Chapter Text
Clay Terran is Apollo Justice’s best friend. In fact, he’s not just Apollo’s best (and only) friend, he’s a confidante, a commiserator, and the closest thing Apollo has to family that lives on the same continent as him. This is the way it is, the way it always has been, and barring any tragic unforeseen circumstances, the way it always will be.
With that being said.
Some days, Apollo wants to kill him.
“Where are we even going?” he asks for what feels like the thousandth time, as the bus comes to a sudden stop, almost tipping him head first into the lap of the grandmother that he gave up his seat for earlier. He gives her an awkward nod, and hears Clay laugh behind him, because Clay had his growth spurt last summer and can reach the straps above them. Apollo, who has spent the year tiptoeing the first few inches past five foot, is both envious and irritated. Mostly irritated.
“It’s a surpriseeeee,” Clay sings, flipping through something on his phone. “If I told you it would ruin the moment, wouldn’t it?”
Apollo rolls his eyes. “I don’t trust your surprises after the Blackquill incident.”
Clay grimaces in return. “I saw her the other day, she gave me the dirtiest look. But I will win her back, trust me Pollo. All it takes is a little machine-fixing magic. I have this plan to…” he trails off, seemingly catching himself from a monologue. “That’s not the point anyway! My point is, that this surprise will be good, and there will be no sprinkler systems set off, and no sad waterlogged robots.”
“And no feuds over planetary classifications?” asks Apollo, who has heard this speech before.
“I never said that,” he shifts his weight as the bus lurches back into motion, “You’ll enjoy it. Trust me.”
Apollo does, is the thing. That’s how he somehow ended up on the slow bus downtown during what the news is already calling an April heatwave, with sweat trickling down his spine and leaving his binder feeling uncomfortably itchy. Sometimes it forms into slight ruches against his skin, and he’s beginning to suspect that it’s just slightly too loose, but it does the job it’s meant to, and it’s not like he can afford a new one anyway. You don’t exactly get a guidebook for these things when you start to transition, do you? Apollo is just glad that he can finally shrug off his school jacket in hot weather without feeling miserable for the rest of the day.
“What on earth could be so great that you’re willing to swap a week’s worth of classroom duty for an afternoon off anyway?” asks Apollo. Clay hates classroom duty, but usually when his turn comes around he’ll do it as quickly and sloppily as possible before disappearing, so Apollo can’t imagine what he’d consider picking up a whole four days more work for.
“Stop trying to get hints.” A particularly loud notification chimes from his phone, and Clay grins, typing out a response. “I already said you’ll see.”
“I don’t know what I’m meant to be seeing.” The bus stops again, and Apollo shifts away to let a gaggle of middle schoolers slip by. Clay doesn’t move, grip on the strap as steady as the rock he was named for. “Aren’t we getting off here?”
“Nope,” he pops the p, looking pleased with himself.
“But this is the change for GYAXA.” Apollo could probably do the route in his sleep these days.
“What makes you think we’re going to GYAXA?”
Apollo rolls his eyes. “Because we always go to GYAXA. All the employees know us by name. Starbuck keeps joking about getting you your own jacket.”
Clay grins widely, teeth large and white, “That would be so cool.”
“You wouldn’t even take it off to wash it. Your dad would go nuts.”
“Let him,” Clay sighs, “But my jacket will await me another day.”
“Huh.” Apollo is going to be honest, he has no idea where else they even could be going. The space center is the only place they ever hang out, and that’s mostly because Starbuck gave them both annual passes for New Years, so they don’t even have to pay entry anymore. If nothing else it beats the mall or the skate park when you’re as awkward and nerdy as Apollo and Clay are (though their awkwardness tends to go in different directions). And the employees there really do treat Clay as one of their own, and extend that hospitality to Apollo as a slightly less space-obsessed hanger-on.
Apollo focuses his attention on the scenery passing by the window. As far as he can tell, they’re headed downtown, further into LA center than they ever usually go, away from familiar ground. The stops pass by quickly, until eventually, seemingly at random, Clay grabs his arm.
“This is it, let’s go!”
It’s as though Clay has wings on his feet, and Apollo recognizes the enthusiasm as the same energy Clay gets discussing quasars and microwave background radiation and allows himself be dragged off the bus and along the street without protest.
“Are we going to little Tokyo?” he guesses, trying to place himself on the admittedly fuzzy mental map he has of this part of the city.
“Good guess. But no!”
“Then-” They turn a corner, and Apollo realizes suddenly where they are, the building standing before them imposing and marbled, a symbol of power so potent that it appears in Apollo’s dreams on a regular basis despite the fact he’s never actually been inside. “Wait. This is the District Courthouse.”
Clay waves his arms, gesturing up at the golden scales embossed on the crest above the doorway. “Ta-da!”
“The surprise is the courthouse?”
“Don’t be obtuse,” Clay rolls his eyes, “The surprise is obviously inside the courthouse.”
“That’s not obvious at all.”
“Well, it would be, if you let me finish!” Clay spins around, hands on his hips. “Happy early birthday Apollo!”
“My birthday isn’t for another four months.”
“I know, but I have my reasons, okay?” He hooks one arm around Apollo’s, dragging him to the entrance. “Come on.”
“Fine,” Apollo says. If nothing else it’ll be cool to actually go on a tour of the building. Just think, if he really tries hard, maybe one day he could even work here! It’s strange, and almost a little terrifying to consider.
