Author's Note: This story is set after Dual Destinies, and was mostly written before I played "Spirit of Justice". There aren't any SoJ spoilers, though it is consistent with the game (with a little timeline wibbling).

Chapter One

"Objection!" Klavier grins, his fist connecting with the wall behind him. "Herr Forehead, are you truly trying to insinuate that the witness is the true murderer?"

They're close to the end of the case—close to the truth. Apollo can practically taste it, and it takes an effort of will not to return Klavier's grin. Why does the man have to enjoy sparring with him so much, and be so obvious about it? "The witness knows things that only the murderer should know. Permission to continue the cross-examination, Your Honor."

"While I'm still trying to determine exactly where all this is going, it does seem that the defense has a point." The judge gives Apollo a small nod. "Please continue, defense. Though if it turns out this was all a wild tortoise chase—"

"Your Honor, we've moved well beyond the tortoise, and there's no chasing needed." Apollo crosses his arms in front of his chest, staring hard at the witness. "Now, Ms. Sin, would you care to repeat what you said about the victim's condominium?"

"Certainly." Assa Sin offers Apollo a smile that could probably be used to melt steel. "I said that it was a shame the victim died now, before he had a chance to see the improvements he had been making come to fruition."

"Improvements that he had been doing himself, that weren't approved by the board." Apollo draws everyone's attention to the list of approved renovations, from which Poin Less' name is conspicuously absent. "As has been previously established Mr. Less had no contact with anyone aside from his neighbor's turtle during the forty-eight hours before his demise—the time during which the renovations began. So tell me, Ms. Sin, how did you know about them?"

For a moment Apollo thinks the woman is going to leap across the intervening distance between them and attempt to kill him. Then her eyes flick to Klavier, and she crosses her arms in front of her chest. "I want to plea bargain, Mr. Rock-Star. And I've got a lot to bargain with."

"Do you not think the time for bargaining is past, Ms. Sin?" Klavier's voice is calm, quiet, but Apollo can see the glint of victory in his eyes.

"Not when I get to explain what I know." Flipping her bangs away from her eyes, Assa glance between Bass, the defendant, and Klavier. "You protect me, give me a fair deal, and you get it all."

"Assa—" Bass' voice is a clear threat, rumbling through the courtroom.

"Because you're right, kid." Assa glares defiance at Apollo. "I killed the guy, but I did it on Bass' orders, for a pretty chunk of change."

Bass' face is bright red as he stands up, his hands clenching into fists, and Apollo is glad there's a bailiff standing right next to him. "If you continue along this line, young lady—"

"You've already bungled this beyond saving, Mab." Assa glances at Klavier and rolls her eyes, as though being exasperated with your crime-boss is a sentiment they can share. "Just cut your losses and walk away."

"Defense!" Mab turns his furious face to Apollo. "Fix this, at once. These accusations are—"

Apollo's right hand touches his bracelet, and he gives his head a little shake. "True. These accusations are all true. They fit with the facts, and Ms. Sin believes that every word she's uttering now is honest. I told you I would get to the truth, Mr. Bass, and I did."

The judge makes a considering noise in the back of his throat. "Does that mean that the defense rests?"

Apollo glances at Mab, glad that Athena is working her own case this week and isn't going to have to share the mob boss' ire. "The defense rests."

"The prosecution also rests, your honor." Klavier's hands settle at his belt. "And requests that the witness be taken into police custody for immediate interrogation."

"Indeed, that would seem to be the wisest course of action. Bailiff!" The judge waits for one of the bailiffs to handcuff and lead Sin away before continuing. "Now I am in the incredibly awkward position of declaring that the defendant is not guilty of the murder, per se, but is guilty of several other crimes, including conspiracy to murder, illegal money-lending, and the running of illegal gambling sites. The court declares that the defendant will remain in police custody while the prosecution draws up a complete list of charges and evidence is gathered from Ms. Sin. We will resume these proceedings tomorrow."

The gavel comes down, swift and sure, and the gallery erupts into chaos as Bass is handcuffed and led into the defendant lobby.

Apollo sighs, following his client, knowing that the ensuing conversation isn't going to be pretty.

Bass seems to have regained some of his control, and he studies Apollo with cold, dead blue eyes as Apollo comes to stand before him. "I'm disappointed in you, boy. You told me that you could win, no matter what."

