Huh...Hmm...Mmm?

I feel strange. I need to stop procrastinating =x


Five : High Voltage

-

The impact from behind is like murder on his backs. It's like going to a massage with Kristoph and getting his back stomped on by some fifty million metric ton fat woman who claims that it's supposedly therapeutic to his back, and he is going to be a hell shit load of a healthy if he just stay still and let her stomp all over his back like a stampeding troop of elephants.

The impact comes first like someone hitting you from the back, smacking the 'hind of your head. Then you get thrown forwards, and unlike in movies, you do not get thrown back a moment later. Instead, you cling onto the steering wheel for dear life, because otherwise you'll be the next Superman. It's a bird? It's a plane? No, it's an accident victim flying headfirst out of his windshield to shoot off ten feet away and land in an ungraceful heap on the ground.

The next impact then came – in the form of Apollo Justice. Klavier would like to call the 'oof' that he gave out when he slammed against the back of the seat a UNF, but it's not a passionate sort of oof. The guy had been thrown by the crash all the way into the back of Klavier's seat, and Klavier had no idea if he should be thankful for being here to stop the man from flying out, be thankful for that darn commercial that keeps telling you no seat belts = dead meat, or what.

"Y-You okay, Herr Justice?" He called out, rubbing his own skull. Zee's busy on the other side of the car, even though it was starting to look a little cramped in his environment. The doors sure crunch easily for such an expensive beauty. Apollo climbed up from behind – and thank goodness that the rear end of the car had been strong enough or Klavier would have to explain to Zee what that big stain behind him was tomorrow morning. Apollo did not look amused though, or even halfway thankful. In fact, he looked downright like a bean sprout – or at least as green as one.

No novelization here. He just looks like a tomato you've thrown into the washing machine and pressed TUMBLE DRY on.

"Wh-What the hell--"

Klavier gave him a cursory look. Hairdo still on. Fingers probably still on. Good. He unfastened his own seat belt, and pointed at Apollo's severe one. "Stay in here, unless told otherwise." At Zee, it was; "Who are these guys? The Gramarye Circus?"

"How the fuck should I know!? You see X-Ray vision here?"

"Well, do something!" Klavier shouted back. He tilted his head out of his own window enough to see, but the side view mirror showed nothing. Only men getting very busy and horny at the back of the truck, from all the movement there.

"You've got your equipment with you?" He asked the other man. But Zee merely shook his head, extracting guns and what not out of the car like it's a magical panty. "Why can't you be a Gary Stu for once and come out with a bazooka the one time we need it?" Klavier complained.

"You want a bomb? Here, take my fucking lung – make it explode! How the hell should I know this is gonna happen!?"

"U-Um, maybe we should – see what they want?"

Apollo darted a panicked glance backwards, where the whole of the back mirror had been smashed into spider-sized bits. He looked rather awkward, half-standing in the back. He's too tall to stand up completely, obviously, but if he sat – he's going to be one man going home without any pants to call his own. The whole seat's glassed all over.

"Um, maybe we should...Diplomatic solution?" He hazarded. Klavier growled and moved aside. Apollo – smart little forehead – took the cue and climbed forwards. It cramped them up like sardines, but at least Apollo had space to squeeze himself between the two of them. If things were a little less shitty, Klavier would probably chuckle at how wrong the whole thing looked.

"Do you try to run your conference mates down with a truck, Herr Forehead?" He asked him.

"Probably not, no."

"Then diplomatic ain't the way to go." Apollo didn't look too panicky. Or maybe he had gone beyond the panicked stage to that finite stage that borderlines on hysteria, and is just waiting for the right moment to blow. Klavier had no time to question him on his stomach's strength however, because in the next moment, Zee tossed him a gun. A short handgun. Not going to do much damage if they've got guns of their own, and they will – depending on which camp they came from.

"This all you got?"

"The rest were in the boot. I even had a chainsaw in there." Zee tossed a look at the back of the car. "You're lucky the thing didn't cut into the car itself," He told Apollo. Justice turned a few shade greener.

"Stop that," Klavier ordered. They turned to look – and this time the men who unpacked the stuff from the back of the truck were recognizable. No one they knew in L.A dressed like they belong in a Chinese gangster show – not with those tigers and dragons and ridiculous animal print clothes. Said ridiculous people had weapons though, so maybe they weren't so ridiculous after all. "Meet...the tiger."

Zee swore. "At least there's a bright side to that, yeah? Tiger's got no guns. Worse they can come up with is bats."

"Maybe, but they got a lot of those."

That was when conversation had to halt.

Furio Tigre's men, recognizable even in the darkest pit you care to name thanks to how they look, like wannabe oriental rugs, they were finished with whatever they were doing behind there. If it was up to Klavier to head their operation, they would have gotten everything unpacked before ambushing them – but then who's he to complain if the tiger picked his cubs for how they look and how many stripes' they've got, instead of their mental capacity?

They rushed up the side of the road, and with the bridge's long rails extending upwards and the shadow playing through them, they looked perhaps rather ah...How should Klavier put this delicately...Scary, ja? But he doesn't have time for all that – the highway's deserted the moment people saw the crash. Any bystanders who thought to help had dispersed the moment Tigre's troops fall out of the car like little toy soldiers, and now they're alone on it until the white hats arrive.

"Achtung!"

Klavier pulled back one booted foot and squashed Apollo in – while Zee did the exact same thing from the other side. They pulled back, and let loose a kick on the door befitting a dramatic rock star. Of course, it doesn't fly out on the first try. Unfortunately, their lives don't happen to have double 0 digits in front of them – but the crumpled metal eventually gave up and straightened enough to be opened, and right on cue too – because the tiger's men had arrived on the sidelines.

Apollo screamed – or maybe that was his own voice screaming. Klavier sure as hell won't be able to recite in order what happened – except he did lean out of the car and shot a couple of shots before being dragged back in.

"Are you crazy!?" Apollo shouted in his ear. "You're going to get shot at!"

Klavier shoved back at the two hysterical group of fingers digging into his sides, determined to drag at least one of them backwards. Zee is gone – his side has lesser men – and is standing out there, taking potshots at them that missed more times than it hit.

"What do you suggest we do then!?"

"Wait for the police!"

Klavier threw him off. "Wait for it yourself!" He had more pressing things to deal with.

A shot exploded – a crack that didn't sound like it came from either of their handguns. It's a big kinda crack, like a big piece of steel hitting the ground in a thunk – and a moment later shrapnel stuck itself onto Klavier's arm, even as pain started exploding a millisecond later. The sideview mirror had been blown off completely by whatever had shot at it – and maybe if you handed Klavier a guidebook on all things that can fucking shoot, he'll give you a one-by-one of what shot it. But he doesn't, and the only thought that registered in his head was OH SHIT and 'Gee, they've got a bigger gun.'

Zee had apparently saw it too, because he started shouting at him, almost incoherently. "Klavier, get your ass out here!"

Their car is actually slanted in angle, with the rear end pointed towards the right side of the bridge. The truck behind them on the other hand, had nearly impaled itself when it's back part caught up with the drivers during the moment of impact. Except it doesn't, and now the cargo section swerves to the left, ending barely a few feet away from the barrier that stops cars from going over the edge – were it not half broken. Between the truck's distorted spine and their half crumpled mess, it forms a V of some sort. Pointless, considering that Tigre's men could shoot at them just as easily with or without a spare heap of iron in front of them, but reassuring nonetheless to have something covering your front – like pants.