It’s comfortably cool inside, the air con obviously working overtime, and Apollo sighs in relief as a breeze hits the back of his neck. Clay doesn’t even bother with the reception desk, walking past a cluster of construction workers and making a beeline towards the noticeboard to one side.
“What are you even looking for?” Apollo asks, shuffling up behind him.
“There’s a list of which trials are being held,” Clay replies, running his finger down the sheet. He stops at one in particular, pointing sharply, “I knew it! It’s your favorite lawyer today, right?”
“I don’t have a favorite lawyer, I’m not a child.” Oh holy mother. He knows exactly who Clay is talking about.
Clay’s voice is skeptical, but breezy. “Fine then. The lawyer you never shut up about.” He bats his eyelashes. “The Wright guy. Ha! Your cool law crush.”
“He is not.”
“Could’ve fooled me.”
“I respect him on a professional level.” Apollo crosses his arms. “It doesn’t matter anyway. The trial started this morning. Wright’s really good, he’d have finished by now.”
“Nuh-uh.” Clay shakes his head so vigorously that his hat shifts until it’s tilted at an angle. He holds up his phone, and wiggles it from side to side. “You see, I was looking at the GYAXA group chat earlier-”
“Why are you even in the GYAXA group chat?” Apollo interrupts.
“Don’t worry about that!” Clay says, “Anyway! Sol was complaining to Dr. Cykes that her weird student lawyer kid – you know, the one with the intense stare – was moping around the center all afternoon, and apparently that’s because a pipe burst in the courthouse this morning and all the trials in the courthouse got suuuuuuper backed up. So all the afternoon trials got pushed to tomorrow, which means all the morning trials…” He points at Apollo, clicking his fingers like he’s just performed a magic trick.
“Were pushed to this afternoon,” Apollo finishes, keeping his voice steady, even though inside a wellspring of excitement has sprung into existence.
“Yup,” Clay grins, “And that’s why it’s worth a week of classroom duty. You said this guy takes like four cases a year, right? When are you ever going to get another chance?”
The truth is, he’s not.
“…Clay,” he says, slowly, voice a little choked, “Th-”
“No time!” says Clay, loudly enough that several people turn to stare. He drags Apollo towards reception, somehow getting the both of them visitor’s badges that allow them to sit in the audience for the trial in a single extended burst of energy. Apollo is used to seeing hurricane Clay in action, but it’s unusual that it’s not focused on something a million miles away, instead intent on dragging him bodily towards the courtroom.
The room itself is even grander than he’s seen on the trial tapes he’s watched, the high quality wood and echoing footsteps on the floor somehow seeming bizarrely too real after so long viewing on low quality recordings.
The noise in the room itself is a hubbub, and the gallery is more than full, Clay and Apollo having to elbow their way to the front.
“Wow,” says Clay, “I didn’t realize there were so many other law nerds.”
“Mr. Wright takes some very high profile cases,” Apollo says, a little testily, “And this one had a lot of press coverage.”
Though that doesn’t explain the group in purple with all the signs… maybe they’re supporting the defendant?
The bailiff signals for quiet, and Apollo finds himself leaning over the rail as he spots movement on the other side of the court.
And then, a splash of color, a bright blue, on the defendants side. Phoenix Wright takes his place on the bench, looking confident, glancing back at his client in a reassuring manner. Apollo almost can’t believe he’s a real person, close enough that Apollo could leap over the rail and say hello. Obviously, he wouldn’t, that’s a total breach of court etiquette! But he could! He has so much to ask. How does he always succeed when all hope seems lost in court? How does he stay cool under pressure? What hairspray does he use and can Apollo borrow some because his spikes have been looking very limp recently?
It’s not a lawyer crush. He reiterates to himself. It’s professional appreciation.
He forces himself to take in the rest of the court, if only for the sake of a full understanding of what’s going to happen. The defendant is being led in, dressed in a bright pink, and looking rather serious considering he has a cape on. On the other side of the courtroom is a youngish man who seems to have missed the memo about court attire. Apollo allows himself a contemptuous glare at the lack of tie, and obnoxious sunglasses. The purple-clad members of the audience seem to appreciate it though, waving and nudging each other. Eventually he glances up, blowing them an open palm kiss, and the resulting bubble of noise is almost unbearable.
Clay nudges his shoulder. “That’s your lawyer?” he hisses incredulously, “The blue one? He’s just some guy!”
Apollo turns the full force of a grade-3 Justice glare upon him. “He is not just some guy!”
Clay rolls his eyes, holding up his hands in a half surrender. “Look, you have Zak Gramarye – like the actual real Zak Gramarye that my dad watches on TV – over there,” he gestures, “And the prosecutor… I heard about this guy. He’s in a band, they wrote that song, you know?”
“I don’t know.”
“Don’t you ever listen to the radio?”
“When would I?” Apollo crosses his arms. “It’s not like I drive or anything.”
“They play it in shops. It’s a bop. It’s a banger, Apollo.”
“You know that I wear earplugs when I shop.”
“Are you allergic to pop culture?”
“It’s not a crime!”
The bailiff leans over towards them. “Silence during session.”
“Sorry, sir!” Apollo squeaks.
“All rise!” Comes the announcement. Apollo squints at the other side of the court. Is that the same judge? It is!
Showdown time.