"You told me that you weren't guilty of the murder." Apollo touches his bracelet again, remembering the conversation that led to his being here—the conversation and the strange text message from Klavier, but Bass likely doesn't know about that. "I told you that as long as that was true I could ensure you weren't convicted of it. And I've done just that."

"Clever, cheeky little boy." Bass straightens to his full height, giving a disdainful sniff. "You're going to regret this."

"I never regret getting to the truth." Apollo isn't going to be intimidated by someone in handcuffs. "If you want me to continue on as your lawyer, I will. I'll ensure that the charges against you are fair for the crimes committed, and do my best to ensure you get a reasonable sentence."

"A reasonable sentence?" Bass snorts. "They hang people for crimes like the ones you just told the judge I've committed."

"Well, then, maybe you shouldn't have committed them." Apollo's stomach still does a strange little flip-flop as he thinks about this man—a man he's spent forty-eight hours working for—being legally murdered. "I would try to get leniency within the bounds permitted by the law. But I won't lie or hide the truth, not for you or anyone else. And if that's what you want, you should hire a different lawyer."

The smile that Bass dons is an ugly, brutal expression. "We'll see, Mr. Justice. I'll be in touch over the next few hours."

The smile the bailiff offers Apollo is a little more genuine, almost apologetic, and the older man touches Bass' arm. "Come along, now. We need to be getting back to the detention center in case Prosecutor Gavin wants to talk with you again."

Bass doesn't say anything more as he's led away, and Apollo turns his attention to organizing his briefcase, making sure his notes on evidence are properly arranged. The last thing he wants is to lose paperwork and damage what looks to be a very exciting case in Klavier's future.

He's not terribly surprised when he straightens up to find himself staring into much nicer blue eyes, Klavier Gavin having decided to come slum it with the defense for a few minutes.

Apollo glares up at the taller man. "I quote, 'You very much want to take this case, Herr Forehead.'"

"Well, it was a very exciting case, wasn't it?" Klavier doesn't look the least bit apologetic, his grin somehow managing to widen further as he studies Apollo. "You would have hated to miss it."

"Oh, yes, I very much would have hated missing the opportunity to get involved with a mob family, again." Apollo growls out his response. "You couldn't have given me a head's up about that?"

"I could have, but that might have been seen as colluding with the defense." Klavier straightens, his smile fading away, leaving an earnest, eager expression in its place. "I thought, when I began investigating this, that I had an opportunity to catch Bass. He is not a nice man, Herr Justice. He is moving in on other groups' established territories, increasing violence, and is by far the most ruthless of the crime lords currently operating. But in order to ensure the trial went the way I needed it to go, the defense had to be someone decent. Someone who would try to get to the truth, rather than simply try to do as Bass requested."

"Some sap like me." Apollo sighs, rubbing at the back of his neck. "Do you think you've gotten what you need?"

Klavier shrugs. "I am much closer to it than I was before, and between what Sin will give me and the transcripts of this trial... I think I will be able to put him away, ja."

"Good." Apollo can feel his face heat. "I mean—well, it's good when you actually convict the right person."

"I thank you for the staggering vote of confidence, Vielfrass." Klavier is smiling again, though, despite what was likely an insult in German. "I do try to accuse only those who are actually guilty of crimes, you know."

"Could have fooled me." Apollo crosses his arms in front of his chest. "But I suppose we didn't do too badly today."

"Not badly at all." Klavier's words are soft, and he flashes his honest smile once more.

"So... was that all you wanted to say?" Apollo resists the urge to scuff one foot against the carpet. No matter what Klavier may say and imply, Apollo is neither a child nor an idiot.

"Most of what I wanted to say." Klavier shrugs. "I hated to ruin your perfect record, but I am glad you understand the reasons why."

"You haven't ruined anything." Apollo straightens. "My client said he wasn't guilty of murder, and I proved just that. I still have a perfect record."

"That... well, whatever helps you sleep better at night." Klavier gestures over his shoulder, toward the door. "I also wanted to see if you wished to face the press together with me. We can use some bailiffs to keep the crowd back, give ourselves a little more space to breathe and give our statement."

Apollo winces. "This case is that big a deal?"

Klavier nods. "This case is that big a deal. So. Together, Herr Justice?"

Klavier holds out one hand, and after a moment's hesitation Apollo takes it, giving a single quick handshake before releasing Klavier's fingers. "Together."

