![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
Entry tags:
where were you when everything was parting apart;
Notes: Part 3/3 of the GG of the AA. Prompt found here. Second draft.
.part three: false god
And yet the crowd applauds below
They would not encore death
– Emily Dickinson, You’ve seen balloons set, haven’t you?
And sometimes he dreamed.
His own son, breathing and living, strong and young, bright and fierce, made him promise by the river Styx, and he loved his son, his beloved son, his precious son, there was no doubt about his heritage, and he never wanted his son to doubt his heritage, to doubt his blood, so he promised the unbreakable oath.
The world was going to ruins, and he couldn’t even get out of bed. There were no cases, no clients, and there hadn’t been for a while. There was little point in going to work, especially when Mr. Wright had stopped seeking him out to talk to him.
He rolled onto his side, looking at his dusty room. Darkness had settled dankly into his hair. The curtains were pulled shut. Trucy hadn’t stopped by lately. He never knew he could feel so disappointed by his sister going to school.
His sister.
That wasn’t a lie, right? He swung his legs over the side of the bed, and rapidly shuffled to the refrigerator. Between the gifted magnets that Mr. Wright and Trucy had deigned to give him as leftovers, he found the Wright Anything Agency number. He tore it from the cold surface, squinting at the yellowed paper. For some reason, he wanted to call her, to reaffirm—to reaffirm something.
He fumbled through his small apartment, stubbing his toe on a table, before finding his cell phone on the maple cabinet. He flicked the cover open, squinting through the sudden light, and began to tap the numbers in.
Both phone and paper were discarded onto the sofa a few moments later. Discontented, he flipped through his contacts list, and finding it surprisingly bare, he tossed his phone onto his table. It skidded with a loud clunk and a clatter.
Rolling onto his stomach, he found the remote control to his television, and flicked it on. The sudden array of lights hurt his eyes as the news channel came on, with the same serious news reporter in his deep baritone voice.
“The tidal waves are going strong, while millions are stranded—“
Click.
“A recent series of storms in the south-west area has left many famished and homeless,” said a woman with a helmet-styled hair.
Click.
He went through three more Breaking News Reports before settling on a cartoon with a talking dog.
Prosecutor Gavin would probably save the world, and ride off into the sunset with his guitar riff strumming behind him, and Trucy watching him with starry eyes and a respect that she’d never give Apollo. And then Mr. Wright would turn into a phoenix and fly off into the distance, leaving a bright trail of feathers behind. And then the world would be saved.
Happy end.
Feeling more depressed by his imagination, he shut off the television and opened the curtains with a flourish. All he did was stir up a small cloud of dust, and he coughed as the hazy dust particles floated in the rays of sun. He took off his bracelet and pressed it against the window, listening to the clinking sound.
His bracelet fit perfectly around the sun.
There was a small ruckus below. To his surprise, he saw a familiar woman, dressed in purple robes, standing outside the apartment gates. She didn’t seem to be looking at the plate, but arguing with a man on the corner, holding a map in her hand adamantly and pointing to the distance.
He heaved a great sigh, slipping his bracelet back onto his wrist. When he reached the front gate, Maya was still there, except her map had been turned upside down in serious contemplation.
“Are you lost?” he asked, his breaths coming out in puffs. Despite the sun overhead, the weather had been anything but warm. His hands numb, he shoved them into his pockets and leaned over to look at her map.
“Oh, it’s you!” Maya smiled. “I would say that this is a coincidence, but there are no such things as coincidences. Yes, I’m a bit lost. I haven’t been in this town for a while.”
“Are you looking for the Wright Anything Agency?”
“What? Oh, no!” Maya clapped her hands and a brighter smile bloomed on her face. “I know where that is! It’s where that strange smell is coming from.”
“Then what are you looking for?”
“The nearest McDonalds. Do you know where it is?” Maya leaned in, conveying an obvious secret. “I’m hungry.” As if to emphasize her tragic struggle, her stomach gave a loud rumble, enough to attract the attention of some elderly men sitting on the bench nearby.
“I guess I’m paying,” he said weakly, feeling his thin wallet. Maya laughed.
“Wow, you really are Nick’s pupil!” She gave an affirmative nod. “You learned well, young grasshopper.”
For one thing, he wasn’t a grasshopper. And for a second thing, he really didn’t want to be connected to Mr. Wright. Even the name repulsed him, stirring him bile in his throat.