Somehow, seeing a trial in person draws him in even quicker than reading the reports afterwards does. The prosecution is obnoxious, can’t stop preening about his stupid attractiveness and his stupid music and his annoying fans, but Apollo doesn’t doubt that Mr. Wright will cut him down to size soon enough, especially with how quickly he’s powering through the detective’s testimony.
“It’s quite simple your honor. The pistol only holds one bullet at a time,” says Wright.
“Oh that’s clever,” Apollo mutters under his breath, watching as the point is thrown back and forth, until the prosecutor… Gavin, Apollo should remember that, interrupts.
“No... This party's just getting started,” he says with a grin. And somewhere, deep in the nerves around Apollo’s eye, something twitches. He shakes his head, trying to shake the feeling that he just saw double for a moment. “And I haven't proven anything yet, beyond my good looks, and startling record sales.”
(And the fact that you’re the most insufferable person on the planet, but I’m sure that much is clear to anyone who ever meets you.)
The look on Wright’s face is almost relieved. “I bet he has some sort of really cunning plan now,” says Apollo under his breath.
“Oh shit, really?” Clay replies, “That’s cool, let’s go get snacks.”
“It’s a recess, not an intermission.”
“But everyone else is doing it,” Clay whines. Apollo rolls his eyes, getting up.
The lobby isn’t exactly crowded, but they have to wait to use the vending machine, nonetheless.
“You know, that was actually kind of exciting,” says Clay, hands in his pockets, “I can see why you’re interested.”
“It’s not about the excitement, it’s about the truth.”
“Yeah, but you are excited.”
Apollo grins. “It’s so cool.” He’s waving his hands without meaning to in his enthusiasm. “Did you see the way he went through the cross-examination! It’s like he had a second sense for when he needed to press further. And the discussion about the bullets… Every time there was a counter argument bought up he was just like… OBJECTION!” He points at Clay, who throws his head back in a laugh.
That last bit may have been louder than he intended. There are a few people staring at them now. Clay is still laughing, hand over his mouth like he’s trying to stop but can’t quite manage. “We’re going to get kicked out,” he says, “Hey, can you even work here if we get kicked out?”
“I don’t see why not,” says Apollo, “Mr. Wright was on trial for murder, and he’s fine.” He snaps his head back around. “Not that it matters anyway! We’re not going to get kicked out! Stop laughing.”
“Okay, okay, I’m sorry, I’ll stop.” Clay digs in his pockets for change. “The snacks here are so expensive.”
“It’s a monopoly,” Apollo points out, “Most people can’t just leave the courthouse.”
“Yeah. Like at school.” He squints at the labels. “What’s better, swiss rolls, jerky or hot dogs?”
“Jerky I guess. They all sound horrible.”
Clay presses at the buttons. “This is your future Apollo. I’ll be up there eating astronaut ice-cream and you’ll be in the courthouse with…” He grimaces. “Defendants fresh milk.”
“There’s no way the lawyers actually buy from here. Nobody with money would eat swiss rolls that looked like that.”
“Ew, no.” He grabs the packet, peeling it open. After a second he pauses, glancing up at Apollo. “We are going to do it, you know.”
“Do what?”
“Our dreams.” He waves a hand. “I’ll be in space, and you’ll be right here.” His eyes gleam like a promise. “I just know it. We’ll get there.”
Apollo doesn’t know if he can imagine it. It’s one thing to see Mr. Wright standing there in that bright shining suit, seeming so confident and so sure. It’s another thing to picture himself in the same place, behind that bench. How is he supposed to connect the two in his mind?
“Pollo.” Clay lets his hand land heavily on Apollo’s shoulder. “We’re fine, remember.”
“Yeah,” Apollo agrees, “Yeah! I’m Apollo Justice and I am fine!”
Somehow, the stares they get are even more judgmental this time.
“Wow, your voice training is definitely doing something,” says Clay, “But you’ve gotta hurry, yeah? I want to see your first case before I go.”
“Go as fast as you want,” Apollo declares, “I’ll be quicker.”
“Now that’s what I like to hear,” Clay says, taking a bit out of his jerky. He continues, mouth full, “I’ll be right there in the crowds, cheering you on.”
It’s bizarre how familiar the simple phrasing is, echoes of another court, and another conversation a long time ago.
~*~
When Apollo had been young and naïve and still believed everything he was told, he’d often followed Dhurke around, voice chirping like a bird, throwing out any and every thought that came to him.
“When you get rid of the DC act, I’ll come cheer you on in court.”
“Oh?” Dhurke’s voice is an amused rumble from above Apollo’s head, “Is that so?”
Apollo nods vigorously. “I’ll… I’ll be your co-counsel. And help you defend everyone and make sure they get fair trials. Once the DC act is gone.”
Dhurke adjusts his elbow slightly. “Try it like that,” he says, and Apollo tries to throw the punch he’s just been shown again. It comes out feeling depressingly weak. “You’re getting there,” he says in response to the outraged stamping that happens in response, “It’s about building up your muscles. Give it… hmm, ten years. You’ll be able to fight better than even Datz.”
“Datz is old,” Apollo mutters, moodily.
“Everyone’s old when you’re eight,” says Dhurke with a chuckle, “It’s break time, come on.”
“No, just once more. I can do it.” The stubborn expression settles on his face, but Dhurke’s eyes betray nothing but a distant fondness in return. “Show me again.”
“I’ll show you after we break.”
“But-!”