It's proof of how hysterical he's become, half-mad at how sudden it was, pissed at them for squishing such a beautiful baby, and panicked at what to do – that Klavier's come to compare his friend's car with pants. With one hand, he shoved a startled Apollo out from Zee's side of the car, before folding himself up and climbing over too. No, he's never had to deal with this before – at least, not ones with guns. It's just usual barfights with the overrated baseball bats, and in one occasion when Enrich was there – they had drilled right through a man with a chainsaw.

Exciting bullshit, but not as deadly as a bullet through the head. Those only happen to his brother, not him.

Apollo dropped out of the car like a stunned sack, but he quickly scrambled up and folded himself down and beside the car – and Klavier nodded approvingly. At least the man had some sense, which is more than he can say for his--

"ZEE, -THE FUCK ARE YOU DOING!?"

The guy must be still drunk – because he wasn't even shooting at Tigre's men anymore, he was shooting at his own car.

'Getting---my shit---out!" With one last roar, Zee slammed his elbow down onto the boot. A shot whizzed by Klavier's ear, and another tore a hole right through one of Zee's bicep – but it was damage done to damage, salt on salt anyway, because the howl and the crunch that came up when he slammed his elbow onto the crumpled metal? That's the sound of calcium carbonate or chitin or enamel or whatever going bust. Cracking apart the way it would if you took a pickaxe to rock.

"Are you trying to kill yourself?" Klavier shouted at him. This is where Klavier thanked God he could multitask, or at least multitask better than Apollo could. He doesn't blame Apollo – the attorney's never had to deal with this sort of orgy in his life before, but boy did he wish it was someone more reliable at the moment – like LeTouse. He trained one eye on Zee, and the way he was yanking at the boot cover with his right arm. The other arm doesn't look too good – looks broken, in fact.

The other eye is busy picking up any of the Tigre guys – who are now mimicking what Klavier had done earlier.

Shoot and hide, shoot and hide – they're like moles that you just need to take a good hammer to – and the hammer came from Klavier to them, a little bit of love, ja? – in the form of speeding bullets.

He needs to write a song about this, seriously.

"Gavinne, over there!"

Klavier looked up in time to see another one of those pesky undying cockroaches sneaking out of the rear end of the truck. This is where it almost falls into the bridge, and the man is careful as he sneaks out from behind it to shoot at them. Klavier would never have saw it if it weren't for Apollo's frenzied cried – and he raised the gun, shot, and dead. One mole whacked. Infinite to go.

Zee whooped and yanked the boot cover completely apart. The crumpled steel gives off the most hideous sound you can think of, like chalk and nails down a blackboard. The whole thing went backwards when Zee flipped it up – his other arm hanging loosely at the side like a disconnected limb. He won't be shooting from that arm any time soon, that's for sure – but Klavier still whooped anyway, when he saw what Zee had literally risk a limb to get.

"How the hell did you get your hands on SMGs?"

"You shitting me? Ask your brother – he's got more guns than I've got dicks!" Zee stuck his hand in, wincing as the metal scraped off the skin of his knuckles. Wincing and wiggling, he pulled one out, threw it to Klavier, who caught it with his other hand. Then another came out, which replaced Zee, and finally –

"Here, have a stick!"

Zee threw Apollo exactly that – a stick – or rather, an axe. Apollo looked down at the axe in horror, and then up at Klavier. "No," He breathed out. "No freaking way."

"Just keep it -" Klavier snapped back. Zee spat something out – not blood, because they're not even 50% over with yet - but saliva, because in this sort of situations, your throat clamps up and tightens, collapsing into itself. You just don't swallow well when this happens, that's all. Another hit them, and they ducked, hitting the car close enough that their heart nearly stopped in their throats. He hated leaving the guy like that – after all, he's supposed to be the one to show Apollo the ropes of gang life – but he'll be damned if this isn't the best example ever. Lesson one, never bother with anyone except yourself – unless your life's ambition is to live in a hole.

"Alright," He hissed at Zee. "Go – do your thang."

Zee whooped and charged off in the direction of the truck, while Klavier snuck up and sidled closer to the car to trade shots with Tigre's men. He had no idea how many of them were there – but he would guess maybe five – and he had no idea what Zee was doing either. All he knew was that the they seem to be trading bullets that never hit. He'll shoot someone in the gut, only to have his ear bleeding the next moment because a bullet's grazed by it. He'll shoot someone in the arm, only to have his own outstretched foot impaled with loving oval metal.

It went on and on and, like a rain of hellfire that's not ending any time soon – and Klavier started to despair if they're really going to have to make a run for it after all. There's no way out of here, short of jumping over the edge. They've got no car. The streets are empty this time of the night. If they run down the road, they'll be picked off by them like a kid with the ducks at a funfair. Scoop, and you're out. Tag and you're gone.

And the worse thing is – they can't jump over the edge either, the way he's always imagined they'll resort to in this kind of situation. You sure see it enough on TV- except in TV, everyone swims. He's not so sure if Apollo Justice can even swim, and he won't be able to hold on to him while they make their getaway.

Which reminded him--

"What are you doing there!?" He shouted at Apollo. Apollo looked back at him, eyes wider than normal. He looked like said duck you've scooped out of his element, and deposited in a heap on dry land...Without the webbed feet.

"What am I suppose to do!?"

"Can you shoot a gun?"

"Hell no!"

"Then go help Zee out!"

Apollo looked up at where Zee was struggling with only one arm. He had snuck into the truck, unmanned because everyone is busy being outside and hiding and being cowards and hoping that they can hit Klavier and not be shot at. Klavier's necklace must be damned lucky – or maybe it's just not his time to die yet. The iron heap did make a good shield – but it isn't going to hold forever. Sooner or later, someone is going to hit something vital to his functionality, and then he'll be dead – if he doesn't bleed to death first.

"H-Help him? I don't know what the hell that man's doing?"

"And you never will, ja? Not if you keep standing there!"

"So I go and--"

"Help him, yes! There's only about two of them left – I can swing their attentions away!"

"But--"

"GO!"


Apollo scampered away like a kicked rat, and he chafed a little at that. But then something explodes somewhere, and he sees the face of a scary man popping up from beside the truck – and he rethought that. Maybe being a rat in this sort of situation is good. God knows it'll be the last thing anyone thinks of shooting. Klavier let out a volley of shots – and Apollo's almost forgotten that he disliked the guy in the face of that kind of craziness.

He sure as hell doesn't understand why Klavier doesn't go and strike where it hurts the most. After all, if there are only two left like he said, why are they doing this, hiding around like this? Why not go out there and pick them out? Klavier sure looked like he had enough guts to attempt it.

The man swung, or the close enough equivalent of it. He stuck both arms on the car roof, lifted himself up and shouted crazily over the road and at the other two men, visibly peeking up from the barrier at the other end of the road. Apollo would have shouted at them to be careful – especially since one of them had one side of him hanging down the side of the bridge in order for the barrier to function as a shield – but for the fact that they were shooting at him and well, even Apollo had enough sense not to shout and alert them.

Klavier lifted himself, like he said – and what he shouted had Apollo so stumped that for a moment there he thought he heard him wrongly. Except it comes again, and it's –

"Hey jerkfaces! Your mole's here!"

