thing shut, all business and straight-faced. This is a man who's probably better grinning and smirking than when he's serious – especially when he's not on your side. Trucy calls this gut feeling, you can call it salad. It just that he reeks of...Well, not danger, precisely – because that would sound like it just came out of a corny romance novel, but something. Like there's fifty layers of dirt and fossils and precious gems under that grin that you're not getting to unless you're prepared to go at it with a life-size shovel.

The man looked once at Trucy – maybe he's unsure how much she knows? - and Polly gives him a tiny, almost imperceptible nod.

"Schon gut!" He called out in that weird language again – the same one that went frooo-lein earlier. "You're coming with me Herr Justice – down to the P.D office. There, you will hand in your resignation letter."

"What!?" Apollo screeched. "I can't hand in my resignation – your brother's case isn't settled yet! There's a trial at two today!"

"Lee will replace you as the attorney for it," Gavinne informed him. That didn't lessen Apollo's scowl one bit – if anything, he looked all the more furious.

"And exactly how did that happen?"

"That happened because my brother, he ordered it so. He's done with you – test you or whatever shit he's up to, and now that he thinks you're up to the job, he's got no use for you anymore." Apollo growled in answer, and out of solidarity, Trucy growled too.

"So what, the whole thing was some kind of game to him?"

The man just barked out a harsh bit of laughter. "Life's a game to him, Herr Justice. You'll soon come to realize."

"Well, I don't care if it's his game or not – the case's mine, and I'm not handing it to someone else."

"I wasn't aware it was your choice to make, ja?" He goaded.

"Technically, it's his brother's choice, isn't it?' Trucy added. At Apollo's glare though, she shut up. He looked back up to pin that man with one of Polly's awesome glares, now with x-ray vision included. Those are really scary, and when you're on the receiving end of one, you feel like he's going to set you on fire with with his glare or something – it's just that intense.

"Tell that new attorney of yours good luck then – I'm not handing a single file over." He stated flatly, crossing his arms to show that no, Polly is not going to budge on that issue. The man looked at Apollo, then he looked at Trucy. Then the process is repeated, and finally he let out an exasperated but amused sigh.

"Is your---your--" He gestured wildly at Apollo. "Your Forehead always so exasperating, fraülein?"

Trucy is starting to get the idea that fraülein refers to her, and is not a brand of chicken. "Yeap," She enthused, warming up a little to the man. He didn't seem all that bad – at least he wasn't those gung-ho gangsta types that go 'Yo! I'm gonna take you down, blizzoy!' Or some other equally weird type. "He's my brother by the way – and yes, he's always that Type A."

"Trucy..."

"I gathered," The man quipped. Then he took one more look at Apollo's I'm-not-gonna-budge-unless-you-shove-me-over-the-edge stance, and sighed. "Very well, Herr Justice, if you are such a nitpicky little girl, I'm going to reassign the job to you. However – and keep this in mind, mind you (I know you have a very big mind, Herr Justice, I can see that from the size of your forehead, but it is important that you must exhibit that you have something beneath that forehead, ja?) you're still sending in that resignation letter. You're functioning in the capacity as one of my brother's lawyers now – and then once you're done having a ridiculous hairdo contest with Payne – you're coming with me."

"Why do I have to go with you?" Apollo snarled. "Just draw me a map or something – I'll get to the firm just fine."

Klavier just rolled his eyes at him. "Maybe. But Apollo Justice – you've stepped into our world now, and someone needs to show you the ropes of the place."

"I don't need to be shown the ropes of the place, I don't even plan to be part of anything. I'm just the lawyer, and I'm not dealing with anything out of the courtroom," Apollo growled back. Trucy nodded in solidarity, feeling herself slipped off from the conversation and needing to remind the man that yes, Trucy's around – and if you're thinking of bullying Polly, think again when she's not around.

'What he said."

"Ja?" He scratched one of his eyelid, grinning all the while he's doing it. Then, with the precision of Trucy when she pulls out some magical prop, a neat bullet hole appeared over their shoulders and cracked into the wall behind them. They turned around to stare at the smoking hole – quite like spectators at one of Trucy's show, and Apollo started shouting.

'What the fuck is wrong with you!?"

"That," Klavier said, pointing at the hole. "Is just one of the many many things you are going to have to deal with, Herr Justice. Face it – you've just tumbled down into the rabbit hole. The sun you're looking at, it's not the same sun anymore, because you're looking at it through a different pair of eyes. So you say you're just a lawyer – that's what you said. I can say the same thing too."

He snapped his fingers in Apollo's face, as though dispelling any illusions of a straight lawyer in the underworld like smoke. Snap snap, and off goes that delusion. "But that's what you said. When you're defending one of our guys and another gang wants them gone, they're gonna show up on your doorsteps with some bling, ja? If you say no and refuse it, they will put a fist-sized hole through you. If you say yes and take it, my brother will put a fist-sized hole through you. You're going to have to learn to deal with all of that. I don't want a dead fuck in my hands – too much work to clean up."