“Nope,” says Dhurke, reaching down to pick him up. Apollo flails to one side, and Dhurke pretends that he’s going to drop him, before laughing and adjusting his hold with a grunt. “We’re going to have food first,” he grimaces, “and you have to stop growing, I need at least one kid I can still carry.”
“It’s not my fault that Yuta’s lanky,” says Apollo, sulkily.
“I’m not lanky,” says the child in question, from where he’s perched on top of a haystack, “I’m graceful. Dad said so.” They’ve been hiding in the barn for two days now, while Datz, (somehow) the least obvious of them, scouts ahead. Apollo thinks the plan is to head into the mountains, but the adults of the group have kept tight-lipped. In the meantime, they’re stuck together, with nowhere to go other than the confines of the small space.
As such, Apollo has made the decision in the last twenty-four hours that Nahyuta is the worst.
Dhurke hands him an apple, and he bites into it viciously, glaring across at the haystack the whole time.
“Do you want me to show you?” says Nahyuta.
“Show me what?”
“How to punch properly. I know how to do it.”
Apollo scowls. “I know that you know,” he glances up, “It’s easy for you to learn stuff anyway. Because of your memory thing. It’s not fair.”
“It’s not my fault that I’m good at everything.”
“Children,” Dhurke warns, “I said, no more fighting.” He sits down heavily, next to Apollo, and for a second all that he can think is that the older man looks very tired.
“I will,” says Apollo.
“You will what?”
“I’m going to be your co-counsel. I’m going to be a defense attorney. Just like you.”
Dhurke raises an eyebrow. “Where is all of this coming from anyway?” His palm lies half uncurled on his lap, and almost absent-mindedly he traces one finger along the outline of a dragon, furious in its defiance.
“I was just thinking,” says Apollo, “that if everyone in the defiant dragons is training as much as we are, then we have to win soon, right? So I should start working out what to do next. And I want to make sure that the law is fair for everyone,” he nods, “so I’m going to become a lawyer and I can work with you!”
“I see.”
It’s a less enthusiastic answer than Apollo was hoping for. He tries again, just in case Dhurke misheard him the first time. “I just thought that if Yuta is really going to be a prosecutor-monk…” he trails off.
“Prosecutor-monk-butterfly-trainer,” says Nahyuta firmly, with all the confidence of a ten-year-old who has more books than friends.
“Yeah, that. If Nahyuta is busy prosecuting and monk-ing and training butterflies, then someone should help you and Datz take care of the office! And I could do that! I think it would be really fun, and I could learn all about interesting laws and… and…” Dhurke’s face is unwavering. “I just thought it was a good idea.”
“It…” Dhurke sighs, “It is a good idea. But-” He’s more hesitant than Apollo thinks he’s ever heard Dhurke be. “Repealing the DC act. It might take a while.”
“I can wait.”
“It might be dangerous.”
“I’m not afraid of danger.” Apollo sets his jaw. “I’ll fight them all! Watch me!”
“You would, wouldn’t you?” asks Dhurke, voice contemplative. Apollo doesn’t know what to make of the fact that his sharp eyes are watching Apollo’s face carefully. Even Yuta, on his perch above, is glancing between them, cataloguing this strange, serious version of their father. “Even if it put you in danger, you would fight for an old man’s cause. Even if…” his voice strains just a little, “if circumstances separated us, and you had to make your way without me.”
“I’d still fight for you! A dragon never yields!”
“A dragon never yields,” Nahyuta echoes the statement, softly, from where he’s sitting. Dhurke glances between them.
“You’re not dragons yet. You’re eight.” He holds up his palm, the distinguishing mark clear.
“We will be!” Apollo declares, “And then we’re going to fix the DC act, and I’ll be a lawyer, and we’ll work together in court. And Yuta can be there too,” he adds magnanimously, previous disagreement forgotten in the rush of having back-up.
“Be there?” Nahyuta says. “Obviously if I’m there I’ll be winning my case.”
“I’ll kick your ass Yuta.”
“You’d have to reach it first.”
Apollo throws the apple core at him, hitting him in the chest with a dull thud. “Reached you then,” he replies.
“I said, no more fighting, kids,” says Dhurke, standing up to hover like a great blue-clad mountain between them. The apple core flung back in return hits him on the shoulder, splattering pulp over his jacket.
“Sorry. That was meant for Apollo,” Nahyuta says, jaw set stubbornly.
Dhurke roars in laughter, head thrown back, his normal self once again. “In that case, this is what those in the business call collateral damage. Maybe wait for your food fights until I’m out of the firing line, okay?”
“…Fine,” Nahyuta agrees, crossing his arms.
“Alright then.” Dhurke strides back to the center of the room. “Come on, let’s try that stance one more time.”
In the end that’s all he gets from those years. The memories of a childhood hiding in barns and basements and abandoned houses in the mountains, and the ability to throw a pretty decent punch. He never does get that tattoo inked along the delicate skin of his palm, he never fights with the dragons and he never sees Dhurke in court.
He’s half sure he dreamed it sometimes, because he doesn’t even have a photo, just a tale of rebellions and princesses and a brother who was as gentle as he was sharp. Clay knows some of it, but Apollo is the only one who knows it all, the stuff about the ghosts, about the wanted posters, about the way that sometimes Nahyuta’s hair or scarf would move in strange shapes against the air, and Apollo can’t be sure if it was just the faded imagination of a nine-year-old or the real, true magic that he grew up believing in.
