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as we go on, we'll remember;
Notes: Part 1/3 of the GG of the AA, prompt found here. First draft.
Tenative Titles: Epic But Not in the Internet Slang Sense
Turnabout Greek Gods
Weren't They Just Defense Attorneys
.part one: phoenix song
Catch the wheel that breaks the butterfly – Oasis, Falling Down
And sometimes he had dreams.
The beating of hooves on the thick clouds, the burning flames licking at the chariot’s increasingly loud sounds. His palms were sweaty against the reins, and the dark sky tore like paper at the flames’ hungry warpath. Earth beneath him floated like an orb, and his horses screamed and jerked at the bits, and he soared in the heat that made him sweat, the enveloping envelope of fire around him, but he wanted to hear a song that he had heard from a long time ago, the most beautiful song in the world—
“Polly!”
He jerked awake, smashing his head on the upper end of the desk. Dimly, he peered around him, spotting only flashes of blue whisking around in his room. Upon closer inspection, he finally found Trucy with a broom, happily poking at his walls with that bounce in her step that showed she thought she was doing him a great favor and he would need to pay her back later with a super-size ramen bowl.
“What are you doing?” Apollo rubbed at his eyes, and blearily gazed at her again.
“I’m cleaning your apartment, silly! A good defense attorney should always have a sparkling toilet!” Trucy struck a pose too idealistic for that type of sentence.
“I’m not sure how the state of my toilet has anything to do with my skills.” He still felt groggy from his impromptu nap.
“I’m not sure either,” Trucy said, “But that’s what Daddy always tells me.”
Apollo had given up completely on deciding on what Mr. Wright was thinking. Even if he could faintly construe a familiarity about a metaphor about cleanliness, Mr. Wright was in no state to lecture him about it. His own Anything Agency was crammed full of magician’s equipment, to Apollo’s grave dismay, for whenever he stepped on a ball it seemed that three more balls would magically appear beneath him.
“Why are you cleaning my walls with a broom?”
“It doesn’t matter what you use as long as it works, right?” Trucy tapped her chin thoughtfully.
“I don’t think it works that way.” But deciding to give the kid a break, he gingerly got up from his desk and massaged his shoulders. The sun outside was particularly bright that day, though Trucy had tried to draw the curtains for most of it. He opened the curtains again, looking forlornly below.
“It’s too bright,” Trucy scolded, “You’ll get sunburned if you don’t close the curtains before you sleep.”
“I’ve never gotten sunburned.”
“That’s the statement of someone who’s asking for trouble!” Trucy tipped her hat smartly at him, and Apollo held back a groan. Or, he thought he held it back, though Trucy suddenly whipped him a dirty look.
“Don’t you have school today?” For her sake, he closed the curtains and sat down on his messy bed. Trucy happily played housekeeper with the broom on his papers, but he felt too languid to stop her.
“Nope! We’re supposed to have a dance soon, though. Polly, do you want me to be my date?”
“I don’t think your teachers would like that,” he said dryly. He could already imagine being forcefully lead out of the dance floor, being a suspicious old man in a room full of youthful youngsters.
“Aw, I’m sure they just need time to get to know you.”
In the detention center, maybe. “You’re not going with any boy, are you?”
“Gee golly, Polly,” she said in a disappointed voice, “You’re even stricter than Daddy about boys! Though, there are a lot of cute boys in school . . . “
“But none that you’re going with, right?” he asked, hedged on suspicions.
“Nah. They’re nice, but I just don’t see myself with any of them,” Trucy said thoughtfully. “What about you? Dating any nice girls?”
“That’s—when’s Mr. Wright going to be here?”
“You’re supposed to walk me home!” Trucy’s smile was like a beam of trouble. Though Trucy was often at Apollo’s apartment on Mr. Wright’s nod of approval, Apollo was always in charge of taking care she returned to the Agency safely. (In the or else fashion, where Mr. Wright’s eyes glinted dangerously like Plum Kitaki’s blade.)
After some struggle, Apollo convinced Trucy to wear a coat, and they set off down the street. Apollo didn’t mind spending time with Trucy, though she was a bit strange. He had to admit, she was like the little big sister that he never knew he had. His gold bracelet sparkled in the sunlight.
He opened the door to escape from the bitter wind, looking around at the cleaned bookshelves, and almost knocking into a hula hoop by the door. For once, Mr. Wright had been standing at the doorway, looking gloomy as he held a newspaper in his hands. He barely glanced up when Trucy entered, but when Apollo stepped into the room and fumbled with the hula hoop, his eyes intensely followed him.
Apollo felt himself sweating under his collar. Customers usually knocked into the hula hoop! It wasn’t his fault!
“Apollo,” Mr. Wright said. “We need to talk.”
“Daddy?” It was a little frightening for Mr. Wright and Trucy to be removed from the same wavelength. Usually their two-bit act melded perfectly in order to trap Apollo into taking Trucy out to noodles, or watching the Gavinner’s old videos with them (accompanied by Mr. Wright’s snoring, which sounded far more pleasing).
But Trucy was searching in Mr. Wright’s eyes, hesitant and slightly drawn back.
Mr. Wright seemed to notice, and melted back to his relaxed façade. He discarded the newspaper on the one-legged table, and wrapped Trucy into a small hug. It made Apollo uncomfortable, watching them. Something about the family comfort made him even lonelier, so he started out the door again.
“Apollo, aren’t you forgetting to ask me something?” Mr. Wright asked, this time in light-hearted amusement.
“I don’t think so,” he said, trying to think if he had done anything wrong that day. Well, sure, he hadn’t taken out the recycle—but how had Mr. Wright known?
“What about dinner?” Trucy tapped her hat again. “Ask to stay for dinner! We’re having Daddy’s Special tonight!”
Apollo hated Mr. Wright’s Special. It tasted terrible, and despite its glamorous name, it had the strange flavor of shoes. The “Special” was likely just the unwanted cabbages from the grocery store, stewed to the point where they tasted less like rotting cabbages and more like rotting footwear.
But for some reason, he always agreed to stay.