"I don't--" Apollo opened his mouth, snapping it shut on and off. Trucy would say he looked kind of like a fish, except she's a little too nervous to call him any kind of name. Klavier Gavinne had just laid it out on a silver platter what kind of life Apollo is going to be having – starting from, not this moment, but a couple of moments ago. It's going to be one fat load of looking over their backs and guns and dark alleys, and while the latter two are one of Trucy's favourites during a magic show, she doesn't like the idea of Apollo being involved with gangs and whatnot.

She tugged at Apollo's arm. "Polly..." Trucy whispered up at her brother. "I don't think this is a good idea..."

Apollo just glared at the man, not wanting to admit the defeat glaring down at his face. It feels too serious, rubs too sore. Kind of like having a whole jar of hot boiling water poured down your freezing throat. He's just selling himself out for the money, really, - and don't judge him, because he'll just judge your right back – but it seems like it's a combo thing. A set meal. You can't have one without the other, peanut butter without the oil.

"Fine," He snapped. "I'm still not being anything more than a lawyer."

'So you say, ja? So you say. In a month or so – we'll see, won't we?" The man said confidently. "Now chop chop, Herr Forehead--"

"--Stop calling attention to my forehead!"

"--we have many things to attend. First there is dressing, then there is walking, then there is firearms. And if we can fit it in, we'll have a lesson on what drinks not to order, then a makeover – yes, a makeover, the hair's gotta go, that's for sure..."

Apollo groaned, but Trucy just slapped him on the arm. It's okay – she likes the man. Not the words he say, but the man, yes. Not exactly the world's most trustworthy man, but gut feelings told Trucy that he wouldn't leave her brother if he's sinking in a pit either. A good sort of chap – just not maybe the best. But he's handsome, so that makes up for it in her little teenage girl world, doesn't it? Yes, it does quite indeed.

She looked up in time to catch Apollo swearing at Klavier Gavinne – something he's never done in her presence before, and grin. Maybe the new an improved Apollo wouldn't be that bad after all.


By the time Apollo next reappeared in the courtroom for Payne's case, he's done it. Done with the whole P.D, that is.

After extracting a contract out of Klavier Gavinne – because you know you can't trust these people without a contract, and black and white is always necessary when you're doing this sort of deal – he had signed it. Now, the contract proudly works out every kink there is going to be in this little arrangement of theirs. Apollo's officially hired, even if he hardly felt so – and the contract very blatantly, and very brazenly expounds on everything. The starting salary cracks at about a hundred grand a year – a figure that had nearly made Apollo's cardiovascular system broke down – and the contract would last for three years. Failing those years, the contract would naturally, be reviewed.

The rest of the money would be what Gavinne is willing to pay them, in other words – exactly how many they successfully bailed out, and how many they did not. Klavier had jokingly remarked that he probably wouldn't shoot them if they failed. Apollo hoped it's a joke. Then again, they are gangs – not the occult. They're humans, not a devil camp. They don't shoot people for fun, nor do they gather around on Sundays, days of rest, to take potshots at their own members. They run by a code, or well, close enough to it anyway, and you don't get in trouble unless you get in the way of the boss, or a soldier above you.

Apollo signed on the dotted line with a red pen, and that gave it all the more of the feeling that it's a contract with the devil he's signing, and Klavier immediately rolled up the contract, prepared by that Lee, who will be one of Apollo's colleagues – or senior, as the case would be. The deal's done. No backing away. He capped his pen, took his briefcase back from Gavinne, and started climbing up to the P.D office. Climb, because he can't be bothered with the elevator.

Climb, because he needs circulation in his ears. It's done, his mind keeps going – really really done. But still the it's-just-a-dream feeling doesn't go away, at least not until he plonked down his letter of resignation in front of Grifforth's nose, and the man had looked at him like – Well, there's no comparison for this one. Artificial Intelligence has temporarily taken over the universe, and is stomping through the lower floors with a green ray gun. Yeah, that kind of shock.

Then it melted into a condescending sneer – the usual look on his face around Apollo when there's nothing for him to gain. There's nothing for him to gain now, Apollo's taken the job off his hands after all, and the sneer, it's very pronounced and made Apollo all the more glad that he's leaving this place before the man finds a machete strong enough to hack him into pieces.

"Oh, going places now, my boy?"

"Yes, Mr. Grifforth. I am – going elsewhere that is."

"Ah-ah! Now this is the problem with you dysfunctional youths these days, you've gotten an opinion entirely too high for you all." Apollo ignore the jabs – nothing can hurt him now that he's leaving. If he leans forward and yank at man's nose, he wouldn't be punished for it – but he doesn't, because he plans to leave this place in dignity befitting his black profession. Instead, Apollo slides the authorization for the resignation forwards, across wooden pane and directly in front of the man.

"Please sign it, Mr. Grifforth."

"Hah!" The man mumbled to himself while searching around his drawers for stationary. Apollo sniffed at that too – Apollo never gets problems from his stationary. They're all on the table, in a jar, and no one ever takes it from his table because he's sticky-taped and carved his name into all of them – and if they take it, he puts on a big fuss. 'Well, well. I heard you give a rather astounding performance yesterday. Bailed the guy out extraordinarily...Slimy, you would say."

"Is that so, sir?"