Maybe he’s making it all up. There’s not much news coming out of Khura’in these days, but the dragons have barely been mentioned for years now. Apollo doesn’t know if no news is good news or not.
(Sometimes he goes online and tries to work out how to tune into Khurainese radio. It’s an exercise that rarely ends in anything but frustration, and even when he dreams these days, the Dhurke, Nahyuta and Datz of his reminiscences speak to him in English.)
You can’t trust your memories at that age, anyway. Apollo only has half-formed impressions. He’s almost convinced that by the time he’s an adult, he won’t even remember the crisp air of the mountains, or the echo of the dahmalan. Maybe that’s for the best. There’s no use dwelling on a past that rejected him. Better the future, always the future, him and Clay and a dream to help the people who need it the most.
~*~
“Looking a little pale there, Polly.”
“It’s nothing,” he says, “I don’t know, maybe I have a migraine coming on.”
“Oh, shit. You want to leave?”
“No!” he exclaims. Clay offers him one end of the jerky packet, and he takes some, chewing it contemplatively. They should probably go back to the courtroom, fifteen minutes is hardly a long recess.
Something spikes at the corner of his eye, and he winces, gaze flickering to a point in his peripheral vision. For a brief second, a burst of color appears and disappears moving past the doorway, a person shaped blur with dark brown hair and a cape.
“Did you see that?” he asks, and Clay looks up from where he’s glaring intently at his jerky.
“See what?” he asks, glancing in the same direction as Apollo. None of the other people in the lobby seem to have noticed anything either, still milling around. “Pollo, you know my vision isn’t as good as yours. Which sucks actually, because I have twenty-twenty. I got it tested when I learnt it’s a requirement for the astronaut program.”
“You told me that before, remember?”
Clay ignores him, continuing along the pre-determined track that his brain seems to follow whenever the words space, astronaut or GYAXA come up in conversation, “Did you know that your eyeballs change shape while you’re in space? That’s so cool, right?”
“Sounds painful.” Maybe if his eyeballs were a different shape he wouldn’t get as many migraines. Or he would get twice as many. That seems more likely with Apollo’s luck.
(That almost looked like the defendant. But far too small to be him. Probably a fan. Though you would think a fan would be running towards the courtroom…)
Speaking of which.
“Alright, round two,” says Clay, settling back in his seat, “hey, if your lawyer makes a good point do I have to cheer for him? Or is this like a football match and I can choose who I want to support based on who’s winning?”
“You’re the only person I know who does that with football,” says Apollo, “and Mr Wright always wins his cases. That’s why he’s so good.”
“Always?”
“Well, there was that one time… but that was really messy, so it doesn’t really count.”
“Well, in that case, it would be more interesting if he lost,” says Clay contemplatively.
“Clay!” Apollo hisses.
“I’m joking, I’m joking.”
The witness is another one of the magicians, though something about him seems… off. Apollo supposes that you probably have to be pretty weird to be a professional magician in the first place.
“Was he really trying to blackmail his students into killing him?” asks Clay, “That’s so fucked up.”
“It is a murder trial,” Apollo replies, in a low voice. Privately, he can’t help but agree. He tries to imagine how it would feel if Mr. Starbuck did something like that with Clay, but the image slips away, feeling like an impossibility for what he knows of him.
In the courtroom below, Mr. Wright is peeling back Valant’s testimony, revealing the dangerous truth hiding beneath.
“Ballistic markings?” Asks Clay, curiously.
“They’re like the fingerprints of a gun,” Apollo murmurs back, “It means they can tell which gun fired the bullet.”
“Objection!” calls Prosecutor Gavin, hurriedly, and spouts off some explanation about how he hadn’t done his job properly and didn’t even bother checking if there was another pistol that could match the rifling marks.
“Was probably too busy doing his stupid fucking fancy hair or something...” Apollo mutters under his breath.
“Dude,” Clay replies.
“What?”
“You don’t like him, I get it. You don’t have to keep going on about his hair.”
“I’m not going on!”
“This is like the fifth time already. And I think he’s kind of cute.” He gives a short laugh at Apollo’s resultant expression, and the bailiff glances over at them with a frown.
Apollo glares back. “He’s obnoxious,” he mutters lowly.
Clay raises an eyebrow. “You know I’m used to obnoxious.”
Apollo very strongly resists the urge to elbow him for the implications of that statement.
Wright points out an inconsistency, the color of the IV bag. Valant, on the stand, is visibly shaken. “This contradiction can only mean one thing,” Wright says, tapping on the picture with one hand. Apollo recognizes that tone, recognizes that pose, bouncing up and down slightly in his seat and leaning forward over the rail.
“Careful,” Clay mutters, pulling him back from the precarious position, but his eyes are fixed on the scene too.
“Objection!” comes the cry from the other side of the court. If glares could kill, then Apollo would be the one who was on trial in that moment. Klavier Gavin smiles, his expression a little plastic, and Apollo feels a twitch at the corner of his eye. “…And to think. You almost had me,” he laughs a little to himself, “I see your true colors now, ‘ace attorney’ Phoenix Wright.”
“What is he even talking about?” says Clay.
“I don’t know,” replies Apollo, quietly.
Gavin seems to be trying, but Wright picks him apart almost effortlessly, pointing out that the IV could be refilled, implicating Valant right there on the stand.