“If you’re really that hungry,” he said, “Eldoon’s is closer.” And better for his wallet, though the salt could only be terrible for his health. He could feel his cholesterol skyrocket with every theoretical bite of noodles.
“Then noodles it is.” She continued to chatter on while they reached the stall, where Eldoon himself came out to welcome back his favorite customer, Maya, which only lead to a sick feeling to Apollo’s stomach and his wallet. They were seated in a nice weather, where the wind wasn’t blowing, and the sun was barely falling over the black horizon, the noodle stall was lit up warmly with lanterns hung around the sides.
On her third bowl, Maya finally came up for air to talk.
“How long has it been since you ate?” he asked her, deferring his half-eaten bowl of noodles to Maya. Already the salt was churning in his stomach. Peacefully, the crickets seemed to sing in the nearby People Park.
“Oof ‘ors,” she said, mouth full.
He waited.
“Two hours,” she said, swallowing. “I only had a middle breakfast before coming down, though.” She took another large chomp from the salt wedge. He watched her eat.
“I talked to Mr. Wright,” he said. “I know the truth.”
She stopped in mid-bite. Slowly, she chewed the noodles, hand casting a dark shadow over her face. She swallowed. “He told you?”
“I figured it out.” He leaned on his elbows. “I’m a defense attorney, too.”
“I see.” Maya folded the napkin over her lap. “Are you mad?”
“I used to be,” he said slowly.
“It’s okay if you’re mad at me,” she said suddenly, “because I think too much with my head nowadays. But don’t be mad at Nick. He really didn’t want to do it. We were even supposed to start this earlier, but when Kristoph disappeared, too, with Damon Gant, we couldn’t help it. The world was going to end, and Hera was out to get Apollo, so—so then I talked to Athena, and we decided—”
“I’m not mad.” He couldn’t figure out what exactly he was feeling. Numb, perhaps, like a sword had just pierced through his heart, but nothing registered yet, and his heart still throbbed with a sword embedded through and through.
“. . . Are you sure?”
“I don’t know what I feel,” he said. He watched a caterpillar slowly crawl upwards in the stall. “How is—Prosecutor Gavin?”
“Not well.” Maya slurped another long strand of noodles. “I mean, well enough, he’s in good condition to play the guitar and everything. But he still hasn’t regained any of his memories.”
“Memories?”
“Of his past life. With his memories, he’ll remember how to use his powers, and with his powers, he can get back Mr. Edgeworth, Damon Gant, and Kristoph Gavin. But it’ll be a long battle.” She scowled. “I don’t want to send anyone out to do it. Not alone. But we don’t have any choice. We’re running out of time.”
He remembered those words, from a long time ago. “Why do you have keep to a schedule?”
“Because the phoenix can only send him to the titan’s world in the full moon,” she said, “and that’s in two days.” With an exasperated sigh, she motioned for Mr. Eldoon, who was wearing headphones, for another bowl of noodles. “But he hasn’t gained back any memories yet.”
“. . . Are you a goddess?” He typically heard those types of lines in shady bars, and never thought the day would come that he would ask earnestly.
“No,” she said, “Just a Fey. We’re spirit mediums, and I’m the middlest. My older sister is Athena, and my younger cousin is Pearly. But we’re also priestesses. We’ve been helping Greek Gods out for more than a thousand years!”
It sounded like a car insurance commercial gone terribly wrong.
“Don’t think so hard on Nick, okay?” She toyed with her chopsticks in the air. “Seven years ago, he lost everything. When Dahlia Hawthorne died, her anger woke up the memories within ourselves, and we had no idea what to do. None of us did. And Mr. Edgeworth didn’t even have time to get used to it, and he was first to go. And after that, me and Nick tried to find everyone and protect them, but now it’s too late.”
“So then you tried to find Apollo,” he said, “to save them.”
“Exactly. Nick found one. Your sister. But her memories are so dormant that she wouldn’t last long in the battle. He’s very protective of her, you know.”
“I know.” He knew.
“And then there’s this whole thing about Apollos.” She slumped on the counter, sleeves rolling down. “You know, he thought it was you at first. But I think it’s that bracelet that’s throwing him off. Then he said it might be Klavier, and now I don’t know what to do. The ceremony is too dangerous to perform on someone who might not be a God.”
“Wait,” he said. “What did you say about us?”