"Oh yes, that's what they all say around coffee and biscuit. Not much is going to miss you there, Justice."

"Irrelevant, Mr. Grifforth. Your signature, if you please."

The man frowned up at him. "You know, Justice – you could stand to have your hot air down a few pegs. You won one case – and rather like a sore loser of an attorney at that. It makes you no different from the rest of us."

Apollo folded his arms. He has a safety net below him now, and what, a full year worth of hurt? It's starting to boil itself onto it's surface. "I wouldn't say that, Mr. Grifforth. Sore losers of an attorney tend to make more than say, sore losers in the Public Defense department, don't you think?"

The old man's mouth tightened, and he put pen to paper and signed his obnoxiously heavy name onto it. He doesn't hand it to Apollo though, and he felt an urge to snatch it out of his hands.

"Is there something else you need?" Apollo lifted a hand, unsubtly demanding for the form.

"Why don't we chat a little?"

"There's nothing for us to chat about." He retorted coldly. "If you wanted to chat, you could have done it in the year I've been here. I'm busy now...Sir. And I need to go."

At this, the man's lip twisted into a cold sneer. "You don't have anywhere to go to, actually. So you won the case for him. How much did he pay you? Do you think you can survive for the rest of your life on the sum? Eventually you're going to have to come banging back on our doors when you realize no one's taking you into their firm."

"An excellent thing then, Mr. Grifforth. I should think Gavinne wouldn't be quite pleased if I work for another firm and for him at the same time," There – he said it. And he said it gloatingly too, smirk on full force. If Grifforth is one gigantic wound – and in a way, in a distorted, rather philosophical way, he probably was – Apollo would have been the salt shaker. Here you go sir - in one trial, I've climbed a hundred feet above you. You spent your life behind a diminishing desk, to no avail. I am beyond you now. How does it feel, sir, to have yourself being stepped over, the way you so often step on others? Does it feel great? Does it feel good? Apollo feels good – and yes, you better believe he does – and nothing in the world can smell sweeter than the gaudy office at the moment – victory.

The man's eyes widened, almost choking on his own tongue. "Y-You mean, he hired you for that--"

"The firm? Yes, he did. It's not a 'sum', as you put it, Mr. Grifforth – unless you consider a contract for three years there a 'sum'."

"In that...Gavinne established?"

"That's right."

Salt here, sir. Not enough? Hey! I'll throw in the chilli peppers too!

Apollo's smirk grew wider, and some part of Apollo who is nice and charming and honest and easily flustered and good went 'Oh no, Apollo Justice. Don't do that – it's not nice to do this to people.' But they were never nice to him in the first place. So tit-for-tat, eye for an eye. Let's all go blind.

"He really hired you for that..."

"Mhmm."

The man's mouth looked like a fish's. Or maybe it was..What animal has a permanently opened mouth? A dog with a wet tongue? Yes, maybe that. He looked like nothing in the world could replace his jaw to it's initial position. The hinges have come loose, and now it's hanging like a loose screw. He snapped it shut though, a long moment later, when a particularly loud tick from the gaudy grandfather clock he probably bought at a sale on half price woke him up.

"Well!" He huffed. "Well!" He repeated again, at a loss of words. The mustache quivered, the way all mustachioed men seem wont to do, and the arrogant expression came back again. "Well, son, all I have to say is – go where you will I suppose. In a year or two, once you outweigh your usefulness, Gavinne will merely cast you aside for a newer, more competent version of yourself."

A haunting echo of his exact words to Klavier Gavinne, but Apollo doesn't rise to the bait. He merely nodded at the man, and reaching forward, picked the form out of his hands easily – loose as they were.

"I will keep your advise firmly in mind, sir." He pocketed the form in his briefcase, then with one last look at the man – who no doubt, in ten years time will still be there, a little grayer, a little more worn, but still the same in both manners and ways, he gestured in goodbye. There's something – not quite melancholic, because he's never been gladder in his life to leave this place – but sentimentality, yes. Sentimentality, because this place has taught him more than school, from pre to high, had ever managed to do. It's opened his eyes, to the world, to reality, to the city, and all the nitty gritty details of every slab of cold rock.

It's been a great teacher of life.

"Goodbye, Mr. Grifforth. I'll send you a postcard sometimes."

Then Apollo's out. First he's out of the office, clearing up his things on the desk. He picks a small cardboard box from the ones Penny offered him. He picks a small one, because he doesn't have much things to bring with him. Case files here no longer belonged to him, and unlike transferal from one firm to another, he cannot take his clients with him here. So he's leaving every single thing behind, and he picks only his own things, and those barely fill half of the already small box. This is one year of his life.

He has accumulated :

(1) Round flask for stationary

(1) Assorted Stationary.

(3) Chain of paperclips he had made when he was bored

(1) Steel Samurai Mug

(2) pairs of black pens he pilfered from Grifforth's extensive collection

(1) Yearly P.D magazine, that had 'accidentally' cut Apollo out of the staff mention

(1) half-friend

and

(1) Picture of Trucy.

Yes, this is Apollo Justice's one year of life. He's accumulated stationary. How productive was that? 365 days, and all he got in return, in reward, is a bunch of garbage that can't even fill half a box.