The car roof blew, a clean hole right around the edge. Not that Apollo could see from his side, but even if he could, he would have been more preoccupied with the way Klavier used the same two arms to swing himself into the interior of the car, like a man with a monkey bar. He got into the car a second before the metal peeled back to protest it's being violated, and if it hadn't slow it's velocity down because of the obstruction, Klavier Gavinne would have been the late Klavier Gavinne, right there.

Apollo decided this is not good for his constitution.

He left those two to Klavier's taunting and potshooting, and scampered up the side unnoticed towards Zydaline instead. He smacked on the door – and nearly got shot in the face for it when the man swung wildly to meet him.

"What do you want?" He hissed, turning his pierced face back to the steering the moment he saw it was just Apollo.

"G-Gavinne told me to--"

The man swore, slamming his one arm into the steering wheel.

"He sent me to help you," Apollo said again, more firmly – determined not to let his voice come out in a whimper. All he wants is to crawl somewhere and die, but that seems to be jinxing their situation – not to mention he'll never live it down if he ran like a coward. So defying logic, he stood there firmly. "You can't use that other arm of yours, right? I can help."

Zydaline hissed again, swearing, before moving aside to make way for Apollo. Taking his cue, Apollo climbed into the place and stared down at the steering wheel. Part of it had been scratched off, like someone had tried to clasp something around it like a vice – and he saw what it was a moment later. The kind of stuff you use to lock car wheels – not that Apollo would ever know, not having a driver's license himself.

"Take that clamp," Zydaline ordered, and he took it obediently. "Loop the thing around the steering wheel – and whatever you do, clamp it to the maximum. Twist the metal around like a vice if you have to.'

Apollo obeyed, even though he wasn't sure exactly what he was doing, but at least he could get some questions answered while he did so.

"Why are you doing this – jacking their truck or whatever it is you're doing?" He asked, working away. He could see why the man had trouble with just one arm – the thing was heavy. "Gavinne said that it's just that two left – why not just wipe them out?"

"Because.." He hissed back, keeping a wary eye on the side view mirror. The gun they had extracted out of the boot – one of it anyway – is stuck at the window, like a machinegun above a tank ready to snip out at any and all passersby. "Because they're not the only ones. There's gonna be another bunch soon – Tigre won't be dumb enough to send five men. They're just the starting act to stop us."

There's more? What the hell did these guys do to the man? Made away with his lady?

"So we're going to jack this car?"

"Boy, you ever saw anyone jack a car with a fucking car lock?"

"No," Apollo admitted. He's seen all kinds in the neighbourhood he grew up in, but jacking cars with a lock? That's like trying to open a vault with a fork.

The guy doesn't say anything else, but he did stuck his head outside the window, and screamed like the devil himself – exactly like the devil, or a very big monkey.

"Whoop whoop! Whoo!"

The two swiveled around to look at him, startled – and in that moment Klavier swooped, putting an end to their little bullet games, raised his gun above his head and just blew the two of them into sponges with the thing. Apollo darted his eyes away the moment the first one hits – and he sees the man's head cracking backwards so hard you can practically hear his neck going snappity-snap all the way here – can feel it in your bones if nothing else.

A few hours later, Apollo Justice will get up and barf all over something, remembering everything in gruesome detail. Maybe he'll cry, maybe he'll act like a girl and wet his pants after seeing his first death in his short and uneventful life – but for now, the main consuming thought seemed to be to work. Work, until nothing is left in his head.

He clamped the thing around the steering wheel, twisting it so tightly that the screw, it scraps at his palms and leave the skin raw. Then he looked at Zydaline for further instructions. The arm must be getting to him though, because he's breathing heavily and leaning backwards like the loser in an Olympics round.

"What now?" Apollo asked him.

He opened his eyes, blurry, wincing through the pain. "Great, now turn that thing upwards."

"Upwards? But that would--"

"Twist the steering, yeah."

Apollo did as he asked, and Klavier joined them, peeking in through the window and looking haggard. "You got a plan, Zee? Because I can tell you – achtung, gentlemen – I sure as hell don't."

Zee quirked a grin at him, meant to be cocky, but just coming down as weak. "Sure do. Maybe. Yeah."

"Is it gonna work?' Klavier asked, pulling a black thread that had stuck itself onto his flesh. The jacket had gone to waste to clean up after his own wounds.

"Dunno. Depending on Lady Luck I guess. If it doesn't, we're screwed."

"Ja, I see," Klavier replied cheerfully – and Apollo felt like socking him and jabbing the clamp right into his midsection. "I can see that however this plays out, we're going to be royally fucked."

"Done."

Apollo announced it, having stuck the clamp completely upwards. It twists the whole steering wheel to it's maximum, short of breaking the thing off completely, and he looked at the both for guidance. Klavier just shrugged however – fighting and shooting's his kind of shit he deals with. Technical difficulties? Dial Zee's line. Klavier can't tell a live wire from an earth wire from a neutral wire – as long as it does what it does and keep them alive.

"Okay," Zydaline wheezed. His arm didn't look too good. It's stuck at that kind of angle that you know just from a glance that it's broken. Kind of too straight, or maybe too bending-straight, the way only a broken bone sticks out in. Someone's going to have to patch it up – and Apollo had no idea what kind of doctor they're going to have to get for that.

Klavier interrupted that line of thought though.

"They're coming."

And sure enough they are.

Like plague and pestilence and that army of flies – the end of the bridge, a hundred or maybe fifty feet away, headlights were gleaming, flashing out dangerously like cats' eyes in the darkness. They're still far off, but Apollo guessed from the lights that there were at least three or so of them – and if every one of it had as many people as this container does, then it's as Klavier said : They'll be royally fucked.

Apollo felt the ridiculous need to pray. Yes God, thank you God. I appreciate this promotion. Now I'm going to take another promotion right up to Heaven, alright? What's that you say – I can't go in now that I've so cruelly abandoned the realm of goodness for gangsters? But I never even got one job done!

A small semi-hysterical giggle burst past Apollo's lips, and Klavier looked at him sympathetically. "Don't worry, Herr Forehead. It's not as bad as this – not always anyway."

Why doesn't he believe that?

The cars got closer, and Zee, he sighs. Growling, he shoved Apollo out almost rudely – some way to thank a guy who did him a favour. But his mind weren't on favours as he took up another clamp and stuck it onto the accelerator of the truck. The truck's not on, so it made no difference to the three whether or not the accelerator is stepped on. He straightened the thing until it vertically joined both the seat and the pedal, and then with that one arm, he twisted over and got out of the truck, stopping only at the last step on the rung off it.

"What are you going to do?" Apollo asked, looking up at the man. Panic's clawing a little bit higher, and that breakdown, it will probably be soon if they don't get out of this mess immediately. His nerves felt like shimeji mushrooms, or corals – take your pick, Apollo's not picky. He just wants to get out of here and get out of this mess and goddammit, see Trucy again. At this point, even throwing himself off the bridge even though he can't swim sounds like an excellent and plausible plan.

"Just a second..."

Klavier looked at the steering wheel, clamped into permanent tilt. Then at the accelerator.

"Ach," He commented, a gleam entering his eyes. A sparkle that isn't there before, one last sparkle before it fizzles out completely and they collapse in a nerveless bundle all over the place exactly like said mushrooms.