“He really did think it was you at first,” she said. “But now he thinks it’s Klavier. I think he’s thinking too much like a lawyer and not following his phoenix self, because the phoenix is never wrong. But you know how it is. You have to trust a phoenix.”
“So it could be me?” Apollo felt his heart race in his mouth.
“Well.” She hesitated. “Yeah, I guess. But if you were, that means it was a bad idea to use you as a decoy. Actually, wasn’t it a bad idea anyway?”
“I might be him,” he said, urgently, almost feeling like he had gotten a second chance. A second chance at what? To be someone he didn’t want to be? But his name throbbed hurtfully in himself. “Sometimes—I can feel it.”
“Feel it?” She tapped her chopsticks in thought. The hazy smoke in the stand began to waft away in the wind, clinging to his dry mouth with the taste of wood. “I guess when we’re talking about belief, that sort of statement is evidence enough.”
“Is there any way to get back the memories?” he asked. “Something that we can do quickly?”
“The ceremony,” she said, her eyes suddenly focusing. “But it’s too dangerous to do this on someone who might not be Apollo. Do you understand?”
“What happens if you aren’t?” He hid his trembling hands behind a stack of napkins, pressing his fingers quickly against the smudged silver napkin case.
“The ceremony starts your memories of the past life,” she said, “and, at first, it’ll take away your memories of this life. But if you’re really Apollo, getting back those memories shouldn’t be the problems. If you aren’t, then you won’t even remember who you are.”
“That’s . . . pleasant.”
“I don’t think Klavier Gavin is Apollo,” she said quietly into her bowl of noodles. “I don’t think Nick thinks so, either. He didn’t want to do the ceremony when we were in the Kurain Village, so all I could do was try to instigate the memories peacefully. But if he wasn’t Apollo, then I guess our only choice would be—you.”
“That’s . . . pleasant.” He cleared his throat. “Well, I mean, it’s easy to think Prosecutor Gavin might be Apollo. A guitar seems to be like a lyre, if you think about it.”
“A guitar isn’t a lyre,” she said.
When Eldoon came to offer another bowl, she shook her head, and with the stack of bowls next to her, she took out her wallet and paid the bill.
“I could have—”
“You didn’t even eat,” she scolded. “You’re no fun. When Nick ate, too, I could pretend that he ate it all, so he should pay it all.” The wind whipped at her hair, and she shivered. “I guess times have changed.”
“Are you cold?”
“No,” she said, “But the spirits wait in the wind. When Mr. Edgeworth comes back, this’ll all be over.” She hesitated. “If it’s over.”
“What do you mean?”
“Even when they come back,” she said, looking down at her sandaled feet, painted with a glowing purple nail polish, “What are they to do with themselves? Are they Gods? Are they humans? Are they going to ascend to Mount Olympus?” Her eyes seemed strained, and under a better light, Apollo could see shadows under her eyes. He remembered her screams that night, suddenly.
They didn’t speak any more, reaching the Wright Anything Agency in silence. He opened the door for her with his spare key, and the bells jangled lightly.
“Polly?” Trucy sounded surprised as she was pulling her scarf from the three-boxed closet. She held the fake saw in her other hand, apparently having pulled it from the umbrella holder. Mr. Wright also looked up from the sofa, newspaper across his lap.
“Maya,” he said, but there was a grumble of warning at the back of his throat.
“Don’t worry, Nick, I won’t stay too long. I just wanted to stay the night, like old times!” She tapped her chin. “Well, I mean, you didn’t used to live in the office.”
“No,” he said. “No, I didn’t. Maya, what are you doing with Apollo?”
“He just walked me here, that’s all,” she said defensively. Mr. Wright looked at her, and then looked at Apollo. With a grunt, he tossed away the newspaper.
“Trucy, go upstairs. We need to talk privately for a little bit.”
“Why do I have to go?” Trucy put her hands on her hips. “Daddy, lately you’ve been excluding me from more and more conversations! Don’t I get to talk to Polly, too? We haven’t seen him for a while, and—”
“Trucy.” There was a warning note in Mr. Wright’s voice. Apollo had never seen Mr. Wright so aggressive towards his own daughter, but Trucy only slipped upstairs, a magician’s trick for the scared.
When she was finally gone, Mr. Wright showed Apollo and Maya to the seats, which had been since cleaned off from socks and scarves. Apollo sat next to Maya, and watched as Mr. Wright slowly lumbered back into his seat.
