Chapter Text
"I take it my phone was under surveillance, after all."
"Obviously. Still, it didn't help us much, as the two of you apparently had some kind of code to communicate. Well played, by the way. A shame your trick ended up forcing me to use you like this to get him out of hiding."
"So you were behind the assassination attempt."
"I may or may not have been involved, and I may or may not have provided the sniper. A disappointing one at that, I'm ashamed to say. But no matter - he'll have his occasion to make up for the mistake today. He should be settling on the roof of the building right across the road as we speak."
Blackquill clenches his jaw, but he doesn't turn to look out of the window. He knows that trying to see the sniper from where he stands would be useless, and he doesn't want to take his eyes off that man for one moment. There might be an opening, he thinks, there must be an opening, a moment of distraction. And once he can seize that moment...!
"Why, there is no need to glare at me like that. You should thank me, if anything. I'm doing both of you a favor, all things considered."
Blackquill scoffs. "You have some nerve, I'll give you that," he says, still glaring death at the man sitting on his office's couch. He about as tall as he is, but lankier, with slicked-back dark hair barely shot through with gray on the temples. He seems to be in his early fifties, Blackquill thinks, but it's hard to tell much else about him. "Murdering someone hardly counts as a favor."
The man - Smith, as he calls himself - gives a low chuckle. His attitude is friendly, unsettingly so, but no matter how laid back he looks and sounds: the gun stays pointed at him all the time, and his thumb never leaves the remote's button.
"I'm not murdering anyone. There is no one to murder. If there ever was anyone to murder, then his blood is on your own hands."
"You're raving."
"Am I?" the man asks, tilting his head on one side. "You don't seem to realize that his undoing is your work. You first painted a target on his back nine years ago, prosecutor Blackquill. When you seized that sample of his voice and had it analyzed to get a psych profile out of it. An exposed spy is as good as dead, my friend. It's simple as that. With such evidence in your hands, the very life of the one you then called Phantom was on the line. You held proof that needed to disappear. Had that proof never existed... well, you can imagine all too well how many things would never have happened. And, of course, you put him in danger the moment you confronted him. The moment you exposed him, and tore that mask off his head."
Blackquill lets out a noise that comes very close to a snarl. "Am I to apologize for doing my duty as a prosecutor?" he asks. Truth be told, the one thing he truly regrets is ever involving Metis Cykes. He had not known, then, that the Phantom knew of the sample of his voice he had seized; he couldn't imagine what he was putting into motion, what danger he'd expose his mentor to.
Smith shakes his head. "Oh, no. Not at all. As I said before, to each their role. It was your job to go after him. There is no blaming you for that. But it put the Phantom in danger, and that is a fact. Had you not held onto that profile for so long, he wouldn't have needed to keep Fulbright's mask up for so long he forgot being someone else. That is another fact. Although..." he paused, and gives a smile that seems almost bitter. "... I do have a share of blame, I suppose. I should have realized he had gone on too long in that role. I should have known he may wind up trapped in it; I should have put a stop to it and have him called back for recalibration."
"Recalibration," Blackquill finds himself repeating, his face twisted in a scowl. It reminds me of how his sister would talk of the robots she built. "You speak as though he's some kind of instrument."
"That's what he was. And he was perfect, let me tell you, before you got in the picture," Smith replies, and for just a moment Blackquill thinks he just detected a hint of anger in his voice. But then the man smiles again, and he's left to wonder if he imagined it. "He's a broken instrument now. That is why I'm not murdering anyone, can't you see? I'm merely pulling a plug. Exorcising a ghost. As I said, I'm doing both of you a favor. Oh, don't look at me like that!" he adds with a laugh when Blackquill glares death at him. "I'm speaking the truth. You're only refusing to see it, prosecutor Blackquill. I would have expected better from you. You have a pet hawk, don't you?"
Taka.
Realization causes Blackquill's heart to seemingly skip a beat. Taka always shows at his window at nine thirty to be fed. What time is it now? Will he get here before Fool Bright reaches the meeting point he was forced to give him? If he does, then perhaps there is a chance yet.