After dinner, Trucy and Mr. Wright went upstairs for Trucy’s bedtime. He picked up the newspaper, he couldn’t see anything of much importance that Mr. Wright had wanted to show him—unless he really felt strongly about the construction of the new Pantheon Shopping Center, but then again, Mr. Wright really needed some new sandals. The front page talked about an increase in natural disasters in the word, but Apollo had already watched the news with Mr. Wright about that. There was a short blurb about a convicted felon, but it had a name that Apollo had never seen, and wasn’t interesting to him.
He began to hum. There was a music that accompanied him throughout the day. He had heard the song a long while ago, but it was in a place that was far forgotten from his memory. Nobody ever remarked on it. It fit the office situation very well—a little too well, in fact. It was the sound of cornering a witness into a lie, finding an important contradiction, that sort of music.
“Nice tune,” said a voice behind him.
Apollo stopped humming.
Mr. Wright appeared before him, with the typical lazy smile and absent-minded look in his eyes.
“I guess I’ll go home now,” Apollo said, defiantly.
“Not so fast.” Mr. Wright looked amused. “I have something to tell you. Sit down.” It wasn’t a suggestion, so Apollo found himself gingerly sitting on the faded sofa, which squeaked under his pants.
Mr. Wright sat on the opposing side, crinkling the sharp plastic on the bread he was pulling out of the shopping bag. Apollo felt mildly injured at the thought that their serious talk was about to impeded by bread.
“Do I get a hint?” Apollo asked, squinting suspiciously at Mr. Wright’s nonchalant face. Despite his hobo looks, Mr. Wright had a set of sharp brains—which could easily be plotting a trap. “Is this about Recycle Your Plastics Day tomorrow?”
“Oh,” Mr. Wright said mildly, “I forgot about that.” He honestly smiled.
He fidgeted nervously on the seat as Mr. Wright took a large bite out of the bread.
“Lamiroir should have told you this,” Mr. Wright said, suddenly serious, or as serious as he got with a flake of jam on his mouth. He wiped it away with a stray napkin.
“Lamiroir?” Apollo remembered her. She sang in a beautiful voice. Her case had been solved happily, and she had become a painter. He still remembered when she first came to see him and Trucy after the operation. She had gazed upon them with a tenderness and a regretfulness that Apollo had never managed to really place, and she had touched them both, in a frightened way.
“But it seems I’ll have to take things in my own hands.” He smiled. “So to speak.”
There was no ‘so to speak’ about it! He was already speaking!
“What do you think about Trucy?” Mr. Wright suddenly lost interest in the conversation again. Apollo willed himself from leaving the room. After all, he still had no cases, and would likely spend the rest of the day sleeping until Trucy came to wake him up.
“She’s, uh, nice.”
“Really? That’s good.”
Then again, sleeping sounded like a good idea right now.
“I guess there’s no good way of telling you this.” Mr. Wright’s beanie seemed to lower over his eyes, as he put down his half-eaten bread into the shopping bag. His hands went limp over his knees, and he suddenly seemed older, tired, unhappy with himself. Apollo much preferred the scary Mr. Wright to this one.
“Mr. Wright?” With no response, Apollo repeated his high-pitched question. “Mr. Wright?” He slowly reached out to see if his scary new boss was all right.
“Trucy is your sister.”
His own hand went limp. Apollo felt a moment pass, but then he chuckled nervously, and was about to say an exasperated joke to tell Mr. Wright to knock it off, they weren’t really a family, before Mr. Wright interrupted him.
“Lamiroir is your mother.” Mr. Wright peered at him in the silence. “You’re a part of the Troupe Gramarye, too. She had another child before she married Zak Gramarye, to a street artist who died. That was you, Apollo.”
He didn’t say anything.
“That bracelet. She gave one to you, when you were just a child.” Mr. Wright gazed at him softly. “That’s how you can perceive better than Trucy. It tightens on your wrist when you need to focus.”
Apollo looked at his wrist.
“Thalassa Gramarye. That was her name, before the accident. She’s regained her memories since then.” Mr. Wright gave a soft sigh. “It wasn’t my place to tell you this, but I have no choice. Time’s running out.”
“Wait,” Apollo interrupted, “Let me take this all in.” He poked his own forehead to begin thinking again, but the thoughts refused to come. There was something strange about all this. In a matter of a minute, he learned he had been abandoned by a child, his underage friend was really his sister, the famous musician was his mother, he had saved his own mother from a bass case, interrogated her as a witness, and Phoenix Wright was indeed his father as well.
“You can call me Daddy, too,” Mr. Wright offered, as if reading his mind.
“Who’d be able to adapt so easily to that?!” Apollo didn’t let Mr. Wright answer, though the look in his eyes said he had the answer. “Look, I’m sorry, but this is—too much for me. Are you sure you didn’t get the wrong person? A lot of people have bracelets like these. I bet you can buy this at—at the Pantheon Shopping Mall.”
Mr. Wright looked at him. “Only you and Trucy have the skill to perceive.”
“It’s not like it’s magic, it’s just—“ Apollo suddenly realized that his hands were trembling. “Look, you’re—you’re telling me I have a family? And they’ve been in front of my face the whole time? And—and you knew?”
Mr. Wright didn’t look guilty, but he had the same linger on his face when he had admitted about the forged evidence. There was a deep sorrow lined his aged face.
“You knew,” Apollo repeated, clutching onto the only comprehensive words in the turmoil of thoughts, “And you didn’t tell me?”
“I’m sorry.” Mr. Wright’s beanie slipped in place again. “It wasn’t my place to tell you.”
“You should have told me!” Apollo felt his hand crumple into an awkward fist. “I have the right to know! To know that I haven’t—haven’t been alone—alone—“
It was only then did he realize that he was crying, and his words were getting choked up through his tears. He sat on the odiously pink sofa, bawling and sniffing and trying not to look too uncool, but he couldn’t stop himself. His rage dissolved hotly into his tears, and there was a sense of loss and relief and numbness in him.
“I wasn’t—“ He was unable to say anymore.
Mr. Wright, for some reason, gently put his arm around Apollo. It was awkward, for an entire glass table stood in between them, and he could only cry against Mr. Wright’s dusty smell, like law books and strange masculinity and warmth like no other, in the softness of the gray sweatshirt.
It was a long while before he stopped crying, and Mr. Wright had brought him something to drink—another type of Special, Apollo suggested, but he downed the potion that tasted like socks with gratitude—and finally stared at the glass table at his own red-nosed teary-eyed reflection.
