Chapter Text
The gunman was useless, and everyone knew it.
This wasn’t Apollo being his trademark judgy self, or the usual yin to Clay’s passionate yang. Clay wasn’t even here to balance him out, too busy attempting to restart his shitty car that he refuses to part with, so it was definitive that the masked man robbing the bank was pathetic.
When Apollo begrudgingly left his shared apartment with Clay to spend this terrible day running errands and painting the town blue with his depressing presence, he certainly was not expecting to play hero to a poor girl being threatened from behind the counter.
Her nametag claimed ‘Juniper’—he hoped she appreciated his sacrifice. Or, at the very least, gain massive amounts of good karma.
Though, Apollo had to admit he looked pretty spineless a few moments ago, having been face-down on the cold marble floor of the bank that was under siege by the, evidently stupid, robber. When he saw the guy attempt to shove wads of cash into what was clearly a cheap bin bag, he had to roll his eyes. This was planned out terribly. Apollo almost wanted to give the guy advice, solely to hurry him up.
A harsh whisper in the back of his mind reminding him of dragons, yielding, and dead-beat dads made him get off his ass and act. As well as Juniper’s terrified cry—which was followed by a squeaky yelp, a stuttering exclamation, and a frightened shriek. All which came from Apollo, of course. It was never written in his script to be a suave saviour.
“Who’s squeaking?” The gunman exclaimed, somehow robotically, turning his head slightly in the direction of Apollo, who grimaced at the sight. The guy wasn’t intimidating in the slightest, but his gun definitely was.
Curse Apollo’s lack of improv talent—he couldn’t think of a cool fake name in time. “Er-um-it’s Apollo?”
“Well, er-um-Apollo, shut up.” And, as an afterthought, “I’ve got a gun.” The thief informed, as if the weapon was not the main star of this rising shit-show.
It must’ve been his mask muffling his voice, but Apollo couldn’t help but think the guy was speaking through a distorted translator. If anything, the weird machine-man sounded rather reluctant to use his weapon but Apollo’s not about to start psychoanalysing. Judging from the glare behind the goggles, the dude’s probably surprised someone is ballsy enough to talk to him. Or that stupid.
“I can see that quite clearly, thanks. Um. You’re holding me up right now and my car is in a towing area, and I don’t want a parking fee, ha-ha. Relatable, right? Seeing as you so clearly hate finances too. So, mind hurrying this up?” Apollo rambled.
He didn’t know why he was talking. He couldn’t drive, and Clay would likely get in a car chase off a cliff before giving up his junk on wheels.
The atmosphere was a tense fraying rope begging to snap, and the grand foyer felt smaller than before. The four walls were trapping Apollo in. He heard a mocking snort to the right of him and shifted his eyes toward a fellow hostage crouched behind a gaudy maroon couch, with purple hair styled into sharp antennas.
It seemed that experimental cowlick styles weren’t as rare as he thought they were. Good to know.
He frowned in her direction, to which she shrugged with a mean smile, and then pointed towards the front desk with her bony finger.
Which lead to his current predicament, staring down the barrel of a pistol wielded by an utter moron in camouflage.
Camouflage? Seriously?
The guy’s in a posh bank in LA, not the Amazon Rainforest. Was he expecting a jungle terrain? And the rest of the outfit… Apollo wouldn’t be surprised if his biggest crime was in fashion choices rather than hostage-taking and attempted murder.
Why was everyone around today so eccentric?
Juniper hurriedly returned to giving him money, quicker than before. The goggle-man must’ve threatened something, but Apollo couldn’t make out anything.
Frozen in fear, or panic, or mere mental malfunction, all Apollo could think about was the shameless erotica he was holding in his sheer plastic bag and how embarrassing it would be to die clutching the gay lawyer fantasy Clay dared him to buy.
Phoenix Wright: Ace Attorney Chronicles.
The bullshit fiction romanticising the dullest profession to exist, tricking the gullible youth of the 21st century that you can find passion and adventure at a 9-5 desk job consumed by paperwork and assholes. Apollo scoffed at the blatant coping mechanisms for virgin corporate slaves.
He didn’t know why this was what his mind chose to fixate on when in close quarters with death. Apollo’s far-fetched dreams of becoming a lawyer were squandered ages ago, fallen victim to extortionate tuition fees and simple bad luck. Who would place their hope in the aggressive, hopeless orphan whose first language wasn’t even English?
Not even that, but the Phoenix Wright series was, in the nicest words possible, utter dogshit.