A chance.
Letting none of such thoughts show, Blackquill speaks slowly. "What of him?"
"Such a wonderful animal. I wonder, have you trained him yourself? Have you ever marveled at the strength of his wings and the keenness of his eyes, the swift dive and the sharp talons?"
"Tch. Are you trying to be poetic now?"
A laugh. "Shouldn't quit my day job, huh?"
"Oh, you should."
"Hah! After this deed is done, perhaps," Smith says with another chuckle, then he seems to sober up. "Now, for the sake of argument, imagine that your hawk lost all of this. Imagine his wings were clipped his beak sealed shut. Imagine someone took out his eyes and claws. What would you do, then?"
Blackquill's gaze darkens. "I'd find whoever did a such thing and cut them down without mercy."
"I'm sure you would. But then, what of your hawk? Would you let him live like that, Blackquill? A weak and broken thing that may as well think he's one of the rats he used to hunt? Or would you put him out of his misery?"
The comparison makes something clench in Blackquill's stomach. "Your comparison is nowhere as fitting as you seem to think. Fool- he is not as broken as you make him out to be," he says, but there is an uncomfortable thought in the back of his mind that neither he's unbroken. He clearly is - he lost his own personality and self, so how could he not be? He's trapped in a mindset that is not his own, in the mind of a dead man, everything that may have been him gone.
He remembers nothing. He made Fulbright's personality, memories and beliefs his own. If that's not what makes a person, what does?
Would I choose death, if faced with such a fate?
The thought chills him to the bone, but he has no time to dwell in it further - because the next moment something reaches his ears, a flapping noise he knows well... and he knows he has to act fast, that this may be his only chance to stop this madman.
He looks back at Smith and, finally, he smirks. "... A compelling argument, I'll give you that," he says, reaching up to rub his chin. "However, there is something you have overlooked."
Smith raises an eyebrow. "And that something is...?"
"Taka," Blackquill says, and then he moves quickly, he has to move quickly, and everything becomes a blur. He spits out the feather that's been hanging from his lips, pushes the fingers he lifted to rub his chin into his mouth, and lets out a high whistle. The very same moment his other hand cuts through the hair, swift and sure.
He has one split of a second to enjoy the surprised expression on Smith's face, the way the remote control flies out of his hand to hit the floor behind him with a clatter; one split of a second to smirk as the gun moves to aim towards him. Then Taka bursts in through the open window like lighting of shrieking fury, straight at him like he's aiming for prey, and that's when Blackquill knows he's won his gamble.
There is a cry and a gunshot, but the bullet embeds itself on the wall a good distance away from Blackquill. Taka is hanging on his face, talons cutting deep in his flesh, blood blinding him, and he cannot shoot him without putting a bullet in his own head.
He's lost.
Blackquill slices through the air once again, and the gun is torn from Smith's grasp the very moment his office's door bursts open and three officers run in, clearly called in by the scream and the gunshot. There is no time for Blackquill to wonder whether or not these three officers in particular can be trusted: he can only hope as much.
"Restrain this man!" he barks, and to his utter relief the three men are on Smith as one. As Taka lets go of him to fly on his shoulder, Blackquill goes to pick up the remote that, as far as he was told, would activate a bomb hidden in the Chief Prosecutor's office. He stares at it for one moment before putting it in his pocket, not quite trusting anyone with it just yet, and turns. Smith has been overpowered now, three men holding him face down on the floor, and it pleases Blackquill immensely to see that his face is a ruin of blood, one eye shut with a deep gash across it and one ear almost entirely severed.
"Taka doesn't take it kindly when someone threatens him," he says, walking before him. Smith looks up at him with the only eye he has left, all pretense of friendliness gone, nothing but hatred showing on his ruined face... but then his eye shifts to look behind Blackquill, up towards the window, and the hateful expression changes into something that makes Blackquill's blood run cold.
Triumph.
Blackquill turns, and there - on a balcony of the building right across the square where the fountain is - he can see something poking out, something he immediately recognizes as a rifle's barrel, pointed downwards where he knows the fountain is. It is the sniper, and he's taking aim.
