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i cried the rain that filled the ocean wide;
Notes: Part 1/3 of the GG of the AA. Prompt found here. Second draft.
Tentative Titles: Turnabout Greek Gods/Weren't They Just Defense Attorneys
[prologue]
Night had fallen damply over the town, suffocating the inhabitants. The midnight hour had struck from the tall clock tower on the east of the town. In a small, unlit office, Phoenix Wright sat alone in a room, bottle of grape juice in his hand. He took a long drink before clinking the bottle against the floor. He leaned over his knees and folded his hands.
A dark figure suddenly fluttered on the open windowsill, shadowing the moonlight.
“Good evening.”
The owl gave a cry, and ruffled its plumes of downy brown. Its fierce yellow eyes quizzically sought out the figure, head nodding at right angles.
“Did Mia send you?”
The owl hopped closer, spreading its wings.
“Kristoph . . . ?” Phoenix Wright laughed, though the mirth did not reach his eyes. Instead, he found the ace of spades from his pocket, and began to play magic tricks with it. He slipped it from one sleeve to another, but fumbled along the way, and it dropped onto the floor.
“I thought I protected him,” he murmured, “No safer place than behind bars.” Crumpling the card, he dropped it into the now empty bottle.
“I’m no good at magic tricks,” he said, conversationally. “Trucy tried to teach me, but I couldn’t get the hang of it. My sleight of hand is no good.” He held one hand over the mouth of the bottle. The owl fluffed its feathers disinterestedly.
“. . . Tell Maya that I’ll come with him soon,” he told the watcher of the night. The owl stretched its wings, leaping from the window and soaring away.
Phoenix moved his hand. A fire now burned brightly in the bottle, flickering between blue and white under the green glass. He held up the make-shift lantern. Seven years ago, time had started flowing again. Seven years ago, the sand flowed through the hourglass once more. Seven years ago, the wheel had started to turn.
He snapped his fingers, and the fire extinguished, leaving only black ashes behind.
.part one: phoenix song
Catch the wheel that breaks the butterfly – Oasis, Falling Down
And sometimes he had dreams.
He heard the beating of hooves beneath him, and the wild screams of his muscled horses. He stood atop a chariot, its gold wheels aflame in the sun-fire, and his horse breathed the white marble flame. Sweat dripped from his brow, his hands pressed against the burning reins. The clouds rushed at him, wispy white mist, swirled above him. He was hurtling through the sky, leading the sun.
In the freezing wind, he yearned to hear the song, the soothing song of fire and flame and life and death, the strange melodic tune that screeched and burnt and tore through sound, the most beautiful song in the world—
“Polly!”
He jerked awake, smashing his head on the upper end of the desk. As soon as the throbbing stars disappeared, he found Trucy brushing his walls with a broom, a 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.
“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.
“The state of my toilet has nothing to do with my skill.” However, there were many cases where he felt his argument in court was going down the toilet.
“Of course it does,” Trucy said, “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 shouldn’t be lecturing. His own Anything Agency was crammed full of magician’s equipment, or what seemed to be magician’s equipment. Every time Apollo stepped on a ball, it seemed like three more balls would magically appear beneath him.
“Why are you cleaning my walls with a broom?” he asked.
“It doesn’t matter what you use as long as it works, right?” Trucy tapped her chin thoughtfully. “Oh! I should have used a vacuum!”
“I think that idea sucks.” Trying to distract her from ruining his walls, he switched tactics. “Don’t you have school today?”
“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 dragged away, a suspicious old man in a room full of teenagers.
“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 what about you? Dating any nice girls?”
“That’s—I think it’s time I walked you home.”
“It’s a good thing that you’re coming with me,” Trucy said, tipping her hat. “Daddy is really worried about the earthquakes. But with you around, there’s no need to fear!”
Apollo wondered if Trucy expected him to battle down the earthquake in her defense. But as much as he hated to admit it, Mr. Wright was right. There had been a string of earthquakes nearby recently.
He played with his bracelet distractedly. For once, he was glad to shepherd Trucy. She was like the big-little sister that he never knew he had, and he wanted to protect her. (Though in a battle against an earthquake, he had the feeling that he wouldn’t be the victor.)
After a brief struggle with Trucy to put on her coat, they set down the street to the Wright Anything Agency. The sun overhead shone brightly on the cloudless day, its rays gentle but firm. Despite the sun, a cold wind had stirred up, a haunting wind that even flattened Apollo’s gelled hair.
“It’s gotten cold lately,” he said unhappily, trying to pathetically prop up his bangs.
“It’s a bad kind of wind,” Trucy said, gripping the clasp of her cape. “It feels like . . . like a graveyard wind, you know?”
Apollo had to agree. The blowing wind chilled him enough that he’d grabbed at his bracelet subconsciously, and the cold penetrated into his bones, biting like cold steel.
Suddenly, he felt like someone was watching him. But the entire street, save for a young boy playing jacks in the park, was empty. The stores had only begun to light up, greasy red lights and phantom blue flickering signs. Only the ancient graveyard, enclosed between twin black gates, stood as an abnormality. He could see a stone angel standing on the ledge next to a row of dirty white tombstones. And he could see white butterflies darting between the tombstones, swaying in the wind like delicate petals, for a brief moment.
“Polly?” Trucy stood at the corner of the street, waiting.
“Uh, sorry,” he said, glancing backwards again. He touched his bracelet, and then hurried his pace to catch up to Trucy. He didn’t notice an owl fluttering to a nearby branch, its curious eyes reflecting his every move.
--
Apollo juggled the cold key in his hands as Trucy bounced into the Agency, producing a small bouquet of flowers from her cape in a flourish.
“Daddy! I’m home!”