“You can see her soon, if you want,” Mr. Wright said. “Your mother. I’ll have to apologize to her.”
“. . . Does Trucy know?”
“Not yet,” Mr. Wright said. “But I think she suspects. She’s always one step ahead of you.” Apollo took the insult with the same gratitude as the socks drink, and finally placed the cup against the table. The mug had a Blue Badger on the side, and it finally registered that he was drinking out of Gavinners merchandise.
“I see.” Apollo felt strange, but he couldn’t place the words.
“It’s all right,” Mr. Wright said. “Everything will be fine.” He picked up the cold bread and began to eat again, with the silence that was occasionally broken by Apollo’s sniffles. When Mr. Wright finished his bread, he placed the wrapper in the bag, and the bag in the trash can. Finally, he leaned back, and gazed upon the bookshelf of magic and law.
“You’re also a Greek God reborn into a human body,” Mr. Wright said, “And I’m actually a phoenix.”
He expertly ripped the straw from an apple juice box, and stuck it in for a satisfying slurp in the ensuing silence.
--
Apollo had once been walking back from shopping when he thought the Wright Anything Agency was on fire. He had, of course, rushed there, dropping his canned peaches, and peered into the window. But it was only Mr. Wright, sitting on the sofa, smoking a bubble pipe.
Back then, he just thought his eyes were going bad.
“Want to hear my song?” Mr. Wright said, laughing.
“No.”
“It’s better than my piano playing.” Mr. Wright smiled at him. “You used to stop by and listen to it.”
“I want to hear it, Daddy!” Trucy bounced on her feet excitedly. “But anything’s better than your piano playing.”
“Maybe someday,” Mr. Wright said fondly. He was sitting on the bench at the playground, where Trucy had been practicing a few magic tricks for her young audience. Apollo only followed along because he felt that Mr. Wright’s suggestion for him to come was actually a threat. He had left the Agency in a hurry, admittedly—the shock of having a family was enough, and he really didn’t need any of Mr. Wright’s metaphorical ideas. But it felt stagnant, to watch Trucy from so far away, and the knowledge of their blood bubbling in his throat.
A few concerned mothers deposited change at Mr. Wright’s feet, which he took and thanked politely.
“You know, we used to have a cat.” Mr. Wright looked at the sky. The sun burned dimly, hidden through a few wandering clouds. The bitter chill of the wind had only grown colder.
“That’s nice.”
“Bullets the Cat. Trucy used to shoot him out of a gun.” Mr. Wright laughed. “It was a good trick.”
“She said something like that once,” Apollo said, but he only remembered because she had pointed the gun at him with confidence and accuracy. A pang struck his heart at the thought of Trucy again.
“He ran away.”
Apollo had never heard that side of the story. “. . . Did you find him?”
“No.” Mr. Wright smiled and waved at Trucy, who had pulled another frozen turkey from her magic underwear. “Animals fear Trucy.”
“So that’s why I never see her do any rabbit or dove tricks.” Apollo had just thought she was avoiding being typical of a magician by dealing with the frozen form of poultry.
“She’s actually Artemis,” he said.
“Uh-huh.”
“That’s why you don’t have to worry about her and boys,” Mr. Wright said. “She doesn’t have much interest in that.”
“Right.”
“It’s cold.”
“Why don’t you just light up like a phoenix and warm yourself up?” Apollo said, with more spite than he thought he had in him. He played with his warm bracelet nervously.
Mr. Wright laughed. “It doesn’t work like that,” he said, amused.
“It works however you like it,” Apollo grumbled. But Trucy was already bouncing towards them, and as if on some signal, they stopped talking. She had gotten a good day’s bounty of candy, and wanted to go back to the office. Mr. Wright agreed, and Apollo decided to return home to rest.
“You ever take your bracelet off?” Mr. Wright asked, as they walked home.
“Not really.”
“You should try it sometime. But don’t lose it.”
“I don’t need you telling me that.” Apollo hesitated, and looked at Trucy, his—sister. He almost felt like clutching at her, but resisted the urge. They seemed to have a silent agreement not to tell Trucy yet. Despite Apollo’s own anger, he had to recognize that Thalassa—his mother—had the right to do that first.
They had the same eyes, he had noticed, sadly, watching her from a distance he felt like he couldn’t cross.
“Something wrong, Polly? You’ve been staring gloomily at me all day,” Trucy said. “If you really want to be my assistant, then you can just ask!”
“It’s not that!” Apollo scowled. He was just plain awkward at the Wonder Bar, while he learned all the tricks for the first time—on the stage. Even now, he still made sure his nose was in place.
“I’ll see you later,” Mr. Wright interrupted, as his back was to the sun. It seemed that all the fringes of his side suddenly flared with a familiar fire that Apollo couldn’t place, and it was too brilliant for Apollo to look directly.
“I won’t be coming back,” Apollo said.
“No, I’ll come visit you.”
--
And sometimes he dreamt.
The horses beat along the clouds, but he pulled at the reins, despite himself. The rope felt hard against his hands, sweat-encased, fires licking at the heels of the chariot. And he could make out the sight of a bird—not a bird, not any bird—its feathers ablaze and eyes the color of charcoal and each feather fringed in black and blue, lit with the iridescence white beneath—and he was waiting—for that song—
Apollo waited outside his apartment. The nap had lead to a furious flurry of dreams, so he appeased himself by sitting outside to keep awake. He slipped off his bracelet, and held it against the sun. He had learned to never look at the sun directly, but it never hurt very much. In fact, he sometimes felt that the sun was dim. The blinding whiteness of the sun seemed to be captured in the gold ring.
“Fancy seeing you here,” said a voice that Apollo had heard all too often lately. Apollo lowered his bracelet and slipped it back onto his wrist, feeling the strange symbols on the sides.
“You called me,” Apollo said, watching Mr. Wright sit beside him.
“I did,” he said. He ruffled a newspaper that he had apparently bought along the way. He stretched out his legs, creating a fire hazard.
There was a heat emitting from Mr. Wright, and Apollo wondered if it was just body heat.
“Did you read this article?” Mr. Wright flipped to a section. “It’s interesting.” Apollo peered over to see the short blurb about the disappearance of a convicted felon.