From what Apollo knows from social media and Clay (which are not the most reliable sources, but still), the writing leaves a lot to be desired, though the fans loved it anyway. Plot holes were common craters that the main character would frequently fall through and somehow survive. The author must be allergic to killing off characters. Ironic, since there seemed to be only one crime that existed in the series—murder. And horrid but sexy prosecutors that couldn’t help falling in love with the MC. How original.
Off in the distance, lights of blue and red flashed alongside sirens but Apollo couldn’t look away from the gun.
Someone must’ve alerted the police. Great. More authoritarian enforcement.
Why did Apollo’s life have to revolve around this? Not even an astronaut-in-training best friend could untether his red string of fate with law.
Stupid law and stupid lawyers. And stupid Phoenix Wright.
These thoughts turned out to be his last. What a loser way to go.
Apollo would’ve preferred to enter the Twilight Realm in guns and blazing glory. Returning to Khur’ain with a militia, rescuing Dhurke and Yuty from the evil queen’s clutches, and restoring peace with his 6ft tall body and rippling pairs of abs.
But fate was never kind to tiny Justice.
In only a few shallow moments, the gunman snatched his derelict bin bag and raced to the exit, clumsily hitting Apollo along the way. The two collided in an ugly heap on the floor, just as the windows were smashed rather carelessly.
Apollo thought bank robberies were treated with more caution, but the police being incompetent was not a shock to him.
Slipping out from the robber’s pocket was a comically big red button that screamed ‘DO NOT PRESS’ but Apollo wasn’t focused on that. He was busy trying to avoid being squashed to focus on that. Or where the gun was.
Apollo’s heartbeat quickened in panic.
Where’s the gun? Holy Mother, have I been shot—and I just don’t know it? Is this adrenaline, like what happens in action movies? Fuck, am I a Marvel cliché?
Just as the machine-man got off him, Apollo’s hurriedly scanned for the gun or any injury on his person. His eyes, that were usually so perceptive, were not helpful in the slightest—they were fogged by tears that Apollo refused to shed. The overstimulating presence of the police’s yelling and a familiar feminine laugh and drumming footsteps running away did not help.
So, he had to resort to the next best sense—touch.
Which resulted in him accidentally pressing the comical big red button that screamed ‘DO NOT PRESS’. Because Apollo Justice had zero luck in the cruel poker game of life.
The quaint click was barely audible, but the implications of what Apollo did were confirmed by the loud, almost excited scream from Google Translate himself, exclaiming from the arms of the police force.
“He did it! This place is gonna—!”
And then Apollo Justice died. From a massive bomb threat that he triggered. A tragedy of his own doing.
It was a quick death, at least. The last thing he saw were books falling out of his flimsy plastic bag. Phoenix Wright’s dumb face on the cover was shouting at him, his finger pointing in Apollo’s direction. It felt as if he and his goofy face and his spiky hair were laughing at him, despite the clear ‘Objection!’ speech bubble. And then it all went black.
Apollo Justice’s last minutes were felt confused and lonely. His last sense to leave was sound. He heard chaos from all corners. Dogs howling and car honks, people screaming and glass shattering, orders from police commanders, helpless cries from… Clay? Apollo couldn’t even recognise anguish from his only friend.
This end was pretty par for the course. An awful conclusion to an awful start, so much so that Apollo was almost relieved. The irony of his death occurring on April 20th was the icing on his crumbled cookie. All he had to do was let go, and he’d be at peace…
------------------------
…If only his annoying alarm would shut up.
Apollo groaned in agitation. He was being bombarded with the carnage of waking up. The quiet hum of a ceiling fan and the subtle rustling of his bed covers was all he could hear now. He opened his eyes and moved his hand to reach for his phone and—
Quickly shot up. His head throbbed like anything—not from being bombed—but from waking up so suddenly.
Was he not dead? He didn’t expect to open his eyes, let alone see his bedroom so vividly.
Was this the Twilight Realm? Apollo wasn’t sceptical about its existence, mostly pessimistic, but this couldn’t be it. It would be twisted for the Holy Mother to conjure his heaven in the form of his cheap rented apartment.
What the fuck?
Turning his head slowly, Apollo acknowledged that it was almost exactly as he left it this morning—tidy apart from random scraps of paper surrounding his bin from failed attempts of throwing them in. His door was ajar, which was odd since he slept with his door shut at all times, and hooked onto his doorknob was a loud red suit and obnoxious teal tie, but that was all he deemed suspicious.
…What the fuck?
Apollo finally silenced his phone alarm and shuffled to sit on the edge of his bed. The heels of his palm dug into his eyeballs as he winced due to his throbbing headache. Even the simple act of moving felt uncanny. He moved to slap himself instead. It usually worked when he was in minor crisis.