He turns around, and he hugs Penny – because she's just about the only friend he's had in the time he's been here. She doesn't try to tell him to stay – because he's not a dog, and he wouldn't do it anyway. He's got better things planned out for him now, and if not better, then perhaps richer things. One year from now, maybe he'll be accumulating a different sort of thing entirely. It could be rich and expensive wine, it could be women. Or it could be dust on his tombstone. No one knows.

Apollo gives her another hug, then picking up his box, he made his way downstairs – this time from the elevator with his head high and proud. A few looks at the box in his hands and muttered an unintelligible version of 'sorry'. Some sneered, but most just turned and consult their friends anyway – had there been a staff cut they weren't aware of? Oh dear, dear, they're going to have to put in more hours for work now. They're more concern with themselves than Apollo, which is well they should.

By the time he got down to the lobby, Klavier Gavinne is looking at him irritably. This is his new life, represented in the form of a rock-god prosecutor who shoots his wall for no reason than to scare the living shit out of him. Yes, it's well they shouldn't worry about him, because by the time Apollo reappears for the trial of Kristoph Gavinne, every trace of him had been erased and scrubbed off the P.D office.

This man's gone – he doesn't exist anymore.


"Impressive."

Phoenix's voice sounded muffled, since one end of it was strangling a cigar cruelly. Diego's frowning next to him, but unlike Mike Michaels, now the late Mike Michaels, he does not correct Phoenix's disposition. He's done quite a lot of that, and every time he tells him to take that shit out of his mouth, all he gets is 'You should try it sometimes too.'

Diego is running close enough to death, what with routinely being stabbed and shot at and drinking blends after blends of coffee in self-help. He doesn't need anymore of that shit to help him die faster. Would you suck a rotting cucumber you just pulled out of a thrash bin? No? Then why would you suck a cigarette? Makes no fucking sense.

"That's the kid." Diego announced as Apollo Justice drifted out between heavy doors, looking very late, and very flustered.

"That's...The P.D Kristoph's taken a liking to?"

"I wouldn't call it a liking. Word from our boys in the prison is that he insisted on having a P.D, and that the man's the one ended up being assigned to it."

"Who offered the job to him?"

"Grifforth, man of the name."

Phoenix puffed some more, looking the picture of indolence – rather like Dee Vasquez, and a bailiff walked up the public gallery to admonish them. There's no one up here but them today – everyone having already decided that Gavinne is going to survive this trial with all five limbs after all. He approached Phoenix, but all Phoenix did was stub the cigarette out on the railing. Gavinne would have stubbed it out right on the man – but he's not that bad, not really.

The bailiff disappears off a moment later, having gotten a good nice look at their apparel.

"Grifforth..." Phoenix tapped his lip. "Never heard of him before. Foul play?"

"None that we know of. Perhaps Gavinne asked specifically that he hands it to the boy, or maybe it is luck and chance – the roulette of Madame Fate."

"Ah, I see."

Down, down, and away, Apollo Justice is shouting something across the court. Back and forth, back and forth. A wild game of dancing. That's what lawyers always do, dance around the issue like little men. That was what turned Phoenix away from the profession a long long time ago, back in law school long. There's something about lawyers that make them littler than even outright gangsters. Liars and cheats – at least not every thug you meet on the street is a thug. The same cannot be said for lawyers.

"He's good at what he does," Phoenix drawled out, puffing another cloud above Payne's head.

"Really? Don't look like anymore than a little man to me," Diego snorted. He nursed another cup of those famous blends of his, right out of a flask. Even a few feet away, Phoenix can smell how bitter the thing is.

"Want some, Trite?" He offered.

"No thanks," He pushed the proffered flask away. "If I want to die of stomach cancer, I'll call you sometime."

Diego snorts, and he goes back to drinking. "Do we dig out more about this little brat or what?"

"No..." Phoenix twirled the cigarette around between his thumb and a forefinger. "Leave him alone. I want to see how precious he is to Gavinne before acting. He looks rather familiar to me actually...But for the life of me, I cannot recall. We can't risk pissing Gavinne off right now anyway – at least not immediately."

The coffee bubbled when it was snorted into. "Really? Something in brown boxes tell me he's going to be pissed anyway. What are you going to do with those, incidentally? It's too pure for us. We can't process it, not without a shitload of funds."

"Isn't it obvious?" Phoenix drawled again, pulling the cigarette out for real. The both of them are still watching Apollo Justice like a hawk. He's a new player in their game – a new sheep for the slaughter. Now they just wanna see if he'll be a new sheep, or if he turns out to

be the next eagle. In the mean time, Phoenix had a much more interesting way of spending his time.

He stubbed the cigarette out, then reaching forwards, drop it onto an outraged and squawking Payne.

"We're going to sell that crack to Gavinne."


Enrich Eple pulled the covers off the big man, looking like a lump of nothing on his table. He's so big that he takes up more space than the rest of his sorry people, and Enrich took one look at him – and noted that by a 70% chance, this guy is probably going to be a lot of trouble to cut up properly.

"This is...The latest body from the department?"