“Nick, we’ve been talking, and Apollo says that he thinks that he’s the real Apollo,” Maya began.
“Then he doesn’t know anything.” Mr. Wright’s eyes were sharper than any of Plum Kitaki’s hidden katanas. But Maya squared off to him, her shoulders set.
“Didn’t you say it, too? In the beginning, you thought it might have been him.”
“I shouldn’t have told you.” He lowered his beanie, casting a dark shadow over his eyes. “I was mistaken. The phoenix spirit was new to me.”
“Klavier just isn’t the one. We both know this.”
“Apollo doesn’t remember anything, either,” Mr. Wright said. Apollo felt surprisingly grateful to be insulted by Mr. Wright. Being underestimated by Maya just didn’t feel the same. He suspected it was the ounce of respect that she had actually given him.
“I think I might be,” he said. “Sometimes, I have dreams—”
“Dreams are just that,” said Mr. Wright. “Dreams.”
“But when we’re talking about Gods,” she said, “what else can we believe?”
“I want to try the ceremony,” Apollo injected, slamming his hand down on the glass table. He immediately regretted it. His fingerprints had left a smudge, and he knew that he would be the one cleaning it off.
“No.” Mr. Wright leaned back, crossing his arms over his chest. “That’s out of the question.”
“Why not?!” He pounded the glass table, and immediately regretted that, too. “Is it because you don’t think I can handle it? I think—I think I really might be Apollo, so don’t make fun of me!” His last sentence dribbled out weakly.
“I want to protect him, too, Nick,” Maya said, her voice strained. “But time’s running out. The full moon is less than three days away. We can’t wait any longer. Just let me try. If he’s not the one, he’s not the one. Then the world will sink into the seas and the seas will sink into the sky and the sky will sink into the underworld. And then it won’t matter he can’t remember his life.”
Mr. Wright hesitated. “. . . That’s true.” Even though Apollo had been arguing the most adamantly, he still felt let down that Mr. Wright had agreed, for some reason.
“Think about it Nick. Our only other option is to use Trucy,” Maya said. “She’s definitely a Goddess, and even if her memories would only be half-developed, she still might be able to rescue the world.”
“I won’t allow it,” Mr. Wright said firmly. “And that’s final.”
And he would sacrifice Apollo. He felt like saying something sarcastic, but the situation had left him at a loss for words, because it felt like twenty-two years ago all over again, and he couldn’t speak, but a woman soon to be forgotten by even herself gently sacrificed him for a new life, and a baby cried in the distance.
Maya bit her thumb hesitantly. “We could do it tonight,” she said, “We have to do it tonight. And if possible, here. I brought some of my incense. Without the heavy atmosphere in the Kurain Village, it might be easier. Is there an empty room?”
“My room,” Mr. Wright murmured. “It’s the office where we found her body.” Maya’s eyes darkened for a moment, but then she was suddenly bright smiles and happy laughter.
“All right,” she said. “Apollo, come with me. I know the way.” A shadow passed over her pale moon face. “I couldn’t forget, even if five hundred years went by.”
There were still a few locked rooms in the office that Apollo still didn’t know. He sometimes cleaned the hallway (another side-effect of being a defense attorney), but there were doors that kept their secrets bottled inside, behind the maple wood panels that spoke no lies. Maya slipped a key from underneath his sleeve and unlocked the door.
There was a deep silence in the room, which was mostly bare except for a bed and a desk. A window was open on the east side, a few brown feathers strewn on the sill. On the floor, a single green glass bottle rested near the bed, and if Apollo squinted, he could make out some sort of dust at the bottom.
Maya began to place candles around the room, the cheap type at the local grocery store, which Apollo recognized from their kitchen drawers. He felt oddly numb. He wasn’t sure what he was expecting. But he was sick of being left out of the mysteries, and only knowing the ticking world’s end.
Mr. Wright still stood at the doorway. In the night, he looked grimmer, shadows casting off odd angles from his face. He fit perfectly in the stark room.
“Apollo,” he said, in a low voice. “You don’t have to do this.”
“I want to,” Apollo said, his heart beating so loudly that he was amazed nobody else could hear it.
“Dreams are just dreams,” he said, “but those memories are yours alone.”
“I’m not lying about the dreams,” Apollo said, and he wasn’t. He had chosen his surname a long time ago, and he had never stopped believing in it. But he had to admit, there was something nagging on him, something about his dreams. He had never clearly remembered his dreams, but he pushed the worry down his throat.