“I don’t know who he is,” Apollo said. Though, at this point, he wouldn’t be surprised if Mr. Wright was telling him that the felon was his father. “Are you saying we should be careful? I locked my doors.”
“You should be careful,” Mr. Wright said, “But not from him.” He skimmed the article again, with some weariness.
“Sure.” Apollo sighed. “Let’s not be afraid of the escaped convict.”
“He didn’t escape.” Mr. Wright tipped his beanie. “He disappeared.”
“I don’t mean to break this to you,” Apollo said, “but when Trucy makes the pudding disappear, it’s not exactly magic.”
Apollo wanted his metaphorical piece of the pie as much as anyone else. But Trucy always managed to swipe his pudding away quickly, leaving Mr. Wright to enjoy his own in peace, and Trucy happily full while Apollo sadly hungry.
“Time’s running out,” Mr. Wright said.
“Because your five hundred years are up?” Apollo had to smirk at Mr. Wright’s mildly surprised look at him. “I’m a defense attorney too, remember? I did some research.” On Wikipedia.
“No,” Mr. Wright said, “I have some years yet. But a bigger trouble is coming, and I need your help.” His hands seemed to glow, with the same flicker of fire, as he smoothed out the newspaper on his knees.
“Really.” Apollo still had his doubts.
“I have a feeling that Kristoph is missing, too. They’re just covering it up—for now.”
“Right,” he said, dryly. “And what are your thoughts on little green men?” Funny, Mr. Wright hadn’t struck him the type to go to Roswell. Though, that was mostly because it took effort and money to even go there, even against Trucy’s enthusiastic wishes.
“There’s a bigger trouble brewing,” Mr. Wright said. “I haven’t heard from Miles Edgeworth for years. That should have been my tip.” Now they were talking about old prosecutors. Mr. Wright was rarely so talkative, but now that he was, Apollo strongly thought that he had gone senile over the years.
“The famous Demon Prosecutor Miles Edgeworth?”
“Demon?” Mr. Wright considered it. “It’s been a long time since I’ve heard that nickname. Fitting, in a way.”
“We learned about him in law school. Along with the legendary Phoenix Wright.” Apollo didn’t know why he was bringing up his resentment suddenly. He felt too numb to control his own words. First, family. Second, gods? It was just too much. The entire world was going crazy, but he refused to go along with it. Ignoring it, though, didn’t seem to do much. Mr. Wright was determined to tell him things he never wanted to know.
“And now, Damon Gant.” Mr. Wright tapped the newspaper. “Your own father.”
Apparently Apollo had been wrong. He was shocked at the ridiculous revelation.
“Titans,” Mr. Wright said, staring distantly. “Most likely. Trucy’s too young, and you’re the only one—“
“Hold it.” Apollo delivered the line quietly, but it was enough to silence Mr. Wright. It was rare that Apollo exhibited that much power over him.
“So what you’re trying to tell me,” he said quietly, “Is that not only that Lamiroir is my mother, Trucy my sister, Damon Gant my father—but that I’m a god?”
“Yes,” Mr. Wright said simply.
It was good that the courtyard was empty, because Apollo’s Chords of Steel suddenly echoed on the buildings. “Are you crazy?”
He tore the newspaper from Mr. Wright’s hands and tossed it to the ground in a fit of anger. “I’m not a god! I have to gel my hair every morning, and I work hard to win cases! I don’t go around playing a lute, and I don’t control the sun, and you’re not a phoenix—that’s just your name!”
He couldn’t ignore it any longer. Mr. Wright must be lying to trick him, and Apollo ignored the honest glean in Mr. Wright’s eyes as he continued to rant and shout and gesticulate wildly.
“Trucy isn’t a goddess! She’s a magician who does—does really weird tricks! And you don’t fly and you don’t go into flames, and—and you’re not a phoenix and you don’t die every five hundred years and you don’t get reborn, and I don’t stop every morning to hear your song—“
Apollo took a deep breath. “This is crazy.”
“But it’s true.” Mr. Wright regarded him deeply. “And we’re running out of time.”
“Time for—for Titans?” Apollo tugged at his own hair in frustration. “Look, just—just leave, and I won’t tell Trucy that you told me these things.”
Mr. Wright looked at him. “Maybe you need more time,” he said.
“No! No more time! Just stop it! This isn’t funny.” Apollo crossed his arms angrily. He waited as Mr. Wright slowly lumbered up from the bench, becoming an old man in a matter of minutes.
“Apollo . . . “
“Leave!”
It came out more of an order than Apollo had expected, but even more to his surprise, Mr. Wright bowed slightly, in a ‘as you wish’ type of way, and turned around to lumber outside the black gates. For as long as he had known him, Mr. Wright had only gone when he wanted to, not when Apollo wanted him to. Apollo felt a sudden chill, and he gripped at his bracelet.
When he was younger, and been afraid of being alone, he would grip the bracelet to sleep. Not because it had come from his mother, but simply because there was a warmth in there that always soothed his nightmares. He felt safer touching his bracelet.
So, slowly, he slipped off his bracelet, and on a whim, he looked through at it directly at Mr. Wright.
Instead of seeing the man, he saw the glimpse of a bird—no, not a bird—a condor—no, not a condor, not a hawk—a phoenix—with its long, elegant neck with plumes of raging fire fierce and hot that burned his softened skin and each feather magnesium white and each fringe burning orange and black and red and it was beautiful enough so that he almost dropped his bracelet.
He tried to say something, but he couldn’t. He licked his lips, and tried again, but he still couldn’t. It was as if the heat of the phoenix had suddenly taken away his ability to speak, and his throat was parched. He slipped the bracelet back onto his wrist.
“Mr. Wright,” he finally choked.
The man turned.
“. . . I’ll listen.”
And that night, he dreamed a dream that was nothing more than fantasy, that had happened in reality.
He dreamt he heard the phoenix’s song, a sweet tune, beautiful and ferocious, capturing the flickers of fire, of enduring life, of living, of the five hundred years, meeting men and women and children, the precious sights, the feelings, the emotions, and the end of the years to the burning blackened death to the young wet rebirth while the flames were still damp but each sight brought a new delight, and Apollo listened on his chariot, his horses pawing on the light clouds, as he brought the sun into the air.