XXX

Klavier answers most of the questions, which Apollo is grateful for. Though dealing with people is a core part of being a lawyer, dealing with the press is never fun, and especially given the sensitive nature of the case Apollo doesn't want to say something that will come back to bite them. So he says very little, merely stating that his client was found not guilty of perpetrating the murder and that further details will be forthcoming in later trials.

The noise of the gunshot is quiet, distant, and it comes to Apollo's ears a second or two after the bullet has hit home. It causes a strange sort of disconnect as Apollo's eyes, always too sharp and quick to catch detail, show him snapshots of blood spraying through the air, Klavier toppling backward, camera flashes going off, but without giving him enough information to understand why.

He moves before comprehension really dawns, darting forward—to protect Klavier, to face the threat, to change his position, Apollo isn't really able to say.

Pressure and pain explode through his shoulder, and Apollo screams, the scent of blood growing thick in the air. The sound of the second gunshot is lost amid the sea of terrified cries from the crowd as they realize what's happening.

Someone is shooting at them.

Someone shot Klavier, and Apollo drops to the ground next to him, hissing in agony as his entire right side tries to freeze up. Klavier's eyes are half-lidded, his chest rising and falling in jerky, uncoordinated motions. Blood has matted his hair into a fiery halo, and Apollo's fingers pat uselessly at Klavier's black shirt.

Headshot, he seems to hear in his mind—the voice of the announcer in some silly zombie-hunting game or other that he was playing with Trucy, and it doesn't fit here.

Nothing here fits or makes sense, because someone shot Klavier in the head and Apollo's pretty certain he's also bleeding badly and—

A third bullet blazes its way across Apollo's back as he leans forward to try to see exactly how bad the damage to Klavier's head is, and Apollo collapses, the darkness of unconsciousness rising up to push away the pain and disorientation.

XXX

Apollo wakes up in a beautiful park, his head pillowed on a young woman's lap.

He doesn't remember exactly how he fell asleep, but this scenario definitely doesn't seem familiar, and he starts to sit up before stopping as pain flickers fire-bright in his chest.

The woman smiles down at him, one small hand pressing against his chest as her other brushes across his forehead. "Stay still, Apollo. It's a beautiful day, isn't it? Absolutely lovely."

Apollo looks past the woman's flame red hair and gentle smile to see a true blue sky, with just the right number of fluffy clouds in it to be called perfect or picturesque, depending on one's opinions on hyperbole and vocabulary. "It... seems really nice."

A tiny songbird swoops down to bask on the woman's shoulder, and she smiles again as she lifts a finger to stroke the bright yellow chest. "I've wanted to do this with you for a long time, Apollo. I'm so glad we finally got the chance. Now we can just rest, relax..."

Apollo's eyes begin drifting closed even as the woman speaks, and he fights to push them open again. "Where... are we? Who are you?"

Bending down, the woman presses lightly glossed lips to his forehead. "Silly boy. You've wanted this for a long time, too. Surely you haven't forgotten..."

He remembers fragments. He remembers dreams like this when he was little—dreams of having a life like the ones he sees on television, reads about in books. Dreams of picnicking by a pond, in a field full of green grass but devoid of the crawling and biting insects that always reside there in real life, and a smiling woman who will call him son and lay his head in her lap and be proud of him.

This woman can't be much more than his own age, though, and he never even told Clay about those dreams, so—

"Oh, don't make that face at me, little boy." Tapping her finger against Apollo's nose, the woman gives a cheerful little smile. "Did you want to go play with the animals? There are some very brave bunnies and ducks by the pond, and once you've had a chance to play we can have a picnic, and eat the sandwiches we made. You remember making the sandwiches with me this morning, right, Polly-wolly?"

Does he remember? His chest twinges again, though the pain seems farther away. The woman's hand immediately moves to cover the spot that ached, rubbing gently, and Apollo finds himself transfixed by the feel of her fingers—cool, firm, seeming to anchor him in place, somehow. And maybe he does remember making sandwiches with her, but the him in the memory is a child, not a lawyer, and he is most definitely an adult lawyer... right?

"Still thinking so hard." More birds have gathered around the woman, singing happily, and while one hand massages his chest the other moves to his forehead, smoothing over the furrows of confusion there. Bending down, her lips hover just a few scant millimeters above his. "Just relax, little one. Relax and let me—"

A doorway of fire explodes into being about six inches from Apollo's feet.