Mr. Wright had been on his cell phone with someone. “I’ll call you back,” he said, and before he shut the phone, Apollo could hear the tinny tune of a Gavinners rock song in the background. It irritated him that everybody still seemed to be into them, and that Klavier blasted their songs in his office.
Mr. Wright dropped his cell phone in favor of gripping Trucy in a small hug. She giggled and fondly threw herself around his shoulders. Apollo shifted his weight from one foot to another uneasily, and suddenly found an enormous interest in the brown loafer shoes.
His hand dropped to wrap around his bracelet.
“Apollo, stay for dinner!” Trucy said, releasing the grip on Mr. Wright. She tapped her hat and winked. “We’re having Daddy’s Special!”
Apollo hated Mr. Wright’s Special. It tasted terrible, and the only thing “special” about it was that it tasted like shoes. The seaweed green concoction was likely just the unwanted cabbages from the grocery store, stewed to the point where they tasted less like rotting vegetables and more like rotting footwear.
But for some reason, he always agreed to stay.
After dinner, Apollo washed the dishes and served them some chilled drinks, to his irritation, and afterwards washed Trucy’s Zappy Samurai cup and Mr. Wright’s coffee mug which had a label that read in a girl’s scrawled handwriting, “I won a court case against Prosecutor Godot and all I got was this coffee mug.”
“I guess I’ll go now,” Apollo said, drying his hands on a fading pink towel.
“Wait,” Mr. Wright said, leaning back from the sofa. “I need you to do one more thing.”
“What? Take out your recycle? Because I already did that.” Triumphantly, he crossed his arms in front of his chest. Take that, Mr. Wright! He already did his chores! That technically Mr. Wright was supposed to do! Suddenly his triumph felt hollow.
“Oh, that.” Mr. Wright gazed off into the distance. “No, it’s something else. I’ll tell you after I tuck Trucy to sleep.” Trucy had already headed upstairs to brush her teeth, and Mr. Wright slowly lumbered up the stairs to follow.
Apollo had a bad gut feeling about staying behind. It felt like the principal had called him in for a “special talk.” Uneasily, he sat precariously on the edge of the sofa. The stifling silence settled too heavily on his shoulders, so he cleared his throat loudly to warm up his Chords of Steel, and began to hum.
It felt like an ancient music, one that traveled through his red blood. For as long as he could remember, he knew the haunting tune. It was from a place that was far forgotten from his memory. The pitch slowly rose and fell, never stopping, flowing and exploding like sparks of fire flying into the air. But he was always discontented with his own humming.
His song always seemed lacking.
“Nice tune,” said a voice behind him.
Apollo stopped in mid-note.
Mr. Wright appeared before him, with the typical lazy smile and absent-minded look in his eyes. He sat on the opposing side, fingers searching for food. He crinkled the sharp plastic on the slightly-squished bread hiding behind the teapot. Apollo felt mildly injured that bread impeded their serious talk.
“Lamiroir should have told you this,” Mr. Wright said, suddenly serious, or as serious as anybody could get with a flake of jam on their mouth. He wiped it away with a stray napkin.
“Lamiroir?” Apollo still remembered when she first came to see him and Trucy after her eye operation. She had gazed upon them tenderly and regretfully. She had touched them both, in a frightened, bird-like manner, white hands fluttering scared.
“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. Even if he did leave, he would probably just play fifteen games of Solitaire in a row, losing all of them.
“She’s, uh, nice.”
“Really? That’s good.” Mr. Wright’s gaze unfocused again.
Solitaire sounded better and better with every passing second.
“I guess there’s no good way of telling you this.” He put down his half-eaten bread, and his hands went limp over his knees. 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.”
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, of course Trucy was his sister in a sense, but 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.
“That bracelet. She gave one to you, when you were just a child. 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’s looked too kind, abnormal to his usual disgruntled expression. Apollo wished he wouldn’t look so kind. “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. It suddenly felt like time had stopped in him, but the world around him continued to move, its colors suddenly altering and shifting and changing.
“Would that make you my son?” Mr. Wright mused, and Apollo detected disappointment. “I guess you can call me Daddy, too.”
“Who’d be able to adapt so easily to that?!” Apollo didn’t let Mr. Wright answer. “Look, I’m sorry, but this is—unbelievable. 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 nearest shopping mall.”
Mr. Wright had a wizened look in his eyes. This was not a new conversation to him. “Only you and Trucy have the skill to perceive.”
“It’s not like it’s anything special, it’s just—” Apollo suddenly realized that his hands were trembling. “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—”
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 grape juice and warmth like no other, in the scratchiness 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 thought, 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 red 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. His head had begun to ache.
“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 ripped the straw from an apple juice box, and stuck it in for a satisfying slurp in the ensuing silence.
--
Apollo had forgotten that he had promised to meet at the playground to watch Trucy’s magic show for the children. He felt awkward seeing Mr. Wright again after he had stormed out of the Agency the night before. But he had good reason to run out! The last joke had been the straw to break his back, and his poor back was already bruised with Mr. Wright’s poking.
But seeing Trucy was twenty times more awkward than that.
“Are you all right?” Trucy asked, bouncing on her white boots. She tried to look Apollo in the eyes, but he expertly avoided eye contact by gazing adamantly at the shady trees above.
“I’m fine!” he said, in his Chords of Steel voice. “I’m perfectly fine!”
“Are you sure?” Trucy fiddled with her fingers nervously. “If you’re sick, you didn’t have to come. You’d just have to pay a small compensation fee.”
“Why would I have to pay a compensation fee for—” He had snapped his head downwards from the outrage of that statement, and found himself looking into Trucy’s cheerful brown eyes. With a furious blush, he doubled backwards. Trucy laughed.