“He’s getting there,” Apollo says, “He’s going to do a turnabout, just you watch.”
“Klavier looks pretty pressed,” Clay agrees, looking down to the rock star, who is notably silent for the first time in the trial. For the sake of his own sanity, Apollo decides not to ask when it became Klavier. So long as Clay doesn’t move to the other side of the gallery and start hanging out with the Gavinners’ fans.
Wright on the other hand, seems relieved, leaning back from the bench.
“I think he’s aiming for more investigation,” Apollo says.
“Like a second day?”
Apollo frowns. “I hope not. I want to see this play out.”
Nevertheless, the judge brings his hammer down. “I see there are no objections, court is adjourn-”
“Objection.” The voice is clear in the half silence of the court, and it takes Apollo a moment to realize who had spoken. At his bench, Klavier Gavin seems to have snapped back into the persona, hands in his pockets, a grin across his face.
“What now?” Apollo mutters to himself.
Gavin seems to be needling Wright, though for what purpose, Apollo can’t be sure. If the man could deal with Prosecutor Von Karma (both of them), Apollo has to believe that he has a thick skin. Maybe Gavin is just too self-centered to realize that his half-jabs aren’t taking any effect. Indeed, Wright seems to hardly know what Gavin is even talking about, and the prosecutor changes gears instead, speaking to the judge.
“Proof, Herr Judge. I have another way to prove my case. ...With evidence, no less.” He holds up an evidence bag. “This... is the victim Magnifi Gramarye's diary.”
A diary written right before his death.
“That’s weird,” says Apollo.
“What is?”
“I mean… if he had decisive evidence why wait until now? Evidence is more reliable than testimony. He should have presented this at the start.”
“Maybe he’s just doing it for the drama,” Clay says, with a shrug, “I’d believe that.”
At the opposing bench, Phoenix Wright straightens up from where he’s been piecing through his own files, meeting Gavin’s eyes confidently. “I’m left with no choice but to show my own evidence,” he says, nodding.
“It’s happening!” Apollo hisses, grabbing onto Clay’s arm and bouncing on the balls of his feet, “Watch this, watch this Clay, he’s going to do a turnabout. I just know it!”
“You have some evidence that overturns this diary?” the judge asks, seemingly as engrossed in the events as Apollo is.
Gavin’s voice is as quiet as it has ever been when he speaks, “Herr Wright. It’s not too late to rethink this and avoid more… embarrassment.”
Something… is wrong with Gavin. It’s taken Apollo a moment to realize what it is, why his eye keeps being drawn back to him, the one person in this courtroom that he’s decidedly not interested in looking at. Apollo winces, trying to work out what is throwing him off.
“It’s his fingers,” he says slowly, watching Klavier. All the poses he throws, the way he dances behind the bench like he’s on stage, and that’s what Apollo is seeing, the tiny movement. “It’s like he’s playing an instrument.” It’s strange though, it doesn’t look like his air-guitaring earlier, more controlled, and more compact, like he’s playing something smaller. A violin maybe? Is air violin a thing?
“Really?” says Clay, squinting, “I didn’t even see that. Is it important?”
“No, I just…” How is he supposed to say that it sends shivers over the back of his neck, raising goose bumps along his arms? What is Gavin even trying to do here?
The judge frowns, seemingly focused on the defense’s side of the courtroom. “Please show us this evidence, Mr. Wright!”
“Incidentally,” says Gavin, voice still sotto voce, “don't even think of showing us this diary I've just shown the court. Now that we've come this far, I hope you have something a little more... decisive.” He tilts his head up in challenge, projecting himself louder across the courtroom. “Show us evidence that proves the victim continued writing his diary!”
“Alright,” says Wright, “I’d be happy to.” He holds up a piece of paper in a plastic bag, presenting it to the judge, and then to the bailiff, who enters it into the record.
“Another diary page,” exhales Clay, “Where did he even get that?”
“Attorneys can conduct their own investigations,” says Apollo, in reply, “You can’t exactly trust the police to have the best interests of your client at heart, can you?”
Clay nods. “That’s proof then. For Wright’s hypothesis that Gramarye kept writing the diary.”
“And if he kept writing the diary then the defendant can’t have shot him,” Apollo replies, “that’s perfect.”
Valant starts objecting, rambling wildly in the manner of a man trapped, when a shout comes to interrupt him.
“Objection!” cries Klavier Gavin.
“Is he doing this again?” Apollo grumbles, “Just admit when you’re beaten.”
Gavin’s fingers play those hidden notes, dancing along the top of the bench. “Finally,” he says, “you just couldn’t resist, could you, Herr Wright?”
Wright’s face is the very picture of confusion. “Resist what? Presenting solid evidence?”
“Herr Judge. Might I request we put the current cross-examination on hold? The prosecution would like to call a new witness.”
“What?” hisses Apollo, as the courtroom erupts into murmurs.
“Is that bad?” Clay asks.
Apollo spins to face him, gesturing wildly. “The evidence overturns-”
“B-but, Prosecutor Gavin. This evidence overturns the current witness’s testimony!” exclaims the judge.
“What he said!” Apollo says, shrinking at the look he gets from the bailiff.
“I ask only to put it on hold.” Gavin suddenly looks very young, his expression hopeful. “Please. My new witness has a very, very important piece of testimony to give. Five minutes. No more. I promise, your honor.”