He jumps up and away from the flame with a yelp, stumbling backwards, clutching at his chest as pain once more flares bright in at least two places. What is going on? Where is he, and who is this woman, and how is there a door made of flaming keys burning in front of him?

A door that swings open, disgorging a vaguely familiar dark-haired woman whose eyes seem to spit sparks as she studies the red-head now standing beside Apollo. The dark-haired woman flings up her left hand, index finger pointed as though giving an objection, and a jet of flame leaps from her towards the red-head.

One of the birds that had been circling the red-head spins forward, cheeping plaintively in contrast to the crackle of the fire, and is immolated in a flash of blinding white light.

Before Apollo is even able to blink his vision back into focus, the red-head has his wrist in a death grip, her beatific smile slipping as she faces her—their?—aggressor.

The dark-haired woman pauses, her fire-throwing hand held to her chest. "Let him go."

"I got here first." Tossing her hair back, the red-head glares defiance before turning an almost sickly-sweet smile to Apollo, the change in expressions quick and disquieting. "Don't worry, honey. I'm going to take care of you."

Dark-hair snorts. "Oh, yes, you're going to take care of him. What she's trying to do, Mr. Justice, is ensure that you die."

Dying is really not high on Apollo's list of things to do, and he tries to surreptitiously pull his wrist away from red-hair.

Her nails dig into his skin with unexpected force, drawing little pinpricks of blood. "Don't listen to her, Polly-wolly. Stay with me. We'll be happy here."

The words are some kind of spell, weaving their way through the air, trying to bind him into believing them. He thinks he would have, earlier—or at least would have been tempted to believe, to at least stay and see if just perhaps some of the idle childhood fantasies he had might come true.

Now, with the fire-handed woman standing there watching Apollo with wary eyes, with the memory of how red-hair destroyed the little bird without a flinch, the spell feels like a net—a cage trying to snap closed around him.

Apollo has never liked feeling trapped, and he tries once more to wrench his hand away.

The red-haired woman's expression shifts once more, her skin becoming inhumanly pale, her eyes seeming to glow bright red as her hair begins to levitate around her head. Her fingers dig more firmly into his wrist, bright points of pain. "If you think you're getting away from me—"

"Let..." Apollo tries to pull away again, and the woman twists her hand, driving him to his knees by the torque on his wrist. "Me..." It feels like her whole fingers are sinking into his skin, and fear wells up along with pain, stirs itself into a fierce wall of anger. "Go!"

The word explodes out as a crushing wind, and for the briefest moment surprise shows on the red-haired woman's face as she is driven back two steps.

Two steps is apparently all the opening dark-hair needs, and she sends a searing bolt of fire between them, glowering at the red-haired woman the whole time. "Come with me, Apollo Justice, if you want to live!"

The door of fire flares into brilliant life again, a ring of flaming keys around an impenetrable darkness, but given the choice between that and staying in this carefully-crafted honey-trap, Apollo thinks he knows what the safer option is.

Ducking his head low and keeping his arms close to his sides to minimize his chances of getting burned, Apollo runs into the darkness, hoping it will take him somewhere he can find some answers.

XXX

Klavier walks through a backstage area, sweat beading on his forehead, trickling down the small of his back. He can hear a crowd chanting, growing restless and angry; hear the introductory chords that should signal his entrance to the stage; but he can't seem to find his way towards them.

No matter what door he tries, the roaring sounds don't seem to get any closer.

And even if he reaches the stage, he is missing something—somethings. He doesn't have his guitar. He doesn't remember what their set is going to be.

He is hot, and his head aches, and—

"Gavin." Daryan's voice cracks through the air between them, irritation showing in his scowl and his quick, clipped steps as he approaches Klavier. "You trying to make us all look bad?"

"No, I—" Klavier shakes his head, regretting the action as he does so. Lifting a hand to press against the agony pounding there, he tries to find words to make Daryan understand. "I don't... I don't remember..."

Daryan snorts. "Of course you don't. Given how much you drank, it's amazing you're even still vertical." Stalking into Klavier's personal space, Daryan yanks up one of Klavier's shirt sleeves, exposing a series of needle tracks running down from the crook of his elbow. "Though I guess that helps explain it."