“But you’re not telling the whole truth.” Mr. Wright bowed his head. “I don’t want this ceremony to happen.”
“I know,” he said. And he did. But there was a citrus taste in his mouth that wouldn’t ebb away.
“I’m against this,” Mr. Wright said. He was about to say more, but Maya impatiently waved him out. Mr. Wright clapped a hand on Apollo’s shoulder, with enough force to feel like it had dislocated, and retreated from the room, careful step by careful step. He shut the door slowly, so slowly that Apollo could almost still feel his gaze even when the door was completely closed.
Maya took out a legal note pad from the desk with familiarity, tugging the cap off a pen with her teeth before scribbling down the letters he had never seen before, characters that crawled and slipped and strangled. With a flourish, she ripped the paper and using the dusty Scotch tape, she stuck it onto Apollo’s forehead.
“Hey, wait—”
“Take off your shoes and kneel down.”
The incense had already started burning, the earthly smell pressing along the room. It was a woody scent, with a hint of an exotic spice. Apollo could feel himself relaxing against his better judgment and better wishes.
“Don’t be nervous,” she said, “I’ve done this before.”
“How’d that go?” Apollo’s voice was pitched higher than he last remembered it.
“I don’t remember,” she admitted. “It was in my past life.”
Somehow, he failed to find their conversation reassuring. But the incense had already started its work on him, and he closed his eyes behind the yellow legal pad paper, that smelled like Mr. Wright’s smoky scent, and a different waft, the luxurious perfume of a woman, prickling and haunting.
“Are you dreaming?”
His eyes were closed, but he could see the burning chariot in front of him. It was unnerving, to see his dreams in reality. When he looked down at himself, he was no longer dressed in his favorite red vests and pants, but clad in ancient garbs. In his hand was a type of polish, and the chariot was gleaming, its wheels still flaming from the sky. He had been oiling down his chariot, covering his arms and legs in splatters of oil.
“What do you see?”
But his horses were fierce, and when they whinnied, flames flared from their white teeth and red tongues. Their fur sleekly covered the firm muscles underneath, and the white of their eyes showed in their madness. Even their silky manes were painted in fire that burnt his hands and his face. But his son was always young and happy, and he could only see himself in his son, and he passed over the reins, urging his proud son to stop, to think.
“Apollo?”
His young son laughed loudly, in a voice that came from the chest. He took the reins in his young, child hands, and smiled at him, proudly. The sky was dark, ready to be torn away by the light shed by the chariot, but he still clutched at his son’s shoulder, feeling the muscles beneath it, seeing his son’s bright eyes.
Stepping upon a cloud, that felt firm underneath his heels, he could only watch as his son took away in his chariot, his horses screaming, but in a different type of scream, madness and sorrow, as they galloped upon the clouds before reaching the path in the air. The inky blackness of the night, spotted in diamonds of stars, tore away as easily as wet parchment against the chariot’s glow, and he heard his son’s laughter, and for a moment, could only hope that his son would be satisfied by their heritage.
His heart beat loudly, and he shouted something to the winds, but Zephyr had taken them away and he was left with his feathers burning and the chariot riding into the fateful sky.
He stretched out his hand to try and capture the—the something in his hand, but it always escaped his grasp. Instead, he seemed to be grabbing a fistful of hair, and when his eyes shot open at this revelation, he could see Maya’s puffed up face as he tugged her hair closer.
“W-waugh!” He rolled backwards, paper flying off his face. It landed close to a candle, which Maya quickly blew out. The sunlight was already streaming in through the window.
“Did I fall asleep?” Apollo rubbed his forehead, which was still sticky from the tape.
“Well, you were supposed to,” Maya said, kneeling on the ground. She tented her fingers together, eyes worried. “Do you—do you remember?”
The empty room stood behind him, an echoing solemn ritual chamber, light barely glancing off the pastel paint, and the faint remainder of the dead body that would never leave the memories, forever captured in the tragic moment. Despite the sunlight beating on the curtains, the room was still dank and dark. He swallowed rapidly, but the content of his mind was as empty as the room.
“. . . Yeah,” he said. “I do.”
--
Mr. Wright had met them with a blank face, which sprouted into a half-smirk, half-frown, when he heard the news. Apollo stared up at him adamantly, but he was never challenged. Mr. Wright only told them that breakfast would be ready in a few minutes, and Trucy, in her pajamas, watched them from the stairs.