Tenative Titles: Epic But Not in the Internet Slang Sense
Turnabout Greek Gods
Weren't They Just Defense Attorneys
.part one: phoenix song
Catch the wheel that breaks the butterfly – Oasis, Falling Down
And sometimes he had dreams.
The beating of hooves on the thick clouds, the burning flames licking at the chariot’s increasingly loud sounds. His palms were sweaty against the reins, and the dark sky tore like paper at the flames’ hungry warpath. Earth beneath him floated like an orb, and his horses screamed and jerked at the bits, and he soared in the heat that made him sweat, the enveloping envelope of fire around him, but he wanted to hear a song that he had heard from a long time ago, the most beautiful song in the world—
“Polly!”
He jerked awake, smashing his head on the upper end of the desk. Dimly, he peered around him, spotting only flashes of blue whisking around in his room. Upon closer inspection, he finally found Trucy with a broom, happily poking at his walls with that bounce in her step that showed she thought she was doing him a great favor and he would need to pay her back later with a super-size ramen bowl.
“What are you doing?” Apollo rubbed at his eyes, and blearily gazed at her again.
“I’m cleaning your apartment, silly! A good defense attorney should always have a sparkling toilet!” Trucy struck a pose too idealistic for that type of sentence.
“I’m not sure how the state of my toilet has anything to do with my skills.” He still felt groggy from his impromptu nap.
“I’m not sure either,” Trucy said, “But that’s what Daddy always tells me.”
Apollo had given up completely on deciding on what Mr. Wright was thinking. Even if he could faintly construe a familiarity about a metaphor about cleanliness, Mr. Wright was in no state to lecture him about it. His own Anything Agency was crammed full of magician’s equipment, to Apollo’s grave dismay, for whenever he stepped on a ball it seemed that three more balls would magically appear beneath him.
“Why are you cleaning my walls with a broom?”
“It doesn’t matter what you use as long as it works, right?” Trucy tapped her chin thoughtfully.
“I don’t think it works that way.” But deciding to give the kid a break, he gingerly got up from his desk and massaged his shoulders. The sun outside was particularly bright that day, though Trucy had tried to draw the curtains for most of it. He opened the curtains again, looking forlornly below.
“It’s too bright,” Trucy scolded, “You’ll get sunburned if you don’t close the curtains before you sleep.”
“I’ve never gotten sunburned.”
“That’s the statement of someone who’s asking for trouble!” Trucy tipped her hat smartly at him, and Apollo held back a groan. Or, he thought he held it back, though Trucy suddenly whipped him a dirty look.
“Don’t you have school today?” For her sake, he closed the curtains and sat down on his messy bed. Trucy happily played housekeeper with the broom on his papers, but he felt too languid to stop her.
“Nope! We’re supposed to have a dance soon, though. Polly, do you want me to be my date?”
“I don’t think your teachers would like that,” he said dryly. He could already imagine being forcefully lead out of the dance floor, being a suspicious old man in a room full of youthful youngsters.
“Aw, I’m sure they just need time to get to know you.”
In the detention center, maybe. “You’re not going with any boy, are you?”
“Gee golly, Polly,” she said in a disappointed voice, “You’re even stricter than Daddy about boys! Though, there are a lot of cute boys in school . . . “
“But none that you’re going with, right?” he asked, hedged on suspicions.
“Nah. They’re nice, but I just don’t see myself with any of them,” Trucy said thoughtfully. “What about you? Dating any nice girls?”
“That’s—when’s Mr. Wright going to be here?”
“You’re supposed to walk me home!” Trucy’s smile was like a beam of trouble. Though Trucy was often at Apollo’s apartment on Mr. Wright’s nod of approval, Apollo was always in charge of taking care she returned to the Agency safely. (In the or else fashion, where Mr. Wright’s eyes glinted dangerously like Plum Kitaki’s blade.)
After some struggle, Apollo convinced Trucy to wear a coat, and they set off down the street. Apollo didn’t mind spending time with Trucy, though she was a bit strange. He had to admit, she was like the little big sister that he never knew he had. His gold bracelet sparkled in the sunlight.
He opened the door to escape from the bitter wind, looking around at the cleaned bookshelves, and almost knocking into a hula hoop by the door. For once, Mr. Wright had been standing at the doorway, looking gloomy as he held a newspaper in his hands. He barely glanced up when Trucy entered, but when Apollo stepped into the room and fumbled with the hula hoop, his eyes intensely followed him.
Apollo felt himself sweating under his collar. Customers usually knocked into the hula hoop! It wasn’t his fault!
“Apollo,” Mr. Wright said. “We need to talk.”
“Daddy?” It was a little frightening for Mr. Wright and Trucy to be removed from the same wavelength. Usually their two-bit act melded perfectly in order to trap Apollo into taking Trucy out to noodles, or watching the Gavinner’s old videos with them (accompanied by Mr. Wright’s snoring, which sounded far more pleasing).
But Trucy was searching in Mr. Wright’s eyes, hesitant and slightly drawn back.
Mr. Wright seemed to notice, and melted back to his relaxed façade. He discarded the newspaper on the one-legged table, and wrapped Trucy into a small hug. It made Apollo uncomfortable, watching them. Something about the family comfort made him even lonelier, so he started out the door again.
“Apollo, aren’t you forgetting to ask me something?” Mr. Wright asked, this time in light-hearted amusement.
“I don’t think so,” he said, trying to think if he had done anything wrong that day. Well, sure, he hadn’t taken out the recycle—but how had Mr. Wright known?
“What about dinner?” Trucy tapped her hat again. “Ask to stay for dinner! We’re having Daddy’s Special tonight!”
Apollo hated Mr. Wright’s Special. It tasted terrible, and despite its glamorous name, it had the strange flavor of shoes. The “Special” was likely just the unwanted cabbages from the grocery store, stewed to the point where they tasted less like rotting cabbages and more like rotting footwear.
But for some reason, he always agreed to stay.