“It’s almost time,” Mr. Wright said. “You should set up for your stage.” He cocked his head the crowd of awaiting children. Trucy gathered her props, almost dropping her Santa statuette, and bounced over to her table. Apollo still felt his face burning red, but he had no choice but to sit next to Mr. Wright on the green wooden bench.
A group of children crowded around Trucy, their high-pitched voices overlapping each other. Mothers fringed the edges, pushing baby carriages and carrying extra wipes and clutching to fake designer purses. Late fall had been kind to the trees, and at the gust of wind, crisp red and brown leaves scattered to pieces on the dirt. Some even got into Apollo’s mouth.
There was an awkward silence.
“Maybe I should sing,” Mr. Wright said thoughtfully.
“No.”
“It’s better than my piano playing.” Mr. Wright smiled at him. “You used to stop by and listen to it.” Apollo didn’t even bother to counter the ridiculous statement with a rebuttal. If he had ever heard Mr. Wright sing, it would have been the awful crowing in the shower he overheard when he made dinner.
A few concerned mothers deposited change at Mr. Wright’s feet, which he took and thanked politely.
“We used to have a cat.” Mr. Wright counted the change in the palm of his hand. The sun burned dimly, hidden by a few wandering clouds. But even what little of the sunlight couldn’t warm Apollo. The same graveyard whisper blew through the playground, tussling hair and tugging maliciously at shirts, targeting the wet eyes and the bare skin.
“That’s nice,” he said distractedly.
“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 ever find him?”
“No.” Mr. Wright smiled and waved at Trucy, who had pulled another frozen turkey from her magic underwear. “We can’t seem to keep a pet.”
“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 growing up,” Mr. Wright said, gazing at her fondly. “I’m glad I don’t have to worry about boys.” Apollo couldn’t help but watch the small wrinkles appear around his eyes in amusement of Trucy’s tricks. He couldn’t stare for long, though, and broke gaze to glare at his fumbling hands.
“Why not?”
“She doesn’t have much interest in boys.” Mr. Wright chuckled. “Or girls, if that’s what you’re thinking.” It wasn’t. Apollo was considering the two facts, trying to click them together to see what Mr. Wright was trying to tell him in the roundabout way. They sounded familiar, something from his grade school classes that itched in the back of his mind. He tried to remember what Mr. Wright had been telling him the night before.
“. . . Almost sounds like something from a Greek myth,” he said slowly.
Mr. Wright shrugged. “What a coincidence,” he said, mirthfully.
“Don’t tell me you’re trying to tell me Trucy is a Goddess,” Apollo said, scowling. “It’s a bad joke.” In the distance, Trucy pulled out another jar of peanut butter from her magic panties.
“Have you had any memories about being a God?” Mr. Wright asked, angling his head for a better view of his daughter.
“No.” Apollo tried to remember his dream from yesterday, but it stayed out of his grasp. He licked his lips unconsciously, but still couldn’t visualize more than fragments of a broken sky.
“. . . I see.” There was disappointment in his voice, with an inch of something more.
“You’re missing the point,” Apollo said. “There’s no way I could be a Greek God. I mean, even if I was, which one would I be?”
“Guess,” Mr. Wright said, smiling.
Apollo could make a wild speculation. “What about your name?”
“Phoenix?” Mr. Wright stroked his stubble, one arm casually slung over the bench. “No, I chose the name. I’m born from myself.”
“. . . Uh, right.” There was no good response to that. “You didn’t have any parents?”
“No,” Mr. Wright said, simply. “I never felt like anything was missing from my life.”
Apollo wished he could have had that type of unawareness when he was younger. But he pushed down the revolting feelings of loneliness and tried to focus. “Why would you even say that I’m—I’m Apollo?”
“Because,” Mr. Wright said, with a wry smile, “I always know who Apollo is.” Now that there were two Apollos, Apollo was getting mixed up. But deciding to relinquish the conversation, he slumped against the curved seat and pushed at his forehead for a short while. The sun still hid behind the dark clouds, and the wind bit at his fingers and face.
“It’s cold,” Mr. Wright said.
“Why don’t you just light up like a phoenix and warm yourself up?” Apollo said, surprised at his own spite. He played with his bracelet nervously.
Mr. Wright laughed. “It doesn’t work like that,” he said, amused. “I’m always in my phoenix form. I just only allow certain people to see it.”
“It works however you like it when you like it,” Apollo grumbled. Particularly agitated, he gave another hard twist to his bracelet.
“You ever take the bracelet off?” he asked, too casually.
“Uh, no.” And now why would he, when it was his only connection to his mother?
“You should try it,” Mr. Wright said. “But don’t lose it.” Apollo was about to tell him that he already knew that and had known that for twenty-two years, but Trucy was already bouncing towards them, and as if on some signal, they stopped talking. She glanced at one, then another, suspicious. Pouting, she put her hands on her hips and glared.
“I was going to give you some candy,” Trucy said, holding out her payment of half-melted Snickers, “But if you’re going to just ignore me, then I’m not going to give you your piece, Polly!”
“I don’t want any!” And why wasn’t Trucy targeting Mr. Wright? And why would he have only gotten one, anyway? Indignantly, Apollo glared at her before remembering, and abruptly turned away. There was something about the shape of her face and her eyes that reminded too much of himself.
“. . . Hey, Polly.” Trucy suddenly looked like a wounded puppy. “Did I do something wrong? I promise to stop stealing your pudding.”
“You promised that already,” he said, “and you never stopped.”
“Well, I promise again! This time, on my sailor’s honor!”
“You’re not a sailor!”