“What is he playing at?” Apollo asks, quiet enough that nobody but him could hear it.
The judge frowns, “Well, if you put it that way… Mr. Wright, what’s your take on this?”
Wright seems just as bemused, but he flips through the files in front of him once more before glancing up again. “Judging from his enthusiasm, we’ll have to hear this new testimony sooner or later anyway. So it might as well be sooner.” He shrugs, throwing a glance at Gavin, Gavin who is staring right back, something indefinable in his eyes.
“Then, though this is highly, highly irregular, we will put the current cross-examination on hold.” The judge slams his gavel down. “The witness may step down. Prosecutor Gavin! Please bring this surprise witness to the courtroom.”
Gavin nods. “A moment in your chambers, please, your honor.”
“As you wish,” says the judge, though confusion is evident in his voice, and steps away from the bench.
“Can they even do this?” asks Clay.
“I guess.” Apollo taps a finger against the bench, then realizes that he’s unconsciously imitating Gavin’s movements and forces himself to still. “I’ve never heard of anything like that happening though. Cross-examination is one of the strongest weapons a defense attorney has. It shouldn’t be interrupted without a very, very good reason.”
“Klavier seemed to think he had one,” Clay says.
Wright has approached his client in the defendant’s seat, and seems to be talking to him in a low voice. Though Apollo can’t tell what he’s saying, he sees the man shrug, shoulders hitching under that familiar blue suit. Shadi Enigmar doesn’t seem especially fazed, and after a particularly long sentence from Wright, he just laughs, clapping Wright heavily on the shoulder. Wright grimaces in return, seeming… frustrated maybe. Definitely not in agreement with whatever Enigmar is saying.
After a long few minutes pause, the judge and Gavin re-enter the courtroom, and Wright looks up, a look of concern sliding over his face for the briefest of moments before he’s back to his familiar smile. The judge gestures a bailiff over.
“Excuse me,” says the judge, “we are asking that all members of the public leave the courtroom for this testimony. Please proceed in an orderly fashion to the lobby. The bailiffs will allow you re-entry when we are finished.”
There’s a riot of noise from the gallery, most notably from the Gavinners’ fans who seem to have taken the announcement as a personal attack.
What is he even saying? Apollo is taking this as a personal attack.
“The public has a right to view trials,” he grumbles on their way out, shuffling past the bailiff. Clay makes a non-committal noise in response. “There had better be a good explanation for this.”
“Wonder what Klavier said to the judge,” says Clay.
Gavin…
Apollo stops at the door, a rock in the stream of people. He turns, half expecting that he’s imagining things again, that this is just more Khurainese magic, existing in his dreams but fading before his fingertips.
Gavin is standing at the bench, watching Wright still with narrowed eyes. Along the bench his fingers continue to dance along those invisible frets, and then suddenly there’s a twitch to his wrist, and it’s like someone has taken hold of Apollo’s brain and squeezed.
He sees double, the room turning into a shimmering blur of colors around him, because all he can see is the flex of tendons where hand meets wrist, the curl of a knuckle, chipped black nail polish and it hurts, it hurts, holy mother help please.
“Pollo?” asks Clay, reaching out and taking him by the shoulders. It’s only a second later that Apollo realizes that the solid grip is the only thing that stopped the floor from sliding away entirely from under him. “Whoa, Pollo, don’t pass out on me.”
“I won’t,” says Apollo, even though he’s still being pushed back and forth by the movement of the crowd around them. He forces his eyes to tear away from the courtroom, and the pressure at the front of his skull reduces. In front of him, the world begins to softly blur back into focus, black and white and blue, and he would recognize Clay in any form.
After a second, Clay tucks his arm around Apollo, shielding him from the crowd around them. “Migraine?” he says.
Apollo considers denying it, but Clay knows him too well to buy it. “Yeah,” he admits, “I just need a moment.”
“Close your eyes, and I’ll walk you out,” Clay says, firmly.
He’s not going to take no for an answer when he’s in this mood, Apollo realizes. Clay never does when he’s worried about someone, whether it’s Apollo or his dad or Sol (though it’s usually Apollo, if he’s being honest). Apollo never has the heart to argue, so he complies, squeezing his eyes shut. The noise is still a little too much, but the darkness does help, just as it always does. He’s never been sure what exactly sets the migraines off, but large groups of people seem to make them worse. Clay has always speculated that it’s something to do with his eyesight, but as Apollo has pointed out, there’s no evidence for that. It’s usually way less acute than this, though.
Clay guides him out, arm a solid reassurance around his shoulders. “There’s a bench just behind you,” he says, and Apollo reaches out for it, sitting down gingerly. “Would a drink help?”
“I’m fine,” says Apollo, automatically. He hears the rustle of fabric as Clay sits down next to him. After a second he cracks open one eye, vision almost back to normal. “I just needed a second.”
Clay eyes him up. “If you’re sure.”
“I’m sure.” He opens his eyes again properly, blinking a little at the bright light. “It’s already mostly gone. My head doesn’t even hurt anymore.”
“Okay,” Clay mutters, “good, good. Hey, they’re not getting worse, are they?”
“What? No. This one just sucked.” Apollo straightens up a little. “I don’t know, I think Gavin just annoyed me that much.”
Clay leans back, with a laugh. “Okay, point taken. If it makes you feel better, I won’t think he’s cute anymore.”