There is some sudden commotion behind him, one of the officers lets out a curse and another yells - "What the hell did he just eat?" - but Blackquill is deaf to all of it. He runs to the window, an arm pointing straight at the sniper, and shouts.
"TAKA!"
Taka shoots out of the window as an arrow, aiming straight for the sniper, and Blackquill's eyes turn down to the fountain, where he told Fool Bright to show himself. He can find him easily, even though he had enough sense to pull the sweater's hood up over his head, because he's looking around and it's so painfully obvious that he's looking for someone. The hood may have kept the sniper from shooting right away, but his behavior gives him away so utterly that there is no chance he'll hesitate for much longer.
But Blackquill doesn't mean to give him one more moment, and neither does Taka. He flies straight at the gun's barrel, and Blackquill can't hold back a smile when he sees him tearing it out of the sniper's grasp and flying off, the rifle clutched in his talons. It is only then that he breathes again... and it's only then that the noises and words behind him seem to reach his ears once more.
Chocking noises, and an officer's dismayed words.
"I... I think he's dying! Go call and ambulance!"
Blackquill turns to see that the officers have stepped away from Smith, who's now convulsing on the floor, froth coming out of his mouth to mix with the blood. Suddenly, something he heard as he ran to the window makes sense.
What the hell did he just eat?
Poison, he thinks. Cowards cannot stand being captured alive. But he shall not let him die thinking he has won.
Blackquill scoffs, crouches before him and grasps his hair to force him to look up at him. The man's only eye is widened, and he can tell he's still aware, that he can still understand him.
Good.
"You have failed," Blackquill says, a vicious satisfaction making his voice sound like a growl. "He lives."
Smith's features twist in what Blackquill recognizes as fury, veins in his neck bulging as he tries to open his mouth and speak, but Blackquill cares not for anything he may have to say. He lets go of Smith's hair, lets his head drop back on the floor, and looks at the officers.
"Call an ambulance if you wish. It shall make no difference. Send someone to lock down the building right across the square - there is a sniper hiding in it," he says, and rushes out of his office without waiting for a reply, without listening to their questions. There is someone else now who needs an explanation, and to be brought to safety. There is no time for him to explain... nor to realize that, as he rushes out of the building, he's being followed.
"Fool Bright!"
Prosecutor's Blackquill's voice is, by far, the most welcomed sound that's ever reaches his ears.
Blood still rushing in his ears and panting from effort - he ran all the way from the Wright Anything Agency, telling himself over and over that Blackquill would explain him everything, that he would explain everyone that he didn't want to escape, that he just did what he had to do - Bobby immediately turns to see Blackquill running up to him.
He smiles, his confusion and worry giving way to relief. "Prosecutor Black-" he starts, only to trail off when Blackquill reaches to grab him and pulls him close, fingers digging in his shoulders almost hard enough to hurt. Almost, because surprise is too great for Bobby to focus on anything else. "Sir...?"
"You're alright," Blackquill mutters, his own breathing ragged as though he's come running as well, and he pulls back - but his hands stay on Bobby's shoulders. "We have to move away from here. This is a set-up. Follow me," he adds, and grabs his sleeve. He starts walking quickly, pulling him along as Bobby's head still reels in confusion. A few passer-byes are giving them curious glances, but they don't seem to hold their interest for much longer than a moment.
"A... a set-up? But you said-"
"I baited you into it. A sniper was meant to assassinate you where you stood."
Bobby finds himself unable to keep walking, his legs and inside turning into lead, confusion giving way to dread. Is that what the call has been about? Has prosecutor Blackquill knowingly baited him into a trap? "Sir...?" he calls out, his voice shaking, but then Blackquill turns to him and, for the first time, he seems unable to hold his gaze.
"... A man ambushed me in my office. He would have set off a bomb had I refused to make that phone call to get your were he wanted. I... do apologize. But now I need you to follow me," he adds, looking back at him once again. "That man and the sniper were both neutralized, but there may be more of them around. We need to move away from here."