"We can't just drive it?"

"This baby ain't gonna outrun many bastards," Zee answered, slapping a hand on the seat's leather. "One normal car, and we'll be nailed like a butterfly on a board."

Apollo looked at the two of them – completely out of the loop. Somehow he doubted that the truck's going to be in fine shape once they were done with whatever it is they be doing.

"How are we going to run?"

Because his fingerprints are everywhere, and it's just proof that how far Apollo may have fallen in the space of twenty-four hours that the first thing he thinks of after OH NO is, EGADS, FINGERPRINTS. Klavier patted him on the back, watching the lights in the distance. His mouth's twisted into a semi-grimace – guess this wasn't the kind of lesson he had hoped to teach Apollo, huh?

"Don't worry about it, ja? As long as we make it out alive – my brother can pull all the necessary strings to save our sorry asses."

"Coming."

One word, and Klavier snapped his head up to look at Zee – then at the headlights. Apollo looked up too, and let out a hissy sort of breath through his teeth.

"They're coming."

And maybe this is the sort of tone someone a long long time ago would take while they await a god or deity or whatnot to descend white marble steps, or maybe this is the sort of tone someone might announce the arrival of Kristoph Gavinne in.

Regardless of either way, the headlights preceded the cars, a looming shadow that cannot be warded off no matter how hard you pray or hope. Klavier looped an arm around Apollo, and some part of his leftover brain wanted to blush with embarrassment at being led like a little lost sheep. He doesn't, and he is dragged backwards exactly like said animal, all the way until the iron heap that is Zylinder's car, now completely thrashed and peppered with holes.

And then it's like a dream.

Apollo saw the cars coming closer, over the edge, and he can even see them going up and down at the tiny bump in the middle of the road. And then he sees Zylinder, with his hand wrapped around something in the car. The car comes closer, and now they're only about a block away – and Herr Justice, he wants to shout. He flexes his hearing muscles, and for a moment even imagines that a hole will open in the sky where the cops will descend, in which case they would be safe – or failing that, it's okay, Apollo's not going to pick a fight over God's choice. He'll gladly accept aliens or saggy old women with ray guns too.

One road away, and that's when Zylinder bursts into motion. He twisted the ignition – not that Apollo would know, but after that he will look back, yes, look back and he will tell you that it must be the ignition he had twisted – and Apollo watched as his handiwork, and yes, this is his handiwork and he must be proud of it the way proud artists are constantly trumpeting their own works and the way proud authors shove their stories into each and every person's face.

Zydaline jumps down the moment he did so. A second later, the shudder of the truck started. It's headlights are broken, it's front a little smashed, but it doesn't stop it from rattling and shaking like a broken toy about to explode into a million pieces. To the point where Apollo thought that maybe that man had rigged it to set itself on fire – except it doesn't explode. It merely ignites, the way it must have done a million times before and a dozen times this week itself. Zydaline dashes towards them, and Klavier pulled Apollo with him a couple of steps backwards.

They're like entranced audiences in an illusionist's show. They want to see, but do they? Do they really? Only the roots clinging onto their feet stubbornly would know.

Zydaline approached them about the same moment the cars came, the truck still rattling away. He got there just in time to turn around to watch, and the three of them watched as the truck gave one last shudder. The wheels turn as the oil connects to the gears to the levers to the stomach to the engine, having received it's signal. The signal, strong and unblinking and coming from the accelerator pressed through the floor of the car is obvious – go, and blessed be.

The truck is not an engine of biology, or it might have went 'No, sir, I do not.' and refused. But it isn't – it's a man made device for a man made purpose, move humans – and it did exactly that. The wheels rolled as the oil pumped in like oxygen. If this is a cartoon, the dirt would kick up – but it doesn't. Instead, with one last roar, the whole truck swung – the clamp around the steering wheel ordering it to turn, and because it's tilted at the maximum angle, to turn well. The accelerator on the other hand moved it, but because of how the truck had been started and turned – completely without preliminary distance – all it did was to swing itself sideways, like a turtle you've overturned.

Given a second more, Tigre's men would have swerved aside and missed it. It's not a violent reaction – it's barely turning at all. But they don't. All they have is a fantasy of pulling up their cars in a beautiful arc and pounding the living daylights out of Apollo and Co. the way it's always done on TV.

They want to be cool, be shiny, be flashy. They want to lift that Gavinne bastard up by his collars and say, 'Do I feel lucky? Well do ya, PUNK?'. So they, with their accelerator down in solidarity with the truck, they see the truck turn, but there isn't enough time for them to turn around unless they want to shoot right off the bridge – and they---

"Shhh..."

Apollo felt two hands covering his own stark wide eyes, almost gentle – or maybe just apologetic.

"Ach, it's okay, ja? Don't look, and you'll be fine..."

Apollo Justice stood there for the longest minute, stretched to breaking point. Listening to the conundrum, the orchestra of metal against metal echo. It serenades the moonlight, violent and mad violins pulled back and forth. They smash into the truck, and maybe they survive, and maybe they won't – but they won't escape unscathed. And despite all that, the reigning thought was that yes, even though those people would have cleaved him into two without notification, he had lend a hand in bringing their demise about.

Apollo dragged Klavier's hands off his face and barely made it to the side of the bridge before throwing up all over the place.

The truck's done what Apollo asked of it : It's moved people, move them right up to the next plane of existence.


While his brother and friends were getting their organs handed to them in neat stacks on china plates, Kristoph Gavinne is across the city. He's not technically supposed to be out yet. In fact, the only place Kristoph Gavinne should be in is prison, and he should be doing so without exception until his trial is completely cleared. If you are concerned enough to check – which you will not be because you value your life – you will find that the records check out very well enough. At ten o'clock that night, Kristoph Gavinne had apparently gone to sleep in his cell, the one that resembles Hilton more than it did prison. If you look again, there's another record of the door opening up to let the guard out, except what the records won't show is the fact that Kristoph Gavin had trailed out with the guard too, humming pleasantly under his breath.

Tomorrow, at eight in the morning, the guard will make his first round. At that time, Kristoph Gavinne will trail back into the holding cells with him, and according to records, Kristoph Gavinne had never been out of the cell. Fact.

Right now, he's lounging around the living room of Espina's townhouse, trading wine with his so-called 'colleagues'. The townhouse is opulent to the point of gaudy, and the only thing it needs is a larger version of the crystal chandelier hanging above them to turn it into an opera house. You know those houses, with sweeping staircases of white and rugs and vases that looked like it came right out of a badly rendered version of The Godfather? You need not look further than this house if you're looking for a place to film the clandestine meeting between mob heads.

They hail from different gangs around the city. Some small, some modest, and some decent. There are some in the room without scruples, and then there are some who have too many. Either way, all they are concerned with is the recent development of business in the city – and what Gramarye's disappearance, along with Phoenix Wright's replacement of him could well mean to them.

"The Firebird will set the city on fire," One of them joked. He places a cigarette between yellow teeth, and puffed. This made Kristoph frown as he's forced to inhale secondhand smoke. That just deducted 48 seconds out of his life, according to statistics – and Kristoph Gavinne is far too important in Kristoph Gavinne's estimation to have his life deducted away like that, like someone's monthly budget.