In the bathroom, alone, though, that was a different matter.
After he finished vomiting, he stared at himself in the mirror. There was a spiderweb crack crawling on one end, hitting directly above his eyes. He tried to memorize himself in the mirror. He could hardly breath, because he was just a defense attorney.
There was a small knock on the door.
“Polly, it’s time for breakfast.”
The world seemed different to him now, all inverted colors and his heart wouldn’t stop beating (not that he would want it to, but slowing down would be nice.) He took a deep breath and, drawing down his sleeves, opened the door.
Trucy stared up at him.
He hesitated, and then awkwardly patted her shoulder. “Let’s go eat breakfast.”
Suddenly, she became all smiles again, and they ate a disgusting breakfast that tasted like Mr. Wright’s Special. She had school that day, and left the house, leaving Maya and Mr. Wright and Apollo sitting at the table.
“So it worked,” Maya said brightly. “Now, tonight, we’ll—”
“You mean, I will.” Mr. Wright looked solemnly across his orange juice. “Go home, Maya.”
“Go home?” She puffed out her face. “Why? I can help!”
“You don’t know how to get to the titan’s world,” he said. “I do. And you’re needed back home. The other spirit mediums can’t handle the influx of spirits without you.” She hesitated, and fidgeted.
“Yes, but . . .”
“We’ll be fine.” Apollo excused himself to go to the bathroom again, and after he carefully washed his hands, he peeked out the window. Maya and Mr. Wright had gotten to the streets, and they were talking quietly. Mr. Wright took Maya’s face in his hands and then hugged her.
It was the end of the world as they knew it. Apollo gritted his teeth, and rubbed his forehead, but for some reason, he couldn’t remember the name of his grade school.
--
“Polly!”
They had done this before. He had a feeling that they had done this before, and he couldn’t quite remember why. He rubbed his forehead in confusion, watching Trucy hold up a vacuum to the wall, cheerfully bouncing as if he would have to—to do something for her, though he didn’t remember what.
“Don’t nap,” she scolded, “You promised to spend the day with me. And Daddy said I could, too, as long as I walked you back safely.”
“Oh,” he said. “Why are you vacuuming my walls?”
“I told you before,” she said, “Anything that works, works, right? You have to think outside the box!”
“Unless you put that down, we’ll be thinking outside my apartment.” He forcibly took the vacuum cleaner from her, setting it on the floor. He looked at his fishes, and picked up the fish flakes.
“We already fed your fishes,” she said, “and you even gave more to Apollo Jr, like always. He’s going to become fat because you feed him too much, Poly!”
Apollo Jr? Which one was that? He peered at his fishes, and all three eagerly swam towards him. He gently placed down the fish flakes beside them, and after a fond pat of the glass, sat on his bed again. It had become near sun-down, the brilliant gold rays slowly beaming under black strands.
“Let’s go home,” she said, pulling him forward almost gently. “We’ll have Daddy’s Special again, tonight. It’s good.” He couldn’t remember the Special, so he trusted Trucy’s words. Before turning off the lights, he took one last, long look at his apartment. It was a nice place, he thought. He wondered if he actually lived there.
They took a walk down the street, where the gas lights had begun to blobbily glow, and the lanterns sparked suddenly, as if only realizing they were late to the show. Apollo watched as Trucy drew out a key and opened the Wright Anything Agency, and Mr. Wright welcomed them home, and they had dinner. Apollo felt shocked that the Special tasted like shoes.
“Pass the salt.”
“You have to pass Go first.”
“This isn’t Monopoly.”
“Actually, I took some Monopoly money from Kurain Village. So we can still play!”
“Isn’t that called stealing?”
“Not if you do it right! And here at the Wright Anything Agency, we do everything right!”
“Stop advertising to me. I already work here.”
“Yeah, but you don’t do very much, do you, Polly?”
It was a nice dinner. Afterwards, they played three-way Solitaire, and Apollo couldn’t remember how it worked, except he knew he lost anyway. He washed the dishes, and then Trucy said she was going upstairs to sleep and see you tomorrow, Polly! Before she left, she hesitated, and then flung herself around Apollo, arms gripping his back.
“Tomorrow, right?” she asked in a small voice, as if he had just kicked a billion puppies. He found himself gently hugging her, as well, a little lost.
“Yeah,” he said. “Tomorrow.”