"Yeap, another one of Furio Tigre's men," The lab assistant reported. He looked a little red around the hinges, and huffing to boot. The man had obviously been hard to move around, wheels or not. All of Furio Tigre's men seem to be chosen for their size and not functionality, a variable factor that seems to have eluded the man is that mass does not always equal to percentage of triumph in the equation of a fight – but then again, Enrich's the only one thinking in this sort of terms. People call him too analytical, but it's just them.

He pulled up a nice, sharp surgical knife and sank it into the man's flesh, not batting an eyelash while he did so. He doesn't squirm when the dead man lets out a nice, fresh juicy bit of blood – but then he rarely does. People get freaked out when Enrich tells them his profession, that he happens to be the coroner for the local police department. They get nervous, and then when he eats or dines in their presence, they look at his hands. They look, as it goes up and down on a steak, and wonder if he does that with equal detachment on a dead man's body. If he perhaps, saw through his steak the way he saws through human flesh, and if perhaps, he holds that knife and fork in that particular way because he's used to holding the scalpel the same way too.

"One bullet hole through the thoracic cavity and the lungs. One shot, clean cut. Penetration pass is six inches deep." He smiled, and slid the knife a little upwards. "Probably too much fat to go in any deeper. Cause of death : Internal bleeding, death of tissue. Condition : Deceased."

The assistant scrawled down everything onto his clipboard, pointedly ignoring Mr. Eple's 'humourous' comments. When he was done, he flipped it to the next page – there's going to be another one, that's for sure.

'That's all, sir?"

"Yes..." Enrich took out the bullet, having made a neat hole around it. He put the stained bullet into a clean plastic bag, immediately dirtying it from the inside, and the man winced at the sight of it. It's so bloody it looks almost as if it was his lung that Mr. Eple had just plucked out and put into a plastic bag. He labeled it with a nice One, and then the bag is sealed with a satisfying pop the way bags go when you've pressed them clean of air. With a satisfied smile, he handed it to the assistant.

"There you go. Hand those to the Forensics, as usual. They can write the report, and then our state can prosecute them."

The man scrawled some more, and then he walked upstairs to hand the two – both report and bullet – to another assistant. When he reappeared at the threshold of the lab, he had a new question. "Sir, do we move in the rest or..."

Enrich sighed, wiping bloody gloves on a bloody towel out of habit and necessity. When you spend so much time touching disgusting things, you tend to imagine that your hands are disgusting and dirty all the time. He wiped his hands until the towel is completely red, before he was satisfied with it. "How many more are there?"

"I don't know sir. They're taking up our entire morgue, that's all I know. There's got to be a dozen of them, at least – and that's not counting the ones we've just finished with."

"Goodness..."

Enrich sighed, massaging his worried scalp with one hand. His shift's going to be over soon, but by the time he comes in the next day, chances are, the bodies still won't be done with. Frozen and refrigerated, ready for the microwave to warm them up nice and toasty. Like ready-made pizza, except they're not edible.

And this is why he doesn't like these mob types. If Gavinne isn't one himself, Enrich would spend all his time scribbling into his notepad about how much he hated them. These people are nothing but sources of headaches – when they start a fight, who ends up having to clean the mess? Who gets to cut up their bodies, the ones that they left behind like yesterday's garbage no one wants? Guess – go on, take a guess.

"Ah. Then if we make our free time the subject, the obvious solution is that we deal with them first." He stated. The man nodded. He gets it. The head coroner wants them to move the rest of the bodies in – even if he does speak in a convoluted sort of way. Weird chap, but then maybe he's burned out from the job or something. They've been getting nothing but dead bodies since this morning, and word has it – word has it that the coroner has some ties to the mob too. So it's best to keep your mouth shut about the mob around him, or he might tattletale you to Klavier Gavinne – his band mate. Plays the keyboard for the group, you see.

"Go." He ordered. When the man is gone, Enrich wipes his hands again. He looked at the dead man, and sighed. Someone's gonna have to move that thing out...He wipes his hands again. He hoped Klavier is going to be alright. Furio Tigre's men had been doing nothing but streaming in all day long, as he had mentioned – but the problem is not that. The problem is, the one man Enrich had been interested in cutting apart – to see why he had such a strange skin colour – is not here. He's not dead. Furio, that is. Enrich wipes his hands again.

This presents a problem, especially since half the dead bodies here are from the little show his friends had put on in the medical center. Zydaline had to explain that of course. There's no way Enrich is going to operate on a dozen dead people and not get an explanation for it. Nail's the only sad sack in their group who doesn't know. So yes, Gavinne and Zylinder is reason so many are dead, and the warehouse ones...Well, they're still not sure who killed those. But chances are, if Furio is alive, that would mean he would be out for blood. Enrich had no idea what his friends are up to, but he hopes they'll take better care of themselves, or he's going to end up operating on them.

The assistant returned. "Sir, the next batch is ready."

Enrich looked up, wiping his scalpel clean. "Okay, bring them in then."

He wipes his hands one last time before operating on the new dead.