Grace, dear, sweet Grace – she notices the slight frown marring his face and she leans in, plucking the cigarette coyly out of the man's hands. He looked at her, startled and not quite sure if he should be startled. But Grace is who Grace is – she didn't get where she did in life by having well used thighs alone. She aimed a disarmingly practiced smile at the man.

"I'm trying out a new perfume today, Mr. Gaunt. If you smoke this sort of thing, you wouldn't be able to smell it now, would you?"

The man beams, and Kristoph smiles. Always so useful. He turned towards the man beside him instead, and resumed his conversation with him. A man of little importance, but then Kristoph is the exclusive socialite. It never pays after all, to be selective in the garden of friendship. It is rather like dining, is it not? You must have a balanced and nutritious meal – and if some of those proteins can only be gleamed by absorbing a lower class of product, then you must do so.

"...I don't see why we should be so bothered about Wright. If you ask me – it's Tigre we need to sweat about."

Kristoph raised an eyebrow at him. "How so?"

"Now that Lady V's disappeared – and I still think it was Tigre that did away with her, mind you – now that she's gone, the Cadaverinni's falling into his hands. He's got complete control over it, and you know how that man is. Always quick to pick a fight."

LeTouse nodded. "He does. But he should be of no problem, other than he will prune and trim what needs to be pruned and trimmed. Only the dumbest of the lot are going to lose to him."

The man shook his head. "Maybe – but that was when Lady V's around to keep him in check. With her gone, he has access to everything, if not greater intelligence. Even an idiot can shoot a gun straight, LeTouse."

"I can't shoot a gun straight, Mr. Gaunt – are you calling me an idiot?" Kristoph laughed merrily at the embarrassed flush that crept up the man's face.

"Of course not Gavinne, you know what I mean."

"Indeed I do – and I don't think you need to worry too much about Tigre himself. More about...The Tin Man, yes?"

Gaunt frowned. "The Tin Man? What about him? I thought he was loyal to Bruno Cadaverinni – he's been running with him for what, a good forty long years, has it not been?"

"Now that Lady V is gone, he may rethink his allegiance," Another added quickly. Kristoph smiled indulgently, noting the quickened words. People like these, they never like to be left out of a conversation. It leaves them to confirm their own worthlessness, hence their tradition of interrupting where fewer words are asked for.

"Indeed," Kristoph allowed. "If he has not already done so. The Tin Man is loyal to Cadaverinni – but Tigre, as pointed out, is not a Cadaverinni, nor does he operate like one. The man is inelegant. He has no subtlety."

Irishion snorted. "Subtle? Like a sledgehammer, maybe."

Kristoph smiled, placing fingertips upon fingertips, the very picture of generosity and indolence. "That man – he is like that friend of my brother's. 'Wenn ich Kultur höre ... entsichere ich meinen Browning.' That about sums them up, I believe." He chuckled at his own joke, and the others chuckled with him, even though he had it on best authority that none of them spoke a word of German. But then that is the good thing about being above.

When people look up, they see but you. When people want to climb up, they ask you for your hand. And when they speak to you, they look up at you, as only befitting their lower station. Kristoph absolutely adored this sort of people. They're easy to figure out – simple, without an agenda. They read like a book, and not a classical tale that twists the tongue. They read like Klavier's little rhythms – completely bland and without a single deeper meaning to call it's own.

They discussed some more on the possibility of the Cadaverinni splitting off entirely from internal differences. The Tin Man after all, had almost all the Cadaverinni members in awe of him, and his legendary self. The man is the James Bond of the underworld, with the marked exception that he is as scarred as Sir. Frankenstein himself. He may be no looker, and he doesn't have enough brains to clobber together a long enough sentence that relates Nebraska and Arkansas in a logical fashion – but when it came to street, The Tin Man knows what he's doing, and he does it well.

On the other hand, Tigre had been recruiting his own band of followers under the guise of working for Tender Lender, the subdivision of the gang that specializes in loans, and unfortunately – loan collection. Lady V had known of course, except perhaps not the fervor in which he had done so. By the last count, the Tender Lender division had almost as many as the main family itself, and if a full war is to break out between the two branches, none is going to be able to tell with precision who will win.

Kristoph stayed out of the speculations. He had no wish of having his words twisted and conveyed across the city in a different fashion, as words between Chinese whisperers are wont to do. Life is a big game of telephone. The Cadaverinnis he couldn't care less about, especially when the drug shipment is gone. Yes, the warehouse had been cleaned out, and apparently, Tigre must not have known the full worth of what had been taken, or he would indeed be 'Furio.'

A knock sounded on the door to interrupt their discussion, and Kristoph looked up lazily, like a cat nipping at someone else's milk. The door pulled apart to reveal one of LeTouse's men, those who looked like clones or cones, depending on which angle you view them from. He walks up to Kristoph, and at a nod – leaned down to whisper into his ear.

"There's been a problem on the street, boss."

"Mm?" Kristoph hmm'd indulgently. Inside, he wondered though, exactly why these people never seem capable of conveying their true meanings in five words and less. Wouldn't it be easy if the world is sorted into sticky colour tapes? Trouble, no trouble. Useful, probably not. Smart, stupid. Watch out, relax. Oh, if only the world comes in the four shades of fluorescent.

"What happened?"

"Lee contacted us a moment ago. He just bailed out Mr. Gavinne, his friend, and a man named Justice from the holding cell. Apparently, they were standing at the site of a huge accident – except there were guns and firearms all over the place. Constans is asking if we should talk the city into forgetting it, or just letting it be."

Kristoph hmm'd. That's a new development, someone going after his baby brother. He should probably be worried, should be breaking out a sweat, but Kristoph is a very neat man. Everything is in squares of four by four inches. If Klavier isn't hurt, then all is fine and well. Emotion in one square, business in another. If he is, then all is still fine and well. After all, if Klavier is hurt, it also follows that he would be dead, which meant that Kristoph would need to grieve, which is very sad, and he'll probably cry and be very upset, but is eventually – a waste of his time.

"Is Klavier and that Justice alright?" He asked.

"Yes sir. They were sent to the hospital for a bit, but they're fine now."

"Who was it?"

"We don't know, but we're guessing Furio."

"Excellent. Tell Constans to talk the city into forgetting it ever happened at all."

"Got it."

The man retreats like a slave in the imperial era – ass first – and then he's gone, disappearing off to do as he is bidden. Kristoph turned back into the conversation, ignoring the curious looks that he got from the rest of them.

"A little bug seems to have scampered up my driveway, gentlemen," He announced to a completely puzzled audience.

So Furio Tigre is thinking of revenge for the little mess with Lady V, was he? The man should be thankful that they had taken the lady away from him. If Viola Cadaverinni had stayed around any longer, if she had taken the time to look into her grandfather's books, she'll come to realize that the rumours that Furio Tigre had been siphoning the gang's funds? They were beyond true. Kristoph should know – he's been keeping an eye on all of them, a shameless voyeur of their every little misdeed he can lay hands on.

Perhaps he thinks that bringing back Lady V will further solidify his standing in the group then. No matter. Kristoph might not be terribly enraged at the idea of his brother being injured, but then he had no wish to be thought of as a pushover. Klavier gets injured all the time, whether it's because he's silly enough to get drunk and get into petty childish fights or because like now, he's been caught in the tracks of a speeding train. No one hurts Klavier deliberately and gets away with it though.