After dinner, Trucy and Mr. Wright went upstairs for Trucy’s bedtime. He picked up the newspaper, he couldn’t see anything of much importance that Mr. Wright had wanted to show him—unless he really felt strongly about the construction of the new Pantheon Shopping Center, but then again, Mr. Wright really needed some new sandals. The front page talked about an increase in natural disasters in the word, but Apollo had already watched the news with Mr. Wright about that. There was a short blurb about a convicted felon, but it had a name that Apollo had never seen, and wasn’t interesting to him.
He began to hum. There was a music that accompanied him throughout the day. He had heard the song a long while ago, but it was in a place that was far forgotten from his memory. Nobody ever remarked on it. It fit the office situation very well—a little too well, in fact. It was the sound of cornering a witness into a lie, finding an important contradiction, that sort of music.
“Nice tune,” said a voice behind him.
Apollo stopped humming.
Mr. Wright appeared before him, with the typical lazy smile and absent-minded look in his eyes.
“I guess I’ll go home now,” Apollo said, defiantly.
“Not so fast.” Mr. Wright looked amused. “I have something to tell you. Sit down.” It wasn’t a suggestion, so Apollo found himself gingerly sitting on the faded sofa, which squeaked under his pants.
Mr. Wright sat on the opposing side, crinkling the sharp plastic on the bread he was pulling out of the shopping bag. Apollo felt mildly injured at the thought that their serious talk was about to impeded by bread.
“Do I get a hint?” Apollo asked, squinting suspiciously at Mr. Wright’s nonchalant face. Despite his hobo looks, Mr. Wright had a set of sharp brains—which could easily be plotting a trap. “Is this about Recycle Your Plastics Day tomorrow?”
“Oh,” Mr. Wright said mildly, “I forgot about that.” He honestly smiled.
He fidgeted nervously on the seat as Mr. Wright took a large bite out of the bread.
“Lamiroir should have told you this,” Mr. Wright said, suddenly serious, or as serious as he got with a flake of jam on his mouth. He wiped it away with a stray napkin.
“Lamiroir?” Apollo remembered her. She sang in a beautiful voice. Her case had been solved happily, and she had become a painter. He still remembered when she first came to see him and Trucy after the operation. She had gazed upon them with a tenderness and a regretfulness that Apollo had never managed to really place, and she had touched them both, in a frightened way.
“But it seems I’ll have to take things in my own hands.” He smiled. “So to speak.”
There was no ‘so to speak’ about it! He was already speaking!
“What do you think about Trucy?” Mr. Wright suddenly lost interest in the conversation again. Apollo willed himself from leaving the room. After all, he still had no cases, and would likely spend the rest of the day sleeping until Trucy came to wake him up.
“She’s, uh, nice.”
“Really? That’s good.”
Then again, sleeping sounded like a good idea right now.
“I guess there’s no good way of telling you this.” Mr. Wright’s beanie seemed to lower over his eyes, as he put down his half-eaten bread into the shopping bag. His hands went limp over his knees, and he suddenly seemed older, tired, unhappy with himself. Apollo much preferred the scary Mr. Wright to this one.
“Mr. Wright?” With no response, Apollo repeated his high-pitched question. “Mr. Wright?” He slowly reached out to see if his scary new boss was all right.
“Trucy is your sister.”
His own hand went limp. Apollo felt a moment pass, but then he chuckled nervously, and was about to say an exasperated joke to tell Mr. Wright to knock it off, they weren’t really a family, before Mr. Wright interrupted him.
“Lamiroir is your mother.” Mr. Wright peered at him in the silence. “You’re a part of the Troupe Gramarye, too. She had another child before she married Zak Gramarye, to a street artist who died. That was you, Apollo.”
He didn’t say anything.
“That bracelet. She gave one to you, when you were just a child.” Mr. Wright gazed at him softly. “That’s how you can perceive better than Trucy. It tightens on your wrist when you need to focus.”
Apollo looked at his wrist.
“Thalassa Gramarye. That was her name, before the accident. She’s regained her memories since then.” Mr. Wright gave a soft sigh. “It wasn’t my place to tell you this, but I have no choice. Time’s running out.”
“Wait,” Apollo interrupted, “Let me take this all in.” He poked his own forehead to begin thinking again, but the thoughts refused to come. There was something strange about all this. In a matter of a minute, he learned he had been abandoned by a child, his underage friend was really his sister, the famous musician was his mother, he had saved his own mother from a bass case, interrogated her as a witness, and Phoenix Wright was indeed his father as well.
“You can call me Daddy, too,” Mr. Wright offered, as if reading his mind.
“Who’d be able to adapt so easily to that?!” Apollo didn’t let Mr. Wright answer, though the look in his eyes said he had the answer. “Look, I’m sorry, but this is—too much for me. Are you sure you didn’t get the wrong person? A lot of people have bracelets like these. I bet you can buy this at—at the Pantheon Shopping Mall.”
Mr. Wright looked at him. “Only you and Trucy have the skill to perceive.”
“It’s not like it’s magic, it’s just—“ Apollo suddenly realized that his hands were trembling. “Look, you’re—you’re telling me I have a family? And they’ve been in front of my face the whole time? And—and you knew?”
Mr. Wright didn’t look guilty, but he had the same linger on his face when he had admitted about the forged evidence. There was a deep sorrow lined his aged face.
“You knew,” Apollo repeated, clutching onto the only comprehensive words in the turmoil of thoughts, “And you didn’t tell me?”
“I’m sorry.” Mr. Wright’s beanie slipped in place again. “It wasn’t my place to tell you.”
“You should have told me!” Apollo felt his hand crumple into an awkward fist. “I have the right to know! To know that I haven’t—haven’t been alone—alone—“
It was only then did he realize that he was crying, and his words were getting choked up through his tears. He sat on the odiously pink sofa, bawling and sniffing and trying not to look too uncool, but he couldn’t stop himself. His rage dissolved hotly into his tears, and there was a sense of loss and relief and numbness in him.
“I wasn’t—“ He was unable to say anymore.
Mr. Wright, for some reason, gently put his arm around Apollo. It was awkward, for an entire glass table stood in between them, and he could only cry against Mr. Wright’s dusty smell, like law books and strange masculinity and warmth like no other, in the softness of the gray sweatshirt.
It was a long while before he stopped crying, and Mr. Wright had brought him something to drink—another type of Special, Apollo suggested, but he downed the potion that tasted like socks with gratitude—and finally stared at the glass table at his own red-nosed teary-eyed reflection.