Somewhere in the conversation, he forgot about Mr. Wright, and by the time he had reached his own house, he realized there hadn’t been any conclusion. Not that there needed to be a conclusion. He wasn’t a Greek God; he was just a novice defense attorney who wanted to learn more about truth and justice.
But sitting alone in his apartment, watching only the pale flicker of his aquarium fish, he wished that Mr. Wright had said what had been unsaid between them.
--
And sometimes he dreamt.
The wispy clouds tasted dry in his mouth. Straining with his arms, he pulled back the fiery horses whose manes were tipped in golden flames, and rose higher into the air to the nest of myrrh, brown and crisp, the trees scorched and the mountains burnt into black ashes. He yearned to hear that song, which quenched his thirst and filled his belly, the beauteous melody that singed and fired and melted. At the top of the nest, he saw the beginning of white flumes, and he waited, to hear the most beautiful song in the world—
He woke up abruptly. This time, he had only been sitting on his couch in the dark, coat half-draped across his lap. The fishes across from him darted back and forth in their blue cage, as the colorful shadows cast upon his hands. His head hurt, and he tried to remember his dream, because it felt like there was something he needed to remember. But only fragments swam through his head, something about fire.
Shrugging off his dream, he shuffled to the aquarium for his fishes. Trucy had named them aptly, starting with Blue Squiggle, Red Pucker Fish, and Apollo Jr. He always felt offended that Apollo Jr. was the miniature red fish that stayed in the fake castle, and occasionally got harassed by other fishes. He always tried to feed his namesake a few more flakes in sympathy. Reminded, he reached for the fish food.
There was almost none left in the can. Glancing at the blinking digital clock, he saw that it was nearly midnight. There was no helping it, then. He wouldn’t be able to get to sleep anyway, not after ambiguous dreams like those. Grabbing his jacket, he left his apartment and stalked down the cold street.
A few people remained on the suburban street, though most were leaving for the night club scene. Glamorously dressed women in short gold dresses and informally dressed men in sweatshirts and jeans left the houses in small packs. The artificial store signs dimly peered onto the slick, oily streets, arrayed on the cobble path.
Apollo quietly purchased the fish food, and began the slow walk to his house. The brightly lit television store next door showed various news stations on its storefront. He paused in front of the store, looking disinterestedly from channel to channel. There was a crisp British woman reporting the recent volcano eruptions in the east. A newsman with a fake toupee solemnly informed of the recent tidal waves near Borginia. A more local channel discussed about the recent disappearance of a convict. And on the last, small television, a group of meteorologists were gathered to discuss the apparent string of weather abnormalities.
“Anything interesting?” a voice said behind him.
“Gyah!” Apollo sprang backwards, plastic bag of fish food hitting him on the chest as he assumed the perfect model of self-defense, which was to have one arm over his face and the other raised above his head. When he peered out into the darkness, he saw Mr. Wright standing in front of him, an irritatingly amused look on his face.
“Don’t scare me,” he said, slumping in relief. “I thought you were a robber.”
“We’re not so bad off that we need your fish food,” Mr. Wright said. He gazed into the distance thoughtfully. “People seem to give me money if I sit on a bench.”
Apollo didn’t bother to explain it to him. “It’s expensive fish food. Mr. Gavin only wanted the best for the fish he left me. Or I think he left them to me. I didn’t know what else to do with them after he left his office. After I got fired.” The more he talked, the more depressed he got.
“Maybe I should give it a try,” Mr. Wright said. Apollo had the feeling that Mr. Wright wasn’t talking about raising fishes, but eating the expensive fish food. He curled his arm protectively around the bag.
“What are you doing here?”
“Oh, me?” Mr. Wright scratched under his chin. “Looking for you.”
“And you just happened to stumble on me.”
“No,” Mr. Wright said. “I always know where you are.”
Apollo bet Mr. Wright knew every step he took and every breath he made, too, but that seemed too much like Prosecutor Gavin to say out loud.
“Okay, fine. You found me. What do you want?” He knew it was a lost cause to try and focus Mr. Wright’s eternally wandering attention. His boss idly watched a news channel, the artificial colors swarming across his face rapidly.
“Did you hear about the disappearance of a convict from prison?” Mr. Wright asked suddenly. “It’s interesting.”
“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.”
“Sure. 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 carefully, as if explaining this to a kindergartener, “but when Trucy makes my pudding disappear, it’s not exactly magic.”
“His disappearance means 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. “I’m a defense attorney too, remember? I did some research.” On Wikipedia.
“No,” Mr. Wright said, looking disappointed he couldn’t mock Apollo, “I have some years yet. But a bigger trouble is coming, and I need your help.” His face seemed to glow with a flicker of flames, which none of the televisions displayed.
“Really.” Apollo still had his doubts.
“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.
“There’s a bigger trouble brewing,” Mr. Wright said. “I haven’t heard from Miles Edgeworth for seven years.” 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. “That’s 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. The situation 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 rapped at the window glass. “Your own father.”
Apparently Apollo had been wrong. He was shocked at the ridiculous revelation.
“Titans,” Mr. Wright said, staring distantly. “Most likely.”
“Hold it.” Apollo delivered the line quietly, but it was enough to silence Mr. Wright, to even Apollo’s surprise
“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 streets were mostly empty, because Apollo’s Chords of Steel suddenly echoed on the buildings. “Are you crazy?”
“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 get sunburned like everybody else, 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—“
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..
“Apollo . . .”
“Just leave me alone!”
It came out more of an order than Apollo had expected, but even more to his surprise, Mr. Wright bowed slightly, in an almost respectful manner, and lumbered away from the light. 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 as the ghost wind returned, and he gripped at his bracelet.
When he was younger, he needed his bracelet to sleep. Not because it had come from his mother, but simply because there was 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 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, listened to the song that held the note of sorrow, as he listened to the most beautiful song in the world.