Klavier's own fingers follow Daryan's, horror and confusion somehow managing to drive the pain in his head a bit further away. What did he do? "Daryan, I don't—I wouldn't—"

"Uh huh." Daryan tugs Klavier's shirt back over the needle tracks. "Come on, Gavin. Thankfully most of your fans don't care how well you play as long as they get to see that pretty body doing what it does."

Daryan doesn't give Klavier a chance to protest or ask any more questions, grabbing him firmly by the wrist and tugging him to the stage.

The rest of the band is already there, their disappointed glares feeling like little needle-pricks across Klavier's skin as he stumbles towards his position. A guitar—one of his custom ones—is waiting on a stand in the center of the stage, and Klavier shrugs the strap on over his head.

The crowd isn't pretty. How long has he kept them waiting, for their grumbling chanting of his name to feel so much like a threat? However long it was, he can make up for it. (He has so much to make up for, so many people to apologize to and try not to disappoint, though he can't remember exactly why right now.)

"Come on, Gavin!" Daryan and the rest of the band are watching him, impatient, frustrated. "Play."

Klavier strums his fingers across the guitar strings, hoping he had thought to tune it earlier.

Blood immediately begins pattering to the stage floor, slides thick and viscous over the guitar strings as they ring out atonally.

"What's wrong, Gavin?" The smile Daryan wears is all wrong, full of vicious cruelty as he watches Klavier. "Just going to give up?"

Klavier holds up his bloody fingers, but Daryan doesn't seem to notice the red liquid. Is it not real? Is it just a hallucination—some kind of bad trip?

The crowd is chanting ever more angrily, and Klavier tries strumming his fingers along the strings again, earning more blood and a deeper, throbbing agony in his fingertips. If he keeps doing this, will he be able to play period?

The stage lights are set too high, too bright, and Klavier feels as though his skin is being peeled away in small little segments.

Daryan's arms wrap around him, bring his fingers back to hover over the strings. "Come on, Klavier. What is it that you think you're doing? Give them what they want. Give them—"

"If it's your blood they want, then they deserve nothing."

The voice is male, low, unfamiliar, but somehow it cuts through the chanting and jeering of the crowd to reach Klavier's ears. He stares down towards a gentleman in black pants, an impressive tan jacket, and a black hat. Tilting the brim of the hat up so that he can meet Klavier's eyes, the man stands firm at the very edge of the crowd, just off the stage. "Hello, Klavier Gavin. I'd like to help you, if you'd allow it."

Klavier's eyes rake over the man once more. How is he not sweltering in that outfit? How does he seem untouched by the crowd surging around him? A glittering hint of gold in one of the lapel holes of the man's jacket catches Klavier's eye—a defense attorney's badge?

Pain surges through Klavier's skull again, and he raises bloody fingers to press against his forehead.

Daryan hugs him tight, his hands fierce, possessive. "Don't let the band down, Klavier. Not again. Not like you always do."

The man is no longer standing at the edge of the crowd, somehow having teleported onto the stage. "What you're doing is despicable, young man. You know that, don't you?"

It takes Klavier a moment to realize that it's not him that's being addressed but Daryan.

Daryan's voice is a sneer as he stares back at the defense attorney. "You've got no claim on him. Whereas me... we're close, Klavier. Right?"

Daryan's hands slide up and down Klavier's body—possessive, teasing, but in a way that sends cold shivers all along Klavier's spine.

"A man belongs only to himself. But if we were to choose someone worthy of our loyalty... who would you choose, Klavier?" The man's dark eyes skewer Klavier. "The man who betrayed you... or Miles Edgeworth?"

Edgeworth.

The name is a cold bucket of water amidst the flaming stage lights, and Klavier stumbles forward, towards the stranger who offers him honesty, integrity, perseverance.

Guitar wires slice into his wrists, his elbows, his shoulders, his knees, seeming to catch him in place. Daryan's hand buries itself in Klavier's hair, holding on tight. "You're not going anywhere but to the morgue, friend."

The defense attorney still seems unflustered. "Prosecutor Gavin, if you could find one thing, one focus around which to concentrate your thoughts—to concentrate your power—what would it be? Don't tell me. Just envision it." The man pauses, and the tiniest hint of a smile appears at the corners of his mouth. "And let it loose."

Klavier doesn't have to think long. He just opens his mouth and sings, a terrible mish-mash of German and English words, and watches the stage disappear into darkness as Daryan's howls of frustration ring in his ears.