Some of the dread in Bobby's chest melts away. Of course Blackquill set him up because he was forced to – he would have never baited him into a trap otherwise, would have never tried to have him murdered. All of a sudden, he's ashamed he even thought it possible for one moment.
"I... sure," Bobby says, and resumes following Blackquill, who's heading off the square and, he assumes, back towards the Wright Anything Agency. "I, uh... I had to take down Dick, too. I mean, Detective Gumshoe. I gave him a pretty strong jolt, and... I think I'm in trouble now," he adds. His throat tightens a bit at the thought of what he's done to him, of the raw pain in his expression when he snarled at him not to use Bobby Fulbright's voice, of the horror in his eyes when he made him believe he had murdered both Cykes and Justice.
He believed that right away. He thinks me a monster.
I am a monster. I am a murderer.
"Don't concern yourself. I shall explain everything. Are Athena and Justice-dono alright?"
"Yes! I didn't hurt them, I swear!"
"Hmph. No need to fret. I do believe you."
"You're the only one who does," Bobby chokes out, and Blackquill suddenly stops walking, turning to look at him. Bobby only realizes he's weeping now that he tries to look back at him and his vision is too blurry to make out his features. He blinks, and something slides down his face.
"... Fool Bright. Calm yourself. I told you I'm going to explain everything-"
"I am a murderer, and people are still getting hurt because of me," Bobby cuts him off, his voice shaking. There is a dull pain in his chest, where his heart should be, like the throb of an infected wound. "It's never going to end - this is going to happen again. I'm... I'm more trouble than I'm worth."
For a moment, Blackquill says nothing: he simply stares down at him. When he speaks, his voice is slow and deliberate. "Detective Fulbright would not agree."
"Detective Fulbright is dead. I killed him. I killed so many people, and-"
"And what, Fool Bright?" Blackquill snaps, reaching to grasp his shoulders and startling Bobby into silence. "You murdered Detective Fulbright. Do not dare presume you were also able to murder what he stood for. Do you expect me to give up on you? Balderdash. You should know me better than that."
Bobby opens his mouth, but he finds himself unable to speak for a few moments. The ache in his chest is still there, but it doesn't feel so oppressive now. Blackquill's words, harsh as they may be, did not fail to help him in his bleakest moment... and they're not failing to help now.
I will not leave you alone to face what comes next.
Do you think I'm in the habit of wasting my time on lost causes, Fool Bright?
If you cannot trust your own grip on reality, trust mine. I am here. I'm not going anywhere.
Bobby manages to smile, swallowing the lump in his throat. "... Thank you, sir. I-" he starts, but it is a a sentence he'll never get to finish, because the next moment he catches sight of something behind Blackquill - someone, walking up to them, eyes fixed on Blackquill's back. A man wearing a rather unremarkable jogging clothes, a hand digging under the sweatshirt... and with a face that Bobby recognizes in a split of a second.
The nurse from the institution, the one who took him outside, the one who set him up for the sniper to strike down.
Realization kicks in the very same moment the man pulls something black and gleaming, the moment he points it against Blackquill's unguarded back with a scowl, and Bobby acts out without thinking. There is no time to think - there is only enough time to grasp Blackquill's shoulders and to spin, pushing him out of the way and shielding him in the same motion.
The surprised gasp that leaves Blackquill is covered by a loud bang. There are other noises afterwards – a yell, the sounds of a struggle, another scream – but Bobby hears none of it. His legs give in and then there is nothing he can hear or feel, nothing but warm wetness spreading across his back, Blackquill's arms around him and his voice, calling out the closest thing he can recall ever having to a name of his own.
Fool Bright.
"Fool Bright…!"
As Fool Bright falls and he sinks on the ground with him, holding tight, Blackquill can hardly bring himself to care what is going on around them. Someone tried to shoot him, is all he knows, and Fool Bright got in the way. He's barely aware of the fact Detective Gumshoe is suddenly there, charging up at the shooter, yanking the gun off his grasp and wrestling him to the ground.
He should stand, part of him knows. He should help him.