Tentative Titles: Turnabout Greek Gods/Weren't They Just Defense Attorneys
[prologue]
Night had fallen damply over the town, suffocating the inhabitants. The midnight hour had struck from the tall clock tower on the east of the town. In a small, unlit office, Phoenix Wright sat alone in a room, bottle of grape juice in his hand. He took a long drink before clinking the bottle against the floor. He leaned over his knees and folded his hands.
A dark figure suddenly fluttered on the open windowsill, shadowing the moonlight.
“Good evening.”
The owl gave a cry, and ruffled its plumes of downy brown. Its fierce yellow eyes quizzically sought out the figure, head nodding at right angles.
“Did Mia send you?”
The owl hopped closer, spreading its wings.
“Kristoph . . . ?” Phoenix Wright laughed, though the mirth did not reach his eyes. Instead, he found the ace of spades from his pocket, and began to play magic tricks with it. He slipped it from one sleeve to another, but fumbled along the way, and it dropped onto the floor.
“I thought I protected him,” he murmured, “No safer place than behind bars.” Crumpling the card, he dropped it into the now empty bottle.
“I’m no good at magic tricks,” he said, conversationally. “Trucy tried to teach me, but I couldn’t get the hang of it. My sleight of hand is no good.” He held one hand over the mouth of the bottle. The owl fluffed its feathers disinterestedly.
“. . . Tell Maya that I’ll come with him soon,” he told the watcher of the night. The owl stretched its wings, leaping from the window and soaring away.
Phoenix moved his hand. A fire now burned brightly in the bottle, flickering between blue and white under the green glass. He held up the make-shift lantern. Seven years ago, time had started flowing again. Seven years ago, the sand flowed through the hourglass once more. Seven years ago, the wheel had started to turn.
He snapped his fingers, and the fire extinguished, leaving only black ashes behind.
.part one: phoenix song
Catch the wheel that breaks the butterfly – Oasis, Falling Down
And sometimes he had dreams.
He heard the beating of hooves beneath him, and the wild screams of his muscled horses. He stood atop a chariot, its gold wheels aflame in the sun-fire, and his horse breathed the white marble flame. Sweat dripped from his brow, his hands pressed against the burning reins. The clouds rushed at him, wispy white mist, swirled above him. He was hurtling through the sky, leading the sun.
In the freezing wind, he yearned to hear the song, the soothing song of fire and flame and life and death, the strange melodic tune that screeched and burnt and tore through sound, the most beautiful song in the world—
“Polly!”
He jerked awake, smashing his head on the upper end of the desk. As soon as the throbbing stars disappeared, he found Trucy brushing his walls with a broom, a 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.
“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.
“The state of my toilet has nothing to do with my skill.” However, there were many cases where he felt his argument in court was going down the toilet.
“Of course it does,” Trucy said, “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 shouldn’t be lecturing. His own Anything Agency was crammed full of magician’s equipment, or what seemed to be magician’s equipment. Every time Apollo stepped on a ball, it seemed like three more balls would magically appear beneath him.
“Why are you cleaning my walls with a broom?” he asked.
“It doesn’t matter what you use as long as it works, right?” Trucy tapped her chin thoughtfully. “Oh! I should have used a vacuum!”
“I think that idea sucks.” Trying to distract her from ruining his walls, he switched tactics. “Don’t you have school today?”
“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 dragged away, a suspicious old man in a room full of teenagers.
“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 what about you? Dating any nice girls?”
“That’s—I think it’s time I walked you home.”
“It’s a good thing that you’re coming with me,” Trucy said, tipping her hat. “Daddy is really worried about the earthquakes. But with you around, there’s no need to fear!”
Apollo wondered if Trucy expected him to battle down the earthquake in her defense. But as much as he hated to admit it, Mr. Wright was right. There had been a string of earthquakes nearby recently.
He played with his bracelet distractedly. For once, he was glad to shepherd Trucy. She was like the big-little sister that he never knew he had, and he wanted to protect her. (Though in a battle against an earthquake, he had the feeling that he wouldn’t be the victor.)
After a brief struggle with Trucy to put on her coat, they set down the street to the Wright Anything Agency. The sun overhead shone brightly on the cloudless day, its rays gentle but firm. Despite the sun, a cold wind had stirred up, a haunting wind that even flattened Apollo’s gelled hair.
“It’s gotten cold lately,” he said unhappily, trying to pathetically prop up his bangs.
“It’s a bad kind of wind,” Trucy said, gripping the clasp of her cape. “It feels like . . . like a graveyard wind, you know?”
Apollo had to agree. The blowing wind chilled him enough that he’d grabbed at his bracelet subconsciously, and the cold penetrated into his bones, biting like cold steel.
Suddenly, he felt like someone was watching him. But the entire street, save for a young boy playing jacks in the park, was empty. The stores had only begun to light up, greasy red lights and phantom blue flickering signs. Only the ancient graveyard, enclosed between twin black gates, stood as an abnormality. He could see a stone angel standing on the ledge next to a row of dirty white tombstones. And he could see white butterflies darting between the tombstones, swaying in the wind like delicate petals, for a brief moment.
“Polly?” Trucy stood at the corner of the street, waiting.
“Uh, sorry,” he said, glancing backwards again. He touched his bracelet, and then hurried his pace to catch up to Trucy. He didn’t notice an owl fluttering to a nearby branch, its curious eyes reflecting his every move.
--
Apollo juggled the cold key in his hands as Trucy bounced into the Agency, producing a small bouquet of flowers from her cape in a flourish.
“Daddy! I’m home!”