Apollo ended up not going home at all that night, not that that's such a strange thing in the first place. As he had mentioned, sometimes he goes to bars to sleep in them. (It's weird, he knows, stop looking at him like that). Yes, and this is no different, except he goes there tonight with Klavier Gavinne, who, as Apollo is about to find out – had the tendency to speedrocket up people's shit list very quickly.

"Achtung, make way, if you please."

The club that Klavier Gavinne had dragged him to, it's not a nice one. It's not dingy not-nice, but rather, it was way too crowded for Apollo's taste. The bars that he goes to nap in, those are usually quiet and dirty and grimy and have more mud than realistically possible. The one that Klavier Gavinne takes him to is a little more...What was the word, active? People danced, people drink, and the annoying red lights kept going over and over people, a massive kaleidoscopic pattern of petals in the air.

"Why the hell are we here!?"

"Meeting your new colleagues, that's why." Gavinne mouthed back at him. The crowd roars the moment he enters the deep end of it, and he waves. People squeal, some stepped backwards, and the crowd as a whole parted for Klavier, and then immediately slam the gates shut by the time Apollo got there. As a result, Gavinne seem to get through the crowd a lot faster than he did, and the bug feelers bobbed irritably.

"Can't we meet them tomorrow – at the office!?"

"Nein!"

And that, is apparently all the answer he's going to get. They made way pass the crowd – a fact that Apollo found entirely avoidable. They could have just skimmed the side of the mass of shuffling bodies on the dance floor, but do they? Do they? No, they do not. Klavier Gavinne had to pick the one path that Apollo wouldn't be able to keep up with him in, and by the time Apollo arrived by Klavier's side, he was red in the face (Not that it's visible with those damned lights all over the place) and smelling of everyone else's cologne.

Gavinne smirked. "Someone hasn't mastered the art of shuffling-do, ja?"

"This is entirely unnecessary," Apollo growled. "If it's the colleagues we have to meet, why can't we do it when I'm actually at the firm? I highly doubt that the nightclub – and me being disheveled and reeking of somebody else's chapstick is going to improve my chance of making a good impression."

The infuriating man only snorted. "Not those kind. Jacques and Liam you can meet tomorrow at the firm – ain't no business of mine. That's your job. No, we're here to meet the other kind of colleagues, ja?"

Oh.

"I thought I already told you, I'm not getting involved with your types?" Apollo growled back.

"If by 'my type' you mean rich, handsome, and fabulous – then congratulations, Herr Justice – you're straight."

Apollo scowled at him, but restrained himself. If Klavier Gavinne is his friend, he would have punched him in the face. But he's not his friend, even though he had given him permission to call him by his first name. He's the closest thing he has to a boss, and he's only one step short on the order hierarchy than Kristoph Gavinne himself – so he would have to watch his every step around him, just like he did with Grifforth. Klavier seemed...A little better though. At least this is one person who doesn't seem the kind who would stab you to death from behind. No, he looks more like the type that would bloody you from in front, after a dramatic bow – if the way he wolf-whistled at the stage is any indication.

The stage's being occupied tonight. Someone. Apollo doesn't recognize, but the crowd's singing to him. He's obviously not used to the vocals – his voice is husky and dumb, and he wouldn't survive a single day in the music industry if Apollo had his way with him. He's still rocking the stage with only the drums though, screaming that screeching voice of his without modesty.

I rode a tank
Held a general's rank
When the Blitzkrieg raged
And the bodies stank

Pleased to meet you
Hope you guess my name, oh yeah

"Goddammit, there's got to be a bill against this!" Apollo shouted at the other man. His voice is nearly drowned out by the system, bass and treble crumbling because the man's doing nothing but screaming.

"Why, Herr Forehead?" Klavier shouted back, waving his hands back and forth. "It's fun, isn't it!?"

"He sounds like a cracked pot!"

Klavier chuckled. "Pardon him, ja? He's not used to being the vocals – and I think –" he raised his voice because he couldn't be heard "– I THINK HE'S DRUNK!"

"--the hell!?"

By now though, the show's over, and the man hops down from the stage. He looks around wildly at the dispersing crowd, before pinpointing Klavier at the end of the line and started stumbling over. Walking would be quite a stretch of the imagination – considering the fact that he doesn't seem able to walk two feet without lurching left and right like a sinking boat. He prove this too, by letting out a disgustingly loud belch when he got closed enough – and Apollo cringed. Oh God, what does this guy live on – a permanent supply of onion and garlic?

"Gute Nacht, Zee."

The man swerved, nearly crashing down. He stopped himself by putting both hands on the bar table, and Klavier gave him an amused smirk. "Looks like you're drunk, ja?"

"Which part of me looks sober?" The man demanded of Apollo. Apollo looked him up and down.

"The ah...Nose, perhaps?"

The man let out a shot of laughter, breaking into a full on guffaw as he tumbled helplessly onto the ground in a heap, laughing over apparently nothing. When he recovered sufficiently, he climbed back up onto the stool to face Klavier.

"Oh-Oh God. I like this guy, Gavinne. Can I have him for my harem?"

Apollo turned purple with rage. First it's foreheads. Now it's harems.

"Nein," Klavier drawled. "At least, not until we see if Kristoph is romantically interested in cockroach here."