“You can see her soon, if you want,” Mr. Wright said. “Your mother. I’ll have to apologize to her.”
“. . . Does Trucy know?”
“Not yet,” Mr. Wright said. “But I think she suspects. She’s always one step ahead of you.” Apollo took the insult with the same gratitude as the socks drink, and finally placed the cup against the table. The mug had a Blue Badger on the side, and it finally registered that he was drinking out of Gavinners merchandise.
“I see.” Apollo felt strange, but he couldn’t place the words.
“It’s all right,” Mr. Wright said. “Everything will be fine.” He picked up the cold bread and began to eat again, with the silence that was occasionally broken by Apollo’s sniffles. When Mr. Wright finished his bread, he placed the wrapper in the bag, and the bag in the trash can. Finally, he leaned back, and gazed upon the bookshelf of magic and law.
“You’re also a Greek God reborn into a human body,” Mr. Wright said, “And I’m actually a phoenix.”
He expertly ripped the straw from an apple juice box, and stuck it in for a satisfying slurp in the ensuing silence.
--
Apollo had once been walking back from shopping when he thought the Wright Anything Agency was on fire. He had, of course, rushed there, dropping his canned peaches, and peered into the window. But it was only Mr. Wright, sitting on the sofa, smoking a bubble pipe.
Back then, he just thought his eyes were going bad.
“Want to hear my song?” Mr. Wright said, laughing.
“No.”
“It’s better than my piano playing.” Mr. Wright smiled at him. “You used to stop by and listen to it.”
“I want to hear it, Daddy!” Trucy bounced on her feet excitedly. “But anything’s better than your piano playing.”
“Maybe someday,” Mr. Wright said fondly. He was sitting on the bench at the playground, where Trucy had been practicing a few magic tricks for her young audience. Apollo only followed along because he felt that Mr. Wright’s suggestion for him to come was actually a threat. He had left the Agency in a hurry, admittedly—the shock of having a family was enough, and he really didn’t need any of Mr. Wright’s metaphorical ideas. But it felt stagnant, to watch Trucy from so far away, and the knowledge of their blood bubbling in his throat.
A few concerned mothers deposited change at Mr. Wright’s feet, which he took and thanked politely.
“You know, we used to have a cat.” Mr. Wright looked at the sky. The sun burned dimly, hidden through a few wandering clouds. The bitter chill of the wind had only grown colder.
“That’s nice.”
“Bullets the Cat. Trucy used to shoot him out of a gun.” Mr. Wright laughed. “It was a good trick.”
“She said something like that once,” Apollo said, but he only remembered because she had pointed the gun at him with confidence and accuracy. A pang struck his heart at the thought of Trucy again.
“He ran away.”
Apollo had never heard that side of the story. “. . . Did you find him?”
“No.” Mr. Wright smiled and waved at Trucy, who had pulled another frozen turkey from her magic underwear. “Animals fear Trucy.”
“So that’s why I never see her do any rabbit or dove tricks.” Apollo had just thought she was avoiding being typical of a magician by dealing with the frozen form of poultry.
“She’s actually Artemis,” he said.
“Uh-huh.”
“That’s why you don’t have to worry about her and boys,” Mr. Wright said. “She doesn’t have much interest in that.”
“Right.”
“It’s cold.”
“Why don’t you just light up like a phoenix and warm yourself up?” Apollo said, with more spite than he thought he had in him. He played with his warm bracelet nervously.
Mr. Wright laughed. “It doesn’t work like that,” he said, amused.
“It works however you like it,” Apollo grumbled. But Trucy was already bouncing towards them, and as if on some signal, they stopped talking. She had gotten a good day’s bounty of candy, and wanted to go back to the office. Mr. Wright agreed, and Apollo decided to return home to rest.
“You ever take your bracelet off?” Mr. Wright asked, as they walked home.
“Not really.”
“You should try it sometime. But don’t lose it.”
“I don’t need you telling me that.” Apollo hesitated, and looked at Trucy, his—sister. He almost felt like clutching at her, but resisted the urge. They seemed to have a silent agreement not to tell Trucy yet. Despite Apollo’s own anger, he had to recognize that Thalassa—his mother—had the right to do that first.
They had the same eyes, he had noticed, sadly, watching her from a distance he felt like he couldn’t cross.
“Something wrong, Polly? You’ve been staring gloomily at me all day,” Trucy said. “If you really want to be my assistant, then you can just ask!”
“It’s not that!” Apollo scowled. He was just plain awkward at the Wonder Bar, while he learned all the tricks for the first time—on the stage. Even now, he still made sure his nose was in place.
“I’ll see you later,” Mr. Wright interrupted, as his back was to the sun. It seemed that all the fringes of his side suddenly flared with a familiar fire that Apollo couldn’t place, and it was too brilliant for Apollo to look directly.
“I won’t be coming back,” Apollo said.
“No, I’ll come visit you.”
--
And sometimes he dreamt.
The horses beat along the clouds, but he pulled at the reins, despite himself. The rope felt hard against his hands, sweat-encased, fires licking at the heels of the chariot. And he could make out the sight of a bird—not a bird, not any bird—its feathers ablaze and eyes the color of charcoal and each feather fringed in black and blue, lit with the iridescence white beneath—and he was waiting—for that song—
Apollo waited outside his apartment. The nap had lead to a furious flurry of dreams, so he appeased himself by sitting outside to keep awake. He slipped off his bracelet, and held it against the sun. He had learned to never look at the sun directly, but it never hurt very much. In fact, he sometimes felt that the sun was dim. The blinding whiteness of the sun seemed to be captured in the gold ring.
“Fancy seeing you here,” said a voice that Apollo had heard all too often lately. Apollo lowered his bracelet and slipped it back onto his wrist, feeling the strange symbols on the sides.
“You called me,” Apollo said, watching Mr. Wright sit beside him.
“I did,” he said. He ruffled a newspaper that he had apparently bought along the way. He stretched out his legs, creating a fire hazard.
There was a heat emitting from Mr. Wright, and Apollo wondered if it was just body heat.
“Did you read this article?” Mr. Wright flipped to a section. “It’s interesting.” Apollo peered over to see the short blurb about the disappearance of a convicted felon.