Mr. Wright had been on his cell phone with someone. “I’ll call you back,” he said, and before he shut the phone, Apollo could hear the tinny tune of a Gavinners rock song in the background. It irritated him that everybody still seemed to be into them, and that Klavier blasted their songs in his office.
Mr. Wright dropped his cell phone in favor of gripping Trucy in a small hug. She giggled and fondly threw herself around his shoulders. Apollo shifted his weight from one foot to another uneasily, and suddenly found an enormous interest in the brown loafer shoes.
His hand dropped to wrap around his bracelet.
“Apollo, stay for dinner!” Trucy said, releasing the grip on Mr. Wright. She tapped her hat and winked. “We’re having Daddy’s Special!”
Apollo hated Mr. Wright’s Special. It tasted terrible, and the only thing “special” about it was that it tasted like shoes. The seaweed green concoction was likely just the unwanted cabbages from the grocery store, stewed to the point where they tasted less like rotting vegetables and more like rotting footwear.
But for some reason, he always agreed to stay.
After dinner, Apollo washed the dishes and served them some chilled drinks, to his irritation, and afterwards washed Trucy’s Zappy Samurai cup and Mr. Wright’s coffee mug which had a label that read in a girl’s scrawled handwriting, “I won a court case against Prosecutor Godot and all I got was this coffee mug.”
“I guess I’ll go now,” Apollo said, drying his hands on a fading pink towel.
“Wait,” Mr. Wright said, leaning back from the sofa. “I need you to do one more thing.”
“What? Take out your recycle? Because I already did that.” Triumphantly, he crossed his arms in front of his chest. Take that, Mr. Wright! He already did his chores! That technically Mr. Wright was supposed to do! Suddenly his triumph felt hollow.
“Oh, that.” Mr. Wright gazed off into the distance. “No, it’s something else. I’ll tell you after I tuck Trucy to sleep.” Trucy had already headed upstairs to brush her teeth, and Mr. Wright slowly lumbered up the stairs to follow.
Apollo had a bad gut feeling about staying behind. It felt like the principal had called him in for a “special talk.” Uneasily, he sat precariously on the edge of the sofa. The stifling silence settled too heavily on his shoulders, so he cleared his throat loudly to warm up his Chords of Steel, and began to hum.
It felt like an ancient music, one that traveled through his red blood. For as long as he could remember, he knew the haunting tune. It was from a place that was far forgotten from his memory. The pitch slowly rose and fell, never stopping, flowing and exploding like sparks of fire flying into the air. But he was always discontented with his own humming.
His song always seemed lacking.
“Nice tune,” said a voice behind him.
Apollo stopped in mid-note.
Mr. Wright appeared before him, with the typical lazy smile and absent-minded look in his eyes. He sat on the opposing side, fingers searching for food. He crinkled the sharp plastic on the slightly-squished bread hiding behind the teapot. Apollo felt mildly injured that bread impeded their serious talk.
“Lamiroir should have told you this,” Mr. Wright said, suddenly serious, or as serious as anybody could get with a flake of jam on their mouth. He wiped it away with a stray napkin.
“Lamiroir?” Apollo still remembered when she first came to see him and Trucy after her eye operation. She had gazed upon them tenderly and regretfully. She had touched them both, in a frightened, bird-like manner, white hands fluttering scared.
“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. Even if he did leave, he would probably just play fifteen games of Solitaire in a row, losing all of them.
“She’s, uh, nice.”
“Really? That’s good.” Mr. Wright’s gaze unfocused again.
Solitaire sounded better and better with every passing second.
“I guess there’s no good way of telling you this.” He put down his half-eaten bread, and his hands went limp over his knees. 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.”
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, of course Trucy was his sister in a sense, but 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.
“That bracelet. She gave one to you, when you were just a child. 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’s looked too kind, abnormal to his usual disgruntled expression. Apollo wished he wouldn’t look so kind. “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. It suddenly felt like time had stopped in him, but the world around him continued to move, its colors suddenly altering and shifting and changing.
“Would that make you my son?” Mr. Wright mused, and Apollo detected disappointment. “I guess you can call me Daddy, too.”
“Who’d be able to adapt so easily to that?!” Apollo didn’t let Mr. Wright answer. “Look, I’m sorry, but this is—unbelievable. 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 nearest shopping mall.”
Mr. Wright had a wizened look in his eyes. This was not a new conversation to him. “Only you and Trucy have the skill to perceive.”
“It’s not like it’s anything special, it’s just—” Apollo suddenly realized that his hands were trembling. “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—”
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 grape juice and warmth like no other, in the scratchiness 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 thought, 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 red 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. His head had begun to ache.
“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 ripped the straw from an apple juice box, and stuck it in for a satisfying slurp in the ensuing silence.
--
Apollo had forgotten that he had promised to meet at the playground to watch Trucy’s magic show for the children. He felt awkward seeing Mr. Wright again after he had stormed out of the Agency the night before. But he had good reason to run out! The last joke had been the straw to break his back, and his poor back was already bruised with Mr. Wright’s poking.
But seeing Trucy was twenty times more awkward than that.
“Are you all right?” Trucy asked, bouncing on her white boots. She tried to look Apollo in the eyes, but he expertly avoided eye contact by gazing adamantly at the shady trees above.
“I’m fine!” he said, in his Chords of Steel voice. “I’m perfectly fine!”
“Are you sure?” Trucy fiddled with her fingers nervously. “If you’re sick, you didn’t have to come. You’d just have to pay a small compensation fee.”
“Why would I have to pay a compensation fee for—” He had snapped his head downwards from the outrage of that statement, and found himself looking into Trucy’s cheerful brown eyes. With a furious blush, he doubled backwards. Trucy laughed.