"I believe I do retract my statement earlier," He announced again, massaging the carved pattern of the chair's armrest. "If there is one thing our friendly little cub is guilty of – it's abject stupidity."

The men exchanged confused glance. Kristoph forged on, and in the next half an hour or so, started twisting the people around the room a little. He twists his words, lie a little, pretend a little. Mock a lot, scorn some – and by the end of it, the men, they wouldn't be able to tell you that it wasn't their idea in the first place. They will recite, in fiendishly similar ways, that Furio Tigre is unfortunately, even stupider than The Tin Man – which is stupid enough already. If a war erupts now, none of them will have the slightest desire to help Furio Tigre. Petty revenge, Kristoph knew – but then he hasn't had time to formulate a better plan yet.

When he does, the tiger will be severely lashed for overstepping his boundaries.

LeTouse, who had stayed silent all the while while Kristoph twisted them around, spoke up. "The Tigre, he isn't a problem then. What about Wright? He's still heading Gramarye. Do we agree, or do we start a big ruckus about it? If all the gangs object against it, sooner or later he'll have to step down to Armando or her."

At this, Kristoph shook his head. He swirled the wine their hostess offered, smiling as he did so. His entire plan hinged on the fact that Phoenix remains as head. The man might fancies himself hard and sharp – but Kristoph knew better. Never been a bigger softie than a man whose button you know to press.

"Leave him. He has his merits."

Gaunt nodded, stoic as always. "Very well then...We'll see how it plays out."

Another knock interrupted them, and this time Kristoph looked up without bothering to conceal his long-suffering sigh. Another report? When do these things end...

But the man standing at the doorway, smirking slightly – it's not one of his men. Not the impenetrable black all his men are dressed in, like men serving under the hand of God. It's a familiar blue colour under a familiar tuft of spiky hair – and behind him, the recognizable form of Diego Armando, practically the shadow of Phoenix. Between Diego's coffee colour and Phoenix's head, it'll be hard to mistake them for well...Anything else.

"Hello Mr. Wright," Espina greeted demurely, even though Kristoph knew Wright doesn't frequent the whorehouses of the area – whether for little business talks out of the cops' eyes or other services. "Enchanté. To what do we owe this unexpected pleasure?"

Phoenix smiled.

"I'm here to talk business."


Klavier felt kind of like a babysitter. He lifted one foot to kick the door gently, then a little harder when it seems to make no sound at all. He can't kick too hard of course – after all, the thing looks flimsy enough that if he kicks it too hard, it'll probably collapse backwards and you know, break. And then what is he going to tell the man currently leaning against him like a sack of potatoes? Ja, I was the one – I was the one who dragged you out to a nightclub, got you shot at, exploded you, and THEN that was when I kicked your door down. Sorry. I'll shine your forehead for you in reimbursement, ja?

No, that's not likely to rub.

Klavier lifted his foot to give it another good kick, but this time before his boot can collide with the wood, it pulls apart.

"There you are Polly – do you have any idea what time it is!?"

It's the little fraülein from earlier, and she's spitting rage from the looks of it. The anger melted into disbelief though, as she took a good long look at her brother.

"Polly?" She gasped. "What happened to him!?"

"Shh." Klavier held up his unused arm to put a finger to his lip. He didn't want the man waking up – not after the trouble he had of getting him to fall asleep in the first place. "I only managed to calm him with some pills, ja?"

"You drugged him?" She howled. The girl reached towards him, determined to snatched her brother right out of Klavier's hands. This amused him, because even though the man was small, he's surprisingly heavy. She wouldn't be able to lug him around for more than a foot.

"I had to, ja? The alternative is causing global warming by using up paper bags."

Trucy doesn't even bother deciphering his comment. "That's illegal. You can't just do something like that." She hissed out.

Klavier chuckled to himself – obviously the sibling similarities run deeper than just the tuft of neat brown hair. They've got the indignant expression of each other down pat when they're well, indignant.

"Don't worry – he won't die from it.:He joked. In fact, since it had taken him an entire hour to get between the hospital and here – having to explain at every stop why he's bringing an unconscious man around after all – the medication should be wearing off soon. It's almost five now, and give or take another half an hour, you'll start hearing birds chirping. That is, assuming the place you're living in hasn't killed them all with Carbon Monoxide.

"May I go in, fraülein?" Klavier asked prettily. "My arms are starting to get sore from carrying your brother around, ja?"

She growled, but as always, ladies know best. She moved out of the way and Klavier pulled the forehead in with him into the apartment. Once inside, he resisted the urge to blanch, which would be inhumanly rude. When's the last time he saw such a dump? Certainly not recently. Between the band starting to climb it's way through the charts, and Kristoph's elegant mansion, it's been a long long time since Klavier's been anywhere without thick muffled carpeting and soundproof walls. So long in fact, that sometimes he forgets that there is a great unwashed out there that might not live in the brightly lighted stage he does.

'I ah-- Nice place you have here, ja? Very homey." And that wasn't even sarcastic too. It definitely did look homey. If your idea of 'home' is those one room apartments with a roaster, that is. The girl's too smart to let the slight hesitation slide though, and the glare hitched up a notch.

"Thanks, Mr. Gavinne. I'll keep that in mind when I talk to our interior decorator, ja?" She snapped back, imitating his accent. This is unfortunately, yet another proof that protective females are troublesome. Though he doesn't blame her. If someone drags his brother back home scraped, bruised, and drugged, he's going to throw quite a few tantrums too.

Trucy pointed at the couch, and he dragged Apollo over and dropped him onto it ungracefully. She immediately took up one leg and throw it over the armrest of the couch unceremoniously.

Apollo made a blurry sound, the kind of cough that half-asleep people make, and Klavier stepped back, sighing. It's been a long day, eh, Herr Forehead? All Klavier wants to do is to crawl home and find a very thick mattress to disappear underneath. Trucy pounced on him though. No rest for the wicked and all that.

"What the hell happened to him?" She pointed a shaking finger at his shoulder where some spare piece of metal had sliced through. "How did he get like this?"

Klavier wiped at his face, massaging his lids. "Honestly? I don't know." At her pointed look, he said. "I can't tell you what I don't know, ja? It's probably revenge for something we've done to them, tit-for-tat and all that."

"I thought you said it won't be dangerous for him." She growled.

"I didn't say that – I said it's a possibility there will be a danger for him."

"There's kind of a big difference between a possibility and it happening on the first day itself."

At this Klavier chuckled, though it's a black sort of chuckle. A black hole of a laugh. "That's the thing...It's a one-off thing. It doesn't happen always – God knows it's never happened for all the years I've been around. Barfights yes. Gang fights, yes. I've seen a whole bunch of people break each other to bits with machetes and bats, but this is the first time we got pounced on like that."

Klavier paused, trailing off – as something hit him that had been bugging him all the while while they were rotting in the cell and being fixed up at the hospital. It only hit him now. Those guys were serious. It wasn't some kind of you-stole-my-girl act. They weren't carrying bats and chains, pretending to be the next Bruce Lee with a lot of nose wiping and shouting. They were carrying guns, and even though Klavier's repeatedly stressed how dangerous the underworld is to Apollo...The fact remains that you don't shoot people for nothing. They might be uncivilized humans, but they're not beasts.

Murder is only done when something big is at stake. It's done when people like Kristoph orders it. It's done when organized crime is organized. Klavier's only been on the fringes of it before, despite what he's been telling Apollo. It really is all swagger. Bullshit.