The man giggled. "Shucks."

The blonde gestured at the drunken man to Apollo, grinning wildly. "Herr Forehead, meet my friend, Zydaline Zylinder – but just call him Zee. Zee, meet Apollo Justice."

"Her forehead? Whose forehead? I don't see no girl here."

"Eh...Apollo Justice. That's his name, Zee. Oh, and Zee's a member of my band."

Apollo didn't reply, only crossing his arms and scowling at the both of them. He really should be getting home – he promised Trucy he would take her out for dinner if he can make it today, and what is he doing in return? Gallivanting around with two smelly guys, one drunk and the other soon to be drunk. Men that he doesn't even like – and probably never will either. Gavinne's bad enough, leather, chains – looking like some thrashy bondage porn, not that he reads those kind of stuff. The other guy just looks like someone's voodoo doll. There's enough piercings on him to make one, that's for sure.

"What are we doing here, Gavinne?"

'Meeting your colleagues!" Klavier gestured at the both of them magnanimously, like they're archangels whom had volunteered for the job of protecting Apollo Justice. "The both of us," He clarified. "Are going to teach you the ropes. We probably won't make it to a dressing room this time at night, but maybe a shooting lesson...Ja?"

"I don't want to learn how to shoot," Apollo growled back.

"Our world." Came the reminder.

"Your world is not a quicksand. If I do not ask for trouble, no trouble will come," He replied confidently – almost sure of it himself, in fact. If he doesn't run headlong into the other gangs...They wouldn't come after him, would they?

"Ach, I thought we were a little over this. Suck this, Herr Justice : Sooner or later, trouble will come. Learn to shoot straight – it's gonna save your life someday...Right, Zee?"

Zee snored in answer.

"Ach, never mind him. Always like this, either getting drunk or gambling his money away," Klavier grumbled. Apollo folded his arms, still not convinced that he should be learning how to shoot – or for the matter, if these were the greatest tutor around for it. He accepted it though, when Gavinne started a long long rant. He accepts it because, as materialistic as it sounds, Klavier Gavinne is boss, and new though he is, he knows better than to get on the underboss' wrong side. So he kept one ear on Klavier Gavinne while he went on and on and on about guns, and how they work, and which gun to always go for under duress (The small one in most situations, a big one for a large fight) and what to do if you're stuck in the middle of a gang fight with no weapon. (Just take one from a dead guy, ja? And if there's no dead guy, make a dead guy.)

By the time an hour is over and they've all gotten their drinks – (No Herr Forehead, you do not order that in bars, it makes you look gay, and I'm sure you're straight, ja?) and their own booth in the corner – (No, not that one either, Herr Forehead, this has a better vantage point) Apollo felt like kicking the man. If only because he's own head is swimming and brimming with information he never thought he needed.

So is it any wonder that when he saw a man staring at them from the dance floor, his first thought was that he's an illusion? But it's not. He blinks, and it's there – he blinks, and it's still there. Apollo tugged on Klavier's sleeves and pointed in the direction of the dance floor.

"Look, there's some...Guy there."

"Guy where?" Klavier turned around and looked out of their booth, but there weren't any guys on the dance floor – at least, not the one that had stared at them behind shaded eyes. He looked like a bad clone out of Men in Black. Or some really full-of-himself dude who thinks he's working as someone's bodyguard.

"There's no guy," He announced, turning back. "And if you want to avoid discussing where to put the guns to not shoot yourself in the peanuts, then find a new excuse, ja?"

"It wasn't an excuse!" Apollo protested – even though yes, talking about genitalia is not in anyway proper conversation over beers. "I really saw a guy there!"

"Ach – then that is good. You are starting to see like us, except maybe too much so. Don't say everything you see though, Herr Justice, or they'll put you in a ward." He tapped the side of his skull. "Happened to a mobster long ago – I won't name names."

"-- Cravat." Came the mumbled conversation from Zydaline. Apollo scowled out at the dance floor, still rather convinced of what he saw. It's a man. For sure. A man that had been staring at him, and also them, and he didn't like the way the guy stood like an alien in a cheap budget movie that explodes into a mass of tentacles mid-movie.

"There was..."

"Pay attention, Herr Forehead!" Klavier snapped his fingers in front of Apollo, and he glared back at him resentfully.

"I'm not a child – you don't have to treat me like one."

"Then don't act like one." Came the retort.

They went on and on, guns this, guns that. How to look over your shoulder. How to swagger. How to look inconspicuous. Half an hour more, and Apollo put his foot down on the subject by slamming both palms on the table so hard it shook.

"I want to go home." He announced. Several heads from nearby booths swiveled around to look at him, but he refused to blush. Why couldn't they have gotten a place on the second floor, like mafia movies always do? But apparently not, because, no Herr Forehead – never do that unless you're in a big group. You're likely to piss off a bigger group, or get yourself shot at.

"You can't," Klavier snapped back. 'We still have a lot to cover."

"Well, we're not covering it tonight. I have to meet my real colleagues tomorrow, and I'm not doing it without sleep." He pulled his cuffs backwards to reveal his watch, showing twelve defiantly like an erect penis. "I'm going home, Klavier Gavinne – and if you don't send me home, I'll walk home alone or pass out on you."