“It’s almost time,” Mr. Wright said. “You should set up for your stage.” He cocked his head the crowd of awaiting children. Trucy gathered her props, almost dropping her Santa statuette, and bounced over to her table. Apollo still felt his face burning red, but he had no choice but to sit next to Mr. Wright on the green wooden bench.
A group of children crowded around Trucy, their high-pitched voices overlapping each other. Mothers fringed the edges, pushing baby carriages and carrying extra wipes and clutching to fake designer purses. Late fall had been kind to the trees, and at the gust of wind, crisp red and brown leaves scattered to pieces on the dirt. Some even got into Apollo’s mouth.
There was an awkward silence.
“Maybe I should sing,” Mr. Wright said thoughtfully.
“No.”
“It’s better than my piano playing.” Mr. Wright smiled at him. “You used to stop by and listen to it.” Apollo didn’t even bother to counter the ridiculous statement with a rebuttal. If he had ever heard Mr. Wright sing, it would have been the awful crowing in the shower he overheard when he made dinner.
A few concerned mothers deposited change at Mr. Wright’s feet, which he took and thanked politely.
“We used to have a cat.” Mr. Wright counted the change in the palm of his hand. The sun burned dimly, hidden by a few wandering clouds. But even what little of the sunlight couldn’t warm Apollo. The same graveyard whisper blew through the playground, tussling hair and tugging maliciously at shirts, targeting the wet eyes and the bare skin.
“That’s nice,” he said distractedly.
“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 ever find him?”
“No.” Mr. Wright smiled and waved at Trucy, who had pulled another frozen turkey from her magic underwear. “We can’t seem to keep a pet.”
“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 growing up,” Mr. Wright said, gazing at her fondly. “I’m glad I don’t have to worry about boys.” Apollo couldn’t help but watch the small wrinkles appear around his eyes in amusement of Trucy’s tricks. He couldn’t stare for long, though, and broke gaze to glare at his fumbling hands.
“Why not?”
“She doesn’t have much interest in boys.” Mr. Wright chuckled. “Or girls, if that’s what you’re thinking.” It wasn’t. Apollo was considering the two facts, trying to click them together to see what Mr. Wright was trying to tell him in the roundabout way. They sounded familiar, something from his grade school classes that itched in the back of his mind. He tried to remember what Mr. Wright had been telling him the night before.
“. . . Almost sounds like something from a Greek myth,” he said slowly.
Mr. Wright shrugged. “What a coincidence,” he said, mirthfully.
“Don’t tell me you’re trying to tell me Trucy is a Goddess,” Apollo said, scowling. “It’s a bad joke.” In the distance, Trucy pulled out another jar of peanut butter from her magic panties.
“Have you had any memories about being a God?” Mr. Wright asked, angling his head for a better view of his daughter.
“No.” Apollo tried to remember his dream from yesterday, but it stayed out of his grasp. He licked his lips unconsciously, but still couldn’t visualize more than fragments of a broken sky.
“. . . I see.” There was disappointment in his voice, with an inch of something more.
“You’re missing the point,” Apollo said. “There’s no way I could be a Greek God. I mean, even if I was, which one would I be?”
“Guess,” Mr. Wright said, smiling.
Apollo could make a wild speculation. “What about your name?”
“Phoenix?” Mr. Wright stroked his stubble, one arm casually slung over the bench. “No, I chose the name. I’m born from myself.”
“. . . Uh, right.” There was no good response to that. “You didn’t have any parents?”
“No,” Mr. Wright said, simply. “I never felt like anything was missing from my life.”
Apollo wished he could have had that type of unawareness when he was younger. But he pushed down the revolting feelings of loneliness and tried to focus. “Why would you even say that I’m—I’m Apollo?”
“Because,” Mr. Wright said, with a wry smile, “I always know who Apollo is.” Now that there were two Apollos, Apollo was getting mixed up. But deciding to relinquish the conversation, he slumped against the curved seat and pushed at his forehead for a short while. The sun still hid behind the dark clouds, and the wind bit at his fingers and face.
“It’s cold,” Mr. Wright said.
“Why don’t you just light up like a phoenix and warm yourself up?” Apollo said, surprised at his own spite. He played with his bracelet nervously.
Mr. Wright laughed. “It doesn’t work like that,” he said, amused. “I’m always in my phoenix form. I just only allow certain people to see it.”
“It works however you like it when you like it,” Apollo grumbled. Particularly agitated, he gave another hard twist to his bracelet.
“You ever take the bracelet off?” he asked, too casually.
“Uh, no.” And now why would he, when it was his only connection to his mother?
“You should try it,” Mr. Wright said. “But don’t lose it.” Apollo was about to tell him that he already knew that and had known that for twenty-two years, but Trucy was already bouncing towards them, and as if on some signal, they stopped talking. She glanced at one, then another, suspicious. Pouting, she put her hands on her hips and glared.
“I was going to give you some candy,” Trucy said, holding out her payment of half-melted Snickers, “But if you’re going to just ignore me, then I’m not going to give you your piece, Polly!”
“I don’t want any!” And why wasn’t Trucy targeting Mr. Wright? And why would he have only gotten one, anyway? Indignantly, Apollo glared at her before remembering, and abruptly turned away. There was something about the shape of her face and her eyes that reminded too much of himself.
“. . . Hey, Polly.” Trucy suddenly looked like a wounded puppy. “Did I do something wrong? I promise to stop stealing your pudding.”
“You promised that already,” he said, “and you never stopped.”
“Well, I promise again! This time, on my sailor’s honor!”
“You’re not a sailor!”
Somewhere in the conversation, he forgot about Mr. Wright, and by the time he had reached his own house, he realized there hadn’t been any conclusion. Not that there needed to be a conclusion. He wasn’t a Greek God; he was just a novice defense attorney who wanted to learn more about truth and justice.