He can't bring himself to do either. There is nothing that matters now but himself and Fool Bright, his weight of him and the warmth of blood soaking through his clothes and pooling on the ground. Blackquill puts an arm around his shoulders to hold his upper body up, to let him rest his head against his shoulder. Fool Bright's breathing is coming in short gasps, his eyes shut.
"Fool Bright!" Blackquill calls out again, his voice louder, the sense of unreality fading to make way to the harsh, cold realization that the goddamn dotard got himself shot in his place.
With a shudder, Fool Bright opens his eyes and looks up at him. His gaze seems unfocused at first, then he squints at him and, finally, he smiles.
"You're alright," he murmurs.
"Fool," Blackquill breathes, and Fool Bright gives a choking noise that might be an attempt at a chuckle. It makes something in Blackquill's chest ache.
"That... that is my name, I guess."
"You dotard. What have I ever said or done to indicate had any wish to be in your debt?"
Another smile, a line of blood coming out of the corner of his mouth and down his chin. "But you're not, sir. We're... we're far from even."
"Prosecutor Blackquill!"
A shadow falls over them, and Blackquill looks up. Detective Gumshoe is standing before them, hair disheveled and breathing heavy, a taser still in his hand; a few steps behind him, the man who tried to shoot him lies unconscious and handcuffed on the ground.
Good. Blackquill looks forward to introducing him to his blade.
"Call an ambulance," Blackquill says, his voice firmer than he'd have expected it to sound. "Now. Then take that man in custody and don't let him out of your sight for a minute. Don't let anyone else in charge of watching him. Am I clear?"
Detective Gumshoe looks down at Fool Bright, who from his part shuts his eyes and turns away, hiding his face against Blackquill's coat.
"Sir, he-"
"Everything he did today was by my order," Blackquill cuts him off, causing Gumshoe to blink. "I'll explain everything in due time. Now call an ambulance."
He does, thankfully, before Blackquill snaps and cuts him down. As he steps away and pulls out a cell phone to call for an ambulance Blackquill looks back down at Fool Bright. With his eyes shut he looks everything like a corpse, and the pool of dark blood widening beneath them is enough to bring Blackquill's mind back by nine years, to the day he walked in his mentor's office to be greeted by a very similar sight.
He knew then, even before before lifting his eyes to see the corpse, that his mentor was gone. And he knows now that Fool Bright isn't long for this world, either.
Would you let him live like that, Blackquill? A weak and broken thing that may as well think he's one of the rats he used to hunt? Or would you put him out of his misery?
He is not weak. Not anymore.
"... Fool Bright," he calls out quietly. With a trembling breath, he opens his eyes again to look up at him. A hand reaches up to grasp Blackquill's coat, and he finds himself grasping it with his free one, holding tight.
"Sir?"
"An ambulance is coming. Stay with me," he says. The words sound empty to his own ears. Fool Bright doesn't even have enough strength left to grip his hand back.
Fool Bright nods. His skin is pale as wax, and the blood coming out of his mouth seems almost black by contrast. "Of course. I... I've got to explain Miss Cykes and Justice everything. Got to... to apologize. I'm just... I'm really tired, sir."
You're not tired. You're dying.
The ache in his chest turning into something else - the painful, tight grip of grief - Blackquill nods. "... Rest, then. I'll explain everything to the others. You have nothing to concern yourself about," he says, and ignores the lump in his throat, ignores the strain he can't quite keep out of his voice.
"You... heh... won't get mad if I use you as a pillow again, just... just for a little while?" Fool Bright asks somewhat sheepishly, and Blackquill shakes his head.
"No. I will not," is the answer, then, "Detective Fulbright would be ridiculously proud of you now," he adds, and in that one moment he truly feels like there is no higher praise he could possibly bestow upon anyone.
Fool Bright looks up at him, surprise plain on his face, then he smiles. It's dazed and distant, so very unlike Fulbright's, but it's still a smile. Blackquill finds himself holding him tighter, as though it could do anything to keep him there, to hold onto his soul as he's holding onto his body.