Klavier glared at him, then at the watch, then at his friend – who's sobering but still helpless. "Fine." He snipped out. "We'll go then. We'll take Zee's car – I have to dump him home and I can give you a lift on the way."

"Gee, thanks. Glad to see your priorities."

"What did you expect? Insta-love? We're not characters in a girl's novel, Herr Forehead."

Having no retort to that, Apollo just got up. The dance floor's getting more and more packed now, people of all ages drifting in to cloud the whole place up as the time approaches and passes twelve. It's getting full-on, and the music blaring out of the systems made Apollo's head throb in answer, a voice singing a duet with the music. If he doesn't get out of here soon, he'll literally barf all over Klavier Gavinne, like it or not – he's never been good with cramped quarters, and even more so when said cramped quarters had dozens of people breathing his air, warming it, and choking him.

"I g-gotta get out."

He ran pass Klavier before he could respond, rushing out of the place through the backdoor without waiting for the other man. The air is so goddamned suffocating in there that the moment he got out, he slammed the metal door shut and started breathing in deep, big gales of fresh air. Then he slid down the door.

"Oh God."

He raked both hands through his hair. He hated nightclubs. But Klavier Gavinne wouldn't understand that, would he? Bloody selfish bastard – not that Apollo told him his phobia of these kind of places, but then, why would he? It's not like the man's going to be understanding about it, so why try? A moment later, a bang from the door made him got up and moved aside. The door slams apart, nearly flattening Apollo in the process, and a pair of lovebirds drifted out, giggling wildly as they stumbled off to fuck in the dark. Two pairs of long legs follow theirs – belonging to Klavier Gavin and Zylinder.

"Ah, there you are, Herr Forehead. Never leave without the express permission of the boss." He announced haughtily. Zee doesn't say anything, just looking about in mild interest. The alcohol's wearing off for now, but tomorrow morning, his head will crack like a Nintendo DS someone's dropped into soup stock. Not good at all.

"Does the same rule apply if I box you in the head?" Apollo retorted.

"Hmm." He contemplated this. "Probably not, ja."

"Then shut up about it. I've got enough lessons for the day."

Klavier shrugged agreeably, and in companionable silence, they walked towards Zydaline's car. It's an orange one, streaked with black and yellow stripes to imitate the nature of fire, and Apollo, while not impressed with the thing itself, is definitely impressed by the price tag.

"How much does this thing cost?"

"Dunno," Klavier shot back. He looked at his friend. "How much does it cost?"

A look of discomfort flickered pass the man's face, before he grinned widely. "A bomb – that's what everything I own cost. Literally too." Apollo doesn't want to know. He diffuses bomb for a living, make bombs for the mob at night – full stop. Apollo doesn't want to know how he blows people up for money. Boom, here goes limb. Boom, there goes another limb. Sign here, and you'll get the money in three working days, ja?

They piled into it, Klavier and Zydaline taking the front seat. Klavier was driving, Apollo slipped into the back, and before long, they're purring out of the parking lots and down the road. The parking lot is deserted this time of the night, looking like an urban picture stuck on cheap hip-hop CDs. You know those. Containers, closed shops, graffiti, barrels lying everywhere for apparently no reason at all, and amidst all that, strangely enough, working lamp posts that just happen to be next to the graffiti, illuminating it nicely for people who buy the CD. Yeah, urban.

The car rolls down the road, and Apollo dimly registers that another flash of light is off in the distance. He's too tired to notice much though, other than it's higher up, so it must be a tall car, like a truck. Apollo leaned his head against the chilled window and massaged his aching head. It's still aching, and when he close his eyes, the thing that he sees is not darkness or even his eyelids. It's the red and pink patterns on the wall of the club and the stereo going boom-bam-bam non-stop, over and over again. Zydaline fell asleep in front too, and you can hear him snoring.

Pretty soon, Apollo drifted to sleep – and the next time he opened his eyes again, they're on the highway. The lights look pretty – lights from the city streaming backwards in an endless Darth Vader stick – yellow replacing the earlier red – but that's not what he notices. What he notices, is Klavier, and how he jabbed his elbow into Zydaline's side shortly after he woke up.

"Herr Forehead, you awake?" Klavier called out in a strangled tone, flicking his eyes at the rear view mirror.

"I am," He replied quickly, scrambling up. But Klavier shook his head.

"Sit back down," He ordered calmly. "Fasten your seat belt, make sure that it's not going to get in your way after an impact, and keep your head down – below the glass level."

Zee perked up, and from behind, Apollo can see him tilting his head at an angle to see better behind.

"Trouble?" He asked, shaking himself awake.

"Ja."

"Okay."

Then he turned back, and they scrolled down the highway like nothing had happened – except something did, and something does, and no sooner had Apollo finished obeying all his instructions with shaky hands, a horrible sound screeched up from the ground. Tire, rubber, wax, whatever – sound, basically – and then that's the last thing Apollo hears before his ears are overwhelmed by the the loud crash of the front end of another truck crashing into them – a million times louder than any bass you wish to play.