The moment he agreed to help his brother with the kidnapping of Viola Cadaverinni though, he had stepped across the line. He's crossed over from childish fights with tattooed men, swinging bottles and smashing people to bits. Now he's in where people run like clockwork. The underworld is one big wheel to produce profit. If you happen to get in the way, then they run over you and the next ten guys who happen to be in it's way.

Organized crime is indeed, organized.

"I don't know. It's probably just a violent reaction or something." He'll talk to his brother. Get his head straightened out – Kristoph's always been remarkably good at straightening people out. Too good in fact, some would say. But then Klavier's always liked the exciting life – it feels better that way, always living on the edge and taking a risk. One wrong move and you plunge fifty feet down into murky depths, and that kind of wind in your hair? It's fun? He'll go to sleep, and tomorrow he'll wake up grinning like Sweeney. Exciting life is exciting.

Trucy doesn't buy that explanation though. She just pinned him with a glare that's surprisingly serious, considering that just this morning she had been smiling cheerfully at him.

"Is it ever going to happen again?"

Now that's a question he can answer confidently. "Nein. It's not – trust me on this one, fraülein. Things like this, it is not a weekly Sunday gathering, ja? It won't happen again."

Not once he's ratted on his brother at least anyway. He'd been telling the truth. Apollo belongs in the more 'civilized' circles, and as long as no one drags him into it, and no one involves him, he should be okay. Klavier rolled his eyes at himself mentally. The guy would probably run screaming away from him the next time they met anyway.

"Fine. I'll take your word for it," She allowed at last. Apollo started muttering. The effects of the medication must have worn off, and pretty soon, the famed forehead wrinkled in concentration. Klavier had no idea why – but the man's forehead fascinated him. Maybe it's because Apollo is so...Dull. He just doesn't sparkle. So down-to-earth, so nothing-special, so boy-next-door. Maybe it's because of that that his forehead stands out so prominently-- No, that's just the fatigue talking. Stop obsessing over people's bone china pate, Klavier.

Apollo scowled, and the eyes, they visible try to pull apart. Except they're stuck together like glue, and it took him all of fifteen seconds to stretch them apart completely.

He squinted up at them. "Nnn...Trucy?"

"Hiya, Polly!"

Apollo snapped his eyes back shut. "C-Cheerful." He croaked out.

"Oh uh – Sorry. I mean, good morning, Apollo."

Klavier chuckled at that one. And done completely straight-faced too. Apollo opened his eyes again, letting out a little weary sigh. He sounded dry, or maybe a little like sandpaper. Overused sandpaper definitely. "Can I...Have some tea please?"

Trucy nodded at this and sped off to the kitchen, smiling a little happy smile. Maybe she was just worried when she had been snapping at him earlier. Klavier doesn't fault her. See above. While the girl was busy tinkering away in the kitchen noisily, Klavier plopped down on the stool beside the couch, pulling it up near the head of the couch.

"Good morning too, Herr Justice."

Justice's eyes went like closing shutters.

"I don't want to talk to you," He snapped, his voice grainy.

"Ja, but I am talking to you. 'Talking' is one way, after all. Now 'conversing', that's an entirely different ideal right there."

"I'm not conversing with you then."

Klavier smirked. Annoying little buster.

"I have this funny feeling like you are already doing so, ja?"

Those teeth gnashed. Realizing that he's not winning a five-year-old fight with Klavier, the man opened his eyes to pin him in one of those doom stares of his instead. He reminded Klavier of that man from that long ago X-men show, the one with toaster for eyes.

"You said something like that would 'probably' happen." He stated, his voice chords strained because his head is pulled backwards to get a better look at Klavier.

"Ja..." Klavier replied slowly. "And it 'probably' did."

"Your idea of probabilities is very screwed up." He announced.

"Well, if you consider that 'probably' means that it'll happen, it did. Just you know, maybe faster than we all thought."

They stayed silent to contemplate this gem of excruciating intelligence.

Finally Klavier cleared his throat, even as Apollo said sarcastically : "Gee, no problem – that caught me by surprise too."

He shot the lying man a look. "In case you didn't notice, Herr Justice – it caught me by surprise too. It's not like I arranged with CNN for it to happen on real time. So quit giving me this it's-all-your-fault bullshit."

The man said nothing. Then, "How's your friend?"

"He's seeing the coroner."

A pair of alarmed brown eyes stared at him. "The coroner? But it was just a broken arm – was it infected or--"

"No no," Klavier interjected quickly. "Not a coroner – the coroner. He's a friend of ours. He's not the world's most brilliant doctor – or even a certified one - but he can patch up small wounds at least. We can't risk going to a clinic before the investigation dies down so..." He shrugged, the world's best explanation for everything being a well-placed one.

The tinkering sounds could still be heard in the kitchen, and new sizzling sound joined the spoons. Hot water bubbled.

"Is this what happens to you guys on a daily basis?"

"What? Oh dear God, no." Klavier actually winced at the idea of it happening everyday of his life. Imagining walking out everyday and coming back all torn and tattered and having five million stacks worth of paper trophies to sift through in order to explain exactly why, Prosecutor Gavin, were your fingerprints, your hand prints, and your lipstick marks and goodness knows what else all over the crime scene.

He'll be changing his designer clothes faster than they can tear it and it sure wouldn't look good on his credit card debts, he can tell you that. The idea had it's amusing merits though, and he chuckled.

"It's something that only happens once in a blue moon," He told the man. "Usually, the whole mob runs like a well-oiled machine. It's like a business, ja? You run business. We collect the protection fees. We run business, and we get the profits. We cross each others' paths sometimes, and that's when fights break out. Those either get resolved 'diplomatically', or with guns. But no, it doesn't happen all the time. It's just...An exception this time."

He neglected to mention that one tiny nitty bitty piece of fact that maybe they were the ones who threw the first stone this time. As much as he likes to remain neutral in the plane of socializing, it tends to leave a bad impression when you tell strangers you've known for a few days that yes, you blow buildings up as a night job. No, not even if you tell them it pays well.

"What do you guys fight over usually?" Apollo asked, looking genuinely interested. Not that look that people give him when they ask sometimes – that look that crosses between not wanting to know and being afraid to know. He just looks curious, is all – and Klavier liked that, if just a little. Simple, clean-cut people are just that much easier than dealing with winded bullshit.

"I'm not always around, but usually it's just turf. We're kinda like bitches that way," He laughed. "Territorial, you know? People cut into our turf, and shitville blooms when that happens. It's always about turf and who gets whose cut. Then there's dumb stuff like hangout joints too."

"Huh." Apollo huffed, looking a little disappointed. "That sounds like neighbourhood kids – with guns, maybe. Like Neighbourhood Kids, Premium."

Klavier smirked. "At least you don't have to pay to pin individual comments."

"Mmm."

Trucy reappeared in the room like magic, and handed a cup of blazing hot tea to her brother. Apollo blew at it, fogging up the place with steady steam, then down it went, probably scalding his tongue in the process. The effect seems to be lost on him, because all he does is sigh contentedly, like a stroked cat. Trucy looked expectantly at him.

"Thanks, Trucy." He uttered obediently.