"... Thank you, prosecutor Blackquill. I'll... I'll try to help more, when I get better," he says. He seems unaware of the blood trickling down from the corner of his mouth, unaware that his time in this world is measured in minutes, perhaps seconds.
"Of course you will," Blackquill says. "We'll finish what we started."
The grip on Blackquill's hand tightens for just a moment. "Of course," he repeats. "In... In justice we trust," he adds, and it's the last thing he'll ever say. Something in his eyes dims, and the smile grows weaker, although it doesn't entirely leave his face. He leans his head against Blackquill's shoulder and closes his eyes.
Fool Bright's last breath is the content sigh of a man coming home after a long journey.
Listening to the grief in Simon's heart is like listening to one long, continuous scream.
There are pain and regret, fury and guilt, barely mitigated by some measure of pride when he told her how the Phantom - Fool Bright, that's how Simon still calls him - shielded him with his own body. Detective Fulbright would be proud, Athena knows, and so is Simon.
"He died a man," was all Simon could manage to tell her when she was finally filled in with what happened and made it to him. He was still covered with blood, some distance away from where the body lay, covered by a white sheet that was quickly turning red. Later, Detective Gumshoe would tell her that it took some time for the ambulance's staff to make him let go of the body.
He was in shock, she could tell, and he looked so young all of a sudden, like he had been when her mother had been murdered. Athena had thrown her arms around him and held tight, uncaring of the blood, and Simon had held her back. He had said nothing, he didn't need to: his heart screamed his grief clearly enough.
Even now, after three days, the agony is still there - dulled to something more bearable, but there. Athena can hear it clearly as they stand before a grave that has no name on it - only an identification number the police assigned to him, and a date of death.
It is a painful reminder of the fact they know next to nothing about whoever he used to be before he became trapped in Bobby Fulbright's role. It's not too distant from Fulbright's own grave, either. A coincidence, and a sad one at that.
"Thank you for coming," Simon finally speaks, breaking the silence. It is a cold day, gray and windy, and it rained all morning. It is horribly fitting.
"... I had to," Athena says, and reaches to take his hand, giving it a squeeze. His fingers are cold and limp. "I... I'm really sorry. If only we didn't let him trick us so easily, we could have stopped him. He'd have never made it there, and-"
Simon's hand finally squeezes back her own, causing her to trail off. "Do not blame yourself. He may have been a dolt, but he received training. Neither you nor Justice had a chance to keep him from doing as I said. The blame is mine. I made that phone call."
"You had no choice."
"I did. I chose whose life I would put in danger," Simon says, his gaze dark and fixed on the grave. "Was it the right choice? I believe it was. I know that so did he; had the Chief Prosecutor or I died that day, I am certain he would have blamed himself for the rest of his life. But it is still a choice I made, and it will remain mine to live with."
Athena nods, and for a time neither of them says anything. Then, as some rain begins to fall again, Simon lets go of her hand. He stares at the grave for several long moments, lowering his head in what looks like a bow, and finally turns.
"... It is high time I go back. The squealing rat who attempted to shoot me in the back should be ready for interrogation now," he says, a coldness in his voice that tells her clearly that he'll have no mercy on him, that he'll stop at nothing to have answers.
"Right. I'll... call you one of these days, alright? We never got to finish those noodles," Athena says, and Simon smiles. It's tired and slightly forced, but still a smile.
"I do look forward to it," is all he says, and he walks away without another word.
Athena watches his retreating back for several moments, listens to the voice of his heart growing weaker and weaker the farther away he walks, and the anger in it tells her clearly that the man he's set to interrogate will remember this day for however long he'll live. She knows that Simon is determined to make justice, to utterly destroy the organization the Phantom worked for, more now than ever. He owes it to too many people - to her mother and himself, to Clay Terran, to Detective Fulbright.
He owes it to the man he still refers to as Fool Bright, too. He promised him he'd end what they started, she knows; if not aloud, she's certain he did as much in his heart.
And Simon Blackquill never goes back on a promise.
With a long sigh, Athena turns back to the nameless grave and gives a weak smile. She reaches up for a salute and speaks softly, her voice barely audible to her own ears.
"In justice we trust."