The sound of palm hitting cheek did nothing to help him. Only gave him an embarrassingly red mark on sensitive skin.
Apollo tapped his cracked phone screen to find more answers, only to find more questions as he gaped at the date.
April 20th, 2026!? Five years from now—what sort of disfigured Groundhog Day is this? I hate that movie. Wow, I’m 23… and still here. Yikes.
Apollo was no neuroscientist, but he knew this couldn’t be some weird fever dream or a pain-induced coma. And the date of 4/20 will never release its tight grip on him, for better or for worse.
His eyes darted around nervously, but Apollo had no choice but to stand up and walk towards his bathroom mirror, dreading another horrible surprise. Maybe his older self grew a third nipple or experienced early male pattern balding.
But reality was a sledgehammer that was shoved unkindly up his naïve ass, for the true surprise was worse.
Somehow, he grew shorter. Of course, genetics would make a cruel exception for him.
… I give up.
Apollo grumbled out of the bathroom to peek into the narrow hallway, confirming there was no one at home. He assumed Clay must’ve left for the Space Centre and scowled at the reminder that Clay had his shit together in this bizarre universe whilst he was, most likely, unemployed. Why else would someone be home in their pyjamas at 9:30 AM on a Monday?
Eventually unlocking his phone after cursing himself for 5 minutes, he was bombarded with missed call notifications. From a ‘Mr Gavin’.
Apollo flinched. That didn’t sound good.
Apollo didn’t recognise the name, but he also didn’t recognise anything else. It seemed only his signature cowlicks stayed with him so, out of pure desperation, he called the number back, his hands visibly shaking. It only took 3 rhythmic tones for the call to be picked up.
“Apollo Justice?” A suave, elegant voice was heard from the opposite end. He sounded disappointed in Apollo already. Already off to a great start.
Apollo heaved a deep sigh, afraid that he would speak and only moans of despair would tumble out. This was his first interaction with a human being since whatever happened. His voice was raspy but not exactly Chords of Steel. “Mr Gavin?”
“Oh, so it is you. I was surprised that you had the gall to call me back and not instantly apologise for your lateness. How unlike you. Well, I will only ask you once, Mr Justice. Where are you?”
Apollo shivered. He could hear the latent aggression in the passive tone. It was clear to Apollo that this ‘Mr Gavin’ was pissed off, disappointed, most likely his boss, and a snarky bitch.
A bad combo for angsty teenage Apollo. But Apollo had too many questions, and too little answers, so he swallowed his pride and acted coy, hoping his bad acting skills couldn’t be communicated audibly. Apollo had to stay calm for once, instead of flying off the handle, as Clay would phrase it.
“I’m unsure, Mr Gavin. It appears I’m… lost. Yes, I’m lost. Can you send me the address of where I need to be?” Apollo replied, maintaining peak professionalism. He only hoped that this was in character for himself, but he could already tell that his boss probably knew very little about him—and only because he was too insignificant to demand respect.
“You are lost? I find that hard to believe. Not once have you ever found yourself unfamiliar with the courthouse.”
Apollo’s face fell.
Courthouse? Fuck, please tell me I’m a janitor, or a lunch lady…
Mr Gavin carried on, oblivious to Apollo’s crisis, “I understand if you are nervous, but this is worrisome. Let’s hope that this absent-mindedness isn’t reflected when defending today—my faith isn’t one so easily earned. I’ll send you the location, but if I don’t see you in front of me in 20 minutes… well, that won’t happen. See you soon, Apollo.”
Bitch-boss hung up. Okay, so Apollo clearly didn’t make the cut of Heaven. Defending? Apollo as a defence attorney was a scary thought. He knew nothing about the law except for how corrupt it was, no qualifications except for first aid training and random retail experience, and no knowledge of anything that occurred within 5 years. Weird time travelling aside, who even was his client?
Apollo’s mattress, sunken and messy, had never looked so tempting. What he wouldn’t give to return to the floor of the bank. But Mr Gavin scared him to no end. And so did unemployment. And the harsh reminder that he had 20 minutes to get to the courthouse.
He left his boss’ message unread and ran to the shower, grabbing his suit on the way, now understanding its purpose. He thanked his (future? Past?) self and began getting ready, still disoriented, but at least he had a purpose. And maybe this was his purgatory mission that would lead to the sweet release of permanent death.
He was also not fully convinced this was real. He was taking this surprisingly well, but Apollo knew he would freak out later. Now, he had dinner plans with court.
Whatever happens, happens, as Clay would phrase it. He was doing this, and Apollo Justice was going to do it mediocre at best.