"No problem at all!" She chirped. The clock on their fake (?) mantelpiece tick-tocked pointedly, and she yawned. "Well, I think I had better go to sleep. I stayed up waiting for you the whole night you know."

"Sorry." He pulled an appropriately sorry face.

"Hmph. Leave a sticky note the next time you're going to be troublesome please." She walked off to her own couch, precisely four feet away in the small cramped room, and tucked into it messily. "Oh, and I'm sure Prosecutor Gavinne won't need my help showing him out. It's a 'homey' place, after all." She added nastily.

Klavier winced. This is one girl that's going to grow up into one seriously scary lady. Infatuated, she obviously is. Squealing, she obviously is too. Doesn't stop the nasty streak. Siblings united in sarcasm, indeed.

"She's scary," Klavier confided in a whisper to Apollo. Apollo chuckled and sipped at his tea, sitting up.

"Wait 'til she starts threatening to make your stuff disappear."

More sips of the tea. Apollo continued their discussion despite the interruption. 'Aren't there more serious things you guys fight over? I mean – you guys are the mob, aren't you? I was under the impression that those deal in more than terms of candy."

Klavier smiled at the term. The sun's almost coming up now. Maybe about six? He's not gonna make it to work – that's for sure. Probably gonna get chewed out by Lana, but bah. He'll just remind her that she used to be part of all these too, and they're owls if nothing else.

"There's the occasional firearms trade. Those sell well. Some guys, they don't want to bother with the licenses and all – not with the new rulings."

Apollo nodded. He knows how it is even though he's never signed up for one before. You have to fill in only about an arm's width worth of file before getting a miserable lump of metal. And by arm's width, he meant putting your arms wide apart.

"Ja, so there are people...Not so keen in all these stuff. They want big guns. Show better to their friends on Saturday night, ya know what I mean? So yeah...Guns sell well. Sometimes fights break out over that too. Shipments from one gang to another don't happen often, but when it does, it usually comes down with a lot of behind-your-backs and bloodbaths."

"No drugs?"

"Nein," Klavier enthused. This at least, is one thing he's sure of – no one's been prosecuted for drugs for years. He should know. "It's really hard to get drugs into the city these days. The city hasn't seen a good supply of the white stuff for years, thanks to the whole new take of CA on it. The junkies in the city's been getting their fixes on crap sewer-crack for two whole cycles of the Earth. I can tell you something, Defense, with utterly no evidence necessary : If a shipment of it appears?" He whistled to make his point.

"What, Facebook?"

"Arms race," Klavier shot back.

Enough said.

"Mmm." Apollo sipped at the tea again, and Klavier's suddenly struck by how...Well, well he is. Considering that he had barfed all over Klavier's spare coat when Tigre's men went up like Sunday Barbeque Roast. He seemed fine, and he commented on it. Apollo only winced though.

"Can you stop mentioning that? I'm going to throw up all over you again."

"Ach."

"That was disgusting- I mean, I've never seen-- It was just so hot, you know? And I don't mean that in a kinky way. I meant it literally. The whole thing was just – the tires were scraping, and I thought I saw..."

Klavier nodded sympathetically. He knows. There are times when the mind – it supplements that which is not there. You might not see a man's dying face, but your mind sees it, and your mind tells you so.

"I just--" Apollo bit down on the tip of the cup. He looks pale. Klavier's reminded of himself, back when he just found out about his brother's ties with the mob and had been absolutely appalled at it. He had an idea back then. That his brother is actually an angel or a saint or some very big piece of white shit. That went down the hill like Jack and Jill though. He still loves his brother to death, just that he's no longer white shit - just shit.

"I signed up for it, didn't I?"

"Doesn't mean you can't freak out over it, ja? You were partially responsible for them going up in flames. Zee wouldn't have made it alone."

Apollo shot him a dirty look, and Klavier shrugged. He's not his babysitter, as he seems to be repeatedly mentioning. Cold facts need to be cold, or someone will toast you later.

"I'm not going to judge," Apollo announced inexplicably. "That was – they did it first, didn't they? I mean, they were the ones who attacked us, so all we did was bite back. It makes sense, doesn't it?"

He sounded for all the world like he's asking Klavier to confirm his sensibilities for him. Klavier just smirked in a sad sort of way. "You're starting to see our way, Herr Forehead. Ja, they did it first. Ja, they're faceless people, a bunch of scarecrows you burn 'cuz they'll eat your brains otherwise. So ja as well – whoever strikes first, laughs best."

"I'm going to have nightmares tonight," Apollo announced. It's a stated fact.

Klavier shrugged at that too. "You'll probably keep having them too. Welcome to the circus, folks. Not the best place to be if you've got acrophobia – 'cuz when we fall, we fall hard here. So it's best to push people off before they can grab you on their way down."

The man smiled, leaning forwards and putting the cup of tea on a bunch of boxes at the other end of the couch. And why were there so many boxes in the house anyway?

"That's kind of sad, huh? I actually do have acrophobia."

"All the better to push people off first," He answered, utterly deadpanned. Apollo looked fine though – and Klavier had been worried about the guy going all green bean on him. Apollo's technically his paperwork now. Until his brother returns, or until his brother mentions one way or another what he had planned out for this guy, Klavier's responsible for him.

Klavier's noble that way, oh yes he is. Why not look out for the rookie and keep him under his wing? That sounds noble, except under that is...

But he isn't, Klavier. Some would say in time he might come to be more useful than even you.

So this man is going to be more useful than he is, huh? Well, that hurt. That really hurt – having your own brother said that to your face. So Klavier will wait, and he'll see – exactly what about Apollo Justice, Lord of everything plain and unbecoming, gangly and pathetic – exactly what this man has that Klavier Gavin doesn't.

He smiled at Apollo. "Why don't you go to sleep, Apollo? You'll feel better when you wake up, ja?"

Apollo nodded weakly at him, yawning. He's tired. Klavier's tired too. He climbed back up and saluted the man jokingly. "Take as long as you need to recover, ja? When you're fine – we'll put you in the firm and get you working."

Knowing the man, it probably wouldn't be long. Take three days at the most.

"Okay."

"You know how to get to the prosecutor's office, right? Assuming you can cycle there."

He shot him an irritated – and slightly hurt – look. "I can take the bus, thank you very much. I go there all the time to get stuff done."

"Ja, if you say so."

Klavier nodded cordially at him, and Apollo returned the favour. They never shook hands. That's for friends.

He walks out, and then his mind is already spinning.

First layer, there is Furio Tigre. The man wants revenge, and by some ways, had managed to find out that they were the ones who had sank the building. That meant that he needs to be taken care of, him and that big head of his. Klavier doesn't feel like it now – he's tired and bushed – but tomorrow, when he wakes up, he'll be in the mood for it again. More hacking and sawing and shooting and biting the bullet. He'll wake up feeling utterly refreshed, and out for blood. He'll get Kristoph to finish the little kitty off, or better yet – do it himself.

Once he's done with that, he'll get some place to wash Apollo Justice off on. Get him settled in the firm, and then he'll polish the kid up on what not to do in say, a discussion with other bosses. For example, never reveal anything they're doing. Those kind of no-brainers. Then the only time they'll meet is through the courtroom, which suits Klavier just fine. That Justice kid is such a stick anyway.


[Insert comments here about how this is a lot of work. Some emo bullshit, and then I will swear never ever to upload another chapter, despite saying that two chapters ago.]