“What does Mr. Rock Star Prosecutor even think he’s doing?” Apollo exclaims, loud enough that a couple of the Gavinners’ fans turn to send him dirty looks. He considers glaring back at them, and then remembers he’s trying to focus on not straining his eyes right now.
“It is weird, right?” says Clay, “I mean, I don’t know shit about law, but this seems weird.”
“I’ve never heard of this happening.” Apollo mulls it over. “It might be something confidential. Or that the witness is protected under the law somehow. Diplomacy, or age or… WITSEC. Or something.”
“I mean, I get ordered out all the time at GYAXA and we’re really good friends.”
“It’s almost as though they’re probably not supposed to allow a fifteen year old into high security areas.”
“They already have that other kid running around. Uh, you know the one. She comes and stares at us around corners and then runs away if I wave to her. Anyway, Director Cosmos thinks I’m funny. I’m basically their mascot.”
“There are already like a dozen mascots there.”
“But I’m the best one!” Clay says triumphantly, “and that’s why I get to sit in the meetings.”
“If you say so,” Apollo agrees out of habit. He glances up, and is surprised to see a flash of pink in his peripheral vision. It’s the kid again, slipping through a doorway in the corridor outside the lobby. Is she alone? There’s no way that’s allowed, right?
He gets to his feet, one hand on Clay’s shoulder.
“Everything okay?”
“Yeah, I just… did you see her that time?”
“Uh. See who?”
Apollo pushes through the crowd, headed out of the lobby. Maybe she’s lost. He already knows too much about that, what it is to be nine and misplaced and adrift in a world foreign to you. There has to be a parent looking for her, right? But maybe they’re in court, and haven’t realized yet. Either way, she shouldn’t be on her own here, that can’t be safe.
“Apollo?” asks Clay, trailing behind him, as Apollo emerges out into the corridor. There’s no sign of the girl in pink in either direction, even though the corridor doesn’t exactly have many spots to hide, and she’s probably visible from space in that get-up. It’s like she disappeared into thin air. “Pollo?”
“Huh,” he murmurs to himself.
Behind them the bailiff calls, “The gallery can return to the courtroom now.”
There the shuffling noise of a large crowd moving all at once behind them, and Clay glances back. “Are you okay to go back in? Because I know this was a gift and all, but we can leave anytime if you’re not feeling so good.”
“I already said I was fine,” Apollo replies, turning away, “and I want to see how this turns out.”
There’s a certain hush to the courtroom, an oppressive atmosphere that swirls in the air like smoke as they re-enter, and the conversations which had been taking place amongst members of the gallery die a strangled death as the mood sinks in. On a cursory glance, the courtroom seems no different, Wright and Gavin stand at their benches, the judge at his and the defendant sitting in his own seat, shoulders a heavy drawn line under the cape. But there’s something in their faces, something about the way that Wright is clutching hold of the edge of the bench between finger and thumb like it’s about to be ripped away from him. Something about how Gavin is avoiding looking at anyone. Something about the judge’s solemn demeanor.
The gavel strikes against wood, and Apollo sees a slight flinch in Wright’s face, as his dark eyes snap from the bench to the judge.
“Court is in session,” the judge says, slowly, “Let it be stated for the public record, that this court received testimony from a special witness who, under agreement with the court, will remain anonymous. This witness has been verified and is believed to be acting in good faith.” He takes a deep breath, half a sigh. “Through this testimony, the court has been made aware that forged evidence was received in this trial.”
A murmuring goes through the crowd, and there’s a long pause as the judge seems to wait for it to die down.
“That’s… not good,” says Clay, quietly. Apollo can’t bring himself to reply. Gavin is still, and it’s impossible to tell for sure behind the tinted glass, but his gaze seems to be fixed upon the grain of the bench. On the other side of the court, Wright’s hands are white-knuckled, still clinging onto the wood in front of him like a lifeline.
“This is a serious accusation for us to hear about one of our counsel, so I am going to request that Mr. Phoenix Wright steps down from the defense with immediate effect, pending a hearing on the matter.”
A second round of whispering sweeps the room. At his bench, Wright is still, unmoving, not even a twitch, like the waves of noise are just washing over him, through him.
Clay’s voice is horrified, low by Apollo’s ear. “Does that mean-?”
“They’ll have his badge for this,” says a voice somewhere behind them, “mark my words, they will.”
“Mr. Wright,” says the judge, “can you confirm for the court that you are rescinding yourself from the case?”
It’s a long moment before Wright says anything. “What happens if I don’t?” he asks, eventually.
The judge frowns, “Then you will have to be removed from it by the court.”
Wright says nothing, still and silent at the bench. He looks adrift, a spot of blue amongst dark wood and wrought iron.
“Mr. Wright,” the judge repeats.
Wright opens his mouth, but it’s another second before he seems to find the air to breathe. “I rescind myself,” he says finally, “on the condition that my client is not held accountable for any crimes that may be attributable to me.”
The judge nods. “There was no evidence of Mr. Enigmar’s involvement.” When he speaks again his voice is softer than it has been before. “I am sorry to have to take these measures, Mr. Wright.”
Wright doesn’t reply, even as the buzz of the court rises again, the gallery having forgotten their previous silence, words pouring out and Apollo can barely hear because he’s too busy seeing.
And marooned in the bitter sea that is a courtroom, Phoenix Wright, Ace Attorney, Turnabout Terror, stands alone, and doesn’t say a word.