“I don’t know who he is,” Apollo said. Though, at this point, he wouldn’t be surprised if Mr. Wright was telling him that the felon was his father. “Are you saying we should be careful? I locked my doors.”
“You should be careful,” Mr. Wright said, “But not from him.” He skimmed the article again, with some weariness.
“Sure.” Apollo sighed. “Let’s not be afraid of the escaped convict.”
“He didn’t escape.” Mr. Wright tipped his beanie. “He disappeared.”
“I don’t mean to break this to you,” Apollo said, “but when Trucy makes the pudding disappear, it’s not exactly magic.”
Apollo wanted his metaphorical piece of the pie as much as anyone else. But Trucy always managed to swipe his pudding away quickly, leaving Mr. Wright to enjoy his own in peace, and Trucy happily full while Apollo sadly hungry.
“Time’s running out,” Mr. Wright said.
“Because your five hundred years are up?” Apollo had to smirk at Mr. Wright’s mildly surprised look at him. “I’m a defense attorney too, remember? I did some research.” On Wikipedia.
“No,” Mr. Wright said, “I have some years yet. But a bigger trouble is coming, and I need your help.” His hands seemed to glow, with the same flicker of fire, as he smoothed out the newspaper on his knees.
“Really.” Apollo still had his doubts.
“I have a feeling that Kristoph is missing, too. They’re just covering it up—for now.”
“Right,” he said, dryly. “And what are your thoughts on little green men?” Funny, Mr. Wright hadn’t struck him the type to go to Roswell. Though, that was mostly because it took effort and money to even go there, even against Trucy’s enthusiastic wishes.
“There’s a bigger trouble brewing,” Mr. Wright said. “I haven’t heard from Miles Edgeworth for years. That should have been my tip.” Now they were talking about old prosecutors. Mr. Wright was rarely so talkative, but now that he was, Apollo strongly thought that he had gone senile over the years.
“The famous Demon Prosecutor Miles Edgeworth?”
“Demon?” Mr. Wright considered it. “It’s been a long time since I’ve heard that nickname. Fitting, in a way.”
“We learned about him in law school. Along with the legendary Phoenix Wright.” Apollo didn’t know why he was bringing up his resentment suddenly. He felt too numb to control his own words. First, family. Second, gods? It was just too much. The entire world was going crazy, but he refused to go along with it. Ignoring it, though, didn’t seem to do much. Mr. Wright was determined to tell him things he never wanted to know.
“And now, Damon Gant.” Mr. Wright tapped the newspaper. “Your own father.”
Apparently Apollo had been wrong. He was shocked at the ridiculous revelation.
“Titans,” Mr. Wright said, staring distantly. “Most likely. Trucy’s too young, and you’re the only one—“
“Hold it.” Apollo delivered the line quietly, but it was enough to silence Mr. Wright. It was rare that Apollo exhibited that much power over him.
“So what you’re trying to tell me,” he said quietly, “Is that not only that Lamiroir is my mother, Trucy my sister, Damon Gant my father—but that I’m a god?”
“Yes,” Mr. Wright said simply.
It was good that the courtyard was empty, because Apollo’s Chords of Steel suddenly echoed on the buildings. “Are you crazy?”
He tore the newspaper from Mr. Wright’s hands and tossed it to the ground in a fit of anger. “I’m not a god! I have to gel my hair every morning, and I work hard to win cases! I don’t go around playing a lute, and I don’t control the sun, and you’re not a phoenix—that’s just your name!”
He couldn’t ignore it any longer. Mr. Wright must be lying to trick him, and Apollo ignored the honest glean in Mr. Wright’s eyes as he continued to rant and shout and gesticulate wildly.
“Trucy isn’t a goddess! She’s a magician who does—does really weird tricks! And you don’t fly and you don’t go into flames, and—and you’re not a phoenix and you don’t die every five hundred years and you don’t get reborn, and I don’t stop every morning to hear your song—“
Apollo took a deep breath. “This is crazy.”
“But it’s true.” Mr. Wright regarded him deeply. “And we’re running out of time.”
“Time for—for Titans?” Apollo tugged at his own hair in frustration. “Look, just—just leave, and I won’t tell Trucy that you told me these things.”
Mr. Wright looked at him. “Maybe you need more time,” he said.
“No! No more time! Just stop it! This isn’t funny.” Apollo crossed his arms angrily. He waited as Mr. Wright slowly lumbered up from the bench, becoming an old man in a matter of minutes.
“Apollo . . . “
“Leave!”
It came out more of an order than Apollo had expected, but even more to his surprise, Mr. Wright bowed slightly, in a ‘as you wish’ type of way, and turned around to lumber outside the black gates. For as long as he had known him, Mr. Wright had only gone when he wanted to, not when Apollo wanted him to. Apollo felt a sudden chill, and he gripped at his bracelet.
When he was younger, and been afraid of being alone, he would grip the bracelet to sleep. Not because it had come from his mother, but simply because there was a warmth in there that always soothed his nightmares. He felt safer touching his bracelet.
So, slowly, he slipped off his bracelet, and on a whim, he looked through at it directly at Mr. Wright.
Instead of seeing the man, he saw the glimpse of a bird—no, not a bird—a condor—no, not a condor, not a hawk—a phoenix—with its long, elegant neck with plumes of raging fire fierce and hot that burned his softened skin and each feather magnesium white and each fringe burning orange and black and red and it was beautiful enough so that he almost dropped his bracelet.
He tried to say something, but he couldn’t. He licked his lips, and tried again, but he still couldn’t. It was as if the heat of the phoenix had suddenly taken away his ability to speak, and his throat was parched. He slipped the bracelet back onto his wrist.
“Mr. Wright,” he finally choked.
The man turned.
“. . . I’ll listen.”
And that night, he dreamed a dream that was nothing more than fantasy, that had happened in reality.
He dreamt he heard the phoenix’s song, a sweet tune, beautiful and ferocious, capturing the flickers of fire, of enduring life, of living, of the five hundred years, meeting men and women and children, the precious sights, the feelings, the emotions, and the end of the years to the burning blackened death to the young wet rebirth while the flames were still damp but each sight brought a new delight, and Apollo listened on his chariot, his horses pawing on the light clouds, as he brought the sun into the air.