But sitting alone in his apartment, watching only the pale flicker of his aquarium fish, he wished that Mr. Wright had said what had been unsaid between them.
--
And sometimes he dreamt.
The wispy clouds tasted dry in his mouth. Straining with his arms, he pulled back the fiery horses whose manes were tipped in golden flames, and rose higher into the air to the nest of myrrh, brown and crisp, the trees scorched and the mountains burnt into black ashes. He yearned to hear that song, which quenched his thirst and filled his belly, the beauteous melody that singed and fired and melted. At the top of the nest, he saw the beginning of white flumes, and he waited, to hear the most beautiful song in the world—
He woke up abruptly. This time, he had only been sitting on his couch in the dark, coat half-draped across his lap. The fishes across from him darted back and forth in their blue cage, as the colorful shadows cast upon his hands. His head hurt, and he tried to remember his dream, because it felt like there was something he needed to remember. But only fragments swam through his head, something about fire.
Shrugging off his dream, he shuffled to the aquarium for his fishes. Trucy had named them aptly, starting with Blue Squiggle, Red Pucker Fish, and Apollo Jr. He always felt offended that Apollo Jr. was the miniature red fish that stayed in the fake castle, and occasionally got harassed by other fishes. He always tried to feed his namesake a few more flakes in sympathy. Reminded, he reached for the fish food.
There was almost none left in the can. Glancing at the blinking digital clock, he saw that it was nearly midnight. There was no helping it, then. He wouldn’t be able to get to sleep anyway, not after ambiguous dreams like those. Grabbing his jacket, he left his apartment and stalked down the cold street.
A few people remained on the suburban street, though most were leaving for the night club scene. Glamorously dressed women in short gold dresses and informally dressed men in sweatshirts and jeans left the houses in small packs. The artificial store signs dimly peered onto the slick, oily streets, arrayed on the cobble path.
Apollo quietly purchased the fish food, and began the slow walk to his house. The brightly lit television store next door showed various news stations on its storefront. He paused in front of the store, looking disinterestedly from channel to channel. There was a crisp British woman reporting the recent volcano eruptions in the east. A newsman with a fake toupee solemnly informed of the recent tidal waves near Borginia. A more local channel discussed about the recent disappearance of a convict. And on the last, small television, a group of meteorologists were gathered to discuss the apparent string of weather abnormalities.
“Anything interesting?” a voice said behind him.
“Gyah!” Apollo sprang backwards, plastic bag of fish food hitting him on the chest as he assumed the perfect model of self-defense, which was to have one arm over his face and the other raised above his head. When he peered out into the darkness, he saw Mr. Wright standing in front of him, an irritatingly amused look on his face.
“Don’t scare me,” he said, slumping in relief. “I thought you were a robber.”
“We’re not so bad off that we need your fish food,” Mr. Wright said. He gazed into the distance thoughtfully. “People seem to give me money if I sit on a bench.”
Apollo didn’t bother to explain it to him. “It’s expensive fish food. Mr. Gavin only wanted the best for the fish he left me. Or I think he left them to me. I didn’t know what else to do with them after he left his office. After I got fired.” The more he talked, the more depressed he got.
“Maybe I should give it a try,” Mr. Wright said. Apollo had the feeling that Mr. Wright wasn’t talking about raising fishes, but eating the expensive fish food. He curled his arm protectively around the bag.
“What are you doing here?”
“Oh, me?” Mr. Wright scratched under his chin. “Looking for you.”
“And you just happened to stumble on me.”
“No,” Mr. Wright said. “I always know where you are.”
Apollo bet Mr. Wright knew every step he took and every breath he made, too, but that seemed too much like Prosecutor Gavin to say out loud.
“Okay, fine. You found me. What do you want?” He knew it was a lost cause to try and focus Mr. Wright’s eternally wandering attention. His boss idly watched a news channel, the artificial colors swarming across his face rapidly.
“Did you hear about the disappearance of a convict from prison?” Mr. Wright asked suddenly. “It’s interesting.”
“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.”
“Sure. 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 carefully, as if explaining this to a kindergartener, “but when Trucy makes my pudding disappear, it’s not exactly magic.”
“His disappearance means 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. “I’m a defense attorney too, remember? I did some research.” On Wikipedia.
“No,” Mr. Wright said, looking disappointed he couldn’t mock Apollo, “I have some years yet. But a bigger trouble is coming, and I need your help.” His face seemed to glow with a flicker of flames, which none of the televisions displayed.
“Really.” Apollo still had his doubts.
“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.
“There’s a bigger trouble brewing,” Mr. Wright said. “I haven’t heard from Miles Edgeworth for seven years.” 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. “That’s 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. The situation 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 rapped at the window glass. “Your own father.”
Apparently Apollo had been wrong. He was shocked at the ridiculous revelation.
“Titans,” Mr. Wright said, staring distantly. “Most likely.”
“Hold it.” Apollo delivered the line quietly, but it was enough to silence Mr. Wright, to even Apollo’s surprise
“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 streets were mostly empty, because Apollo’s Chords of Steel suddenly echoed on the buildings. “Are you crazy?”
“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 get sunburned like everybody else, 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—“
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..
“Apollo . . .”
“Just leave me alone!”
It came out more of an order than Apollo had expected, but even more to his surprise, Mr. Wright bowed slightly, in an almost respectful manner, and lumbered away from the light. 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 as the ghost wind returned, and he gripped at his bracelet.
When he was younger, he needed his bracelet to sleep. Not because it had come from his mother, but simply because there was 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 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, listened to the song that held the note of sorrow, as he listened to the most beautiful song in the world.