When she had finally gone to sleep, Mr. Wright finally spoke.
“Go take a nap,” he said. “I’ll wake you up before midnight for the ceremony.” Mr. Wright was reading the newspaper with an almost strong disinterest. Apollo considered it almost refreshing to be ignored so cleanly, so slipped down the empty hallway until he reached a room that might have been his office. There were boxes stacked in the bookshelves, and a small desk with various legal-looking papers sitting on the desk. A musky smell filled the room, like paper and law textbooks.
He nodded off slowly, and almost unwillingly.
--
When he woke up, it had already become dank in night. His limbs hurt, and he stretched out his arms. His elbow bumped into a light switch, and spluttering, a lamp slowly opened from the desk, illuminating a box near his foot.
Curious, he took the cover off. There were journals underneath, and he plucked one out at random, removing it like it was a precious stone in a temple. He propped it on the desk and opened up the fresh pages, looking down the lines of neat handwriting.
That was how Mr. Wright found him, sitting on the desk, journals spread at random pages.
“What are you doing?” he asked quietly.
“Just reading.” For some reason, Apollo felt particularly defensive. “There’s nothing wrong with that, is there?”
“Not if you read quickly.” He leaned on the desk, which groaned under his weight. “Time’s running out.”
“I know.” He flipped through a journal. “Vera Misham. Machi Tobaye. Wocky Kitaki. They’re interesting people.”
“Yes,” Mr. Wright said. “They are.”
“Was Apollo Justice interesting, too?”
Mr. Wright picked at the desk, peeling off the wood splinters. He twisted them in his hands and dropped them on the floor. “. . . He is.”
“Where are we doing the ceremony?” he asked.
“In the living room.” Mr. Wright pushed his hands back into his pockets again, and if Apollo looked out the sides of his eyes, he thought Mr. Wright looked rather like a phoenix. “I’ll wait for you.”
Apollo cleaned up the journals, sliding them back into the boxes, fitting them like bad jigsaw puzzles. The box wouldn’t close, so he left it partially open. He fumbled clumsily for the switch, and the lamp flickered off suddenly. His eyes slowly adjusted, and then he exited the room, closing the door finally behind him.
He ran his fingers down the cold rail, like he wanted to memorize the very formation, before he reached Trucy’s room. Slowly, he opened the door, and saw her sleeping form curled along the pillows. Her magic hat sat on her bed post.
He stood above her, and remembered when he first awoke from his dream, where she had been beating his apartment with a broom. He slipped off his bracelet, which had given him so much comfort and so much pain, and gently took her hand and folded her small fingers along the sides of it.
Finally, he looked at her peaceful face, eyes closed in sleep.
“Good night,” he told her, softly, and left the room, feeling more wistful than he entered. When he walked into the dark living room, he wasn’t surprised to see Mr. Wright sitting on the sofa, leaning on his knees and waiting for him.
“I told you not to do anything stupid,” Mr. Wright warned.
“I didn’t!” Apollo scowled and crossed his arms over his chest.
“. . . How are you feeling?”
“I’m fine, sir,” he said stiffly. He couldn’t remember any of his childhood beyond working at Kristoph’s office. Even some of his court cases had already returned spotty, missing in memory except for a rush of exhilaration. But the names that he had listed off a few minutes earlier had since disappeared.
“So what do I have to do?”
“Nothing.” Mr. Wright leaned back onto the sofa. “You’re not going to fight the titans.”
“No,” Apollo said firmly. “I fight for justice. That’s why I chose it as my last name.” Though he couldn’t remember the moment he chose it, or any of the events that followed it. Judging by the look Mr. Wright was giving him, his scary boss knew that, as well.
“You’re not going,” he said. “You’ll die the way you are now.”
“I’m fine—”
“You can’t lie to a phoenix, Apollo,” he said. “You lied to Maya, and you lied to me. I shouldn’t have ever allowed you to ever accept the offer. But what we can do now is try and stop the flow of memories before you lose it all.”
Apollo gritted his teeth, leaning forward. “But who else can go?”
“I can.”
“You don’t have enough power,” he said, and he knew his words were true when he said them. “Your role is the rebirth. You have to survive.”
“I’ve been living too long,” Mr. Wright said softly. “Long enough to see my friends turn into gods and fade away.” Suddenly, Mr. Wright looked lonely, sitting on the sofa all by himself.
“I’ll rescue them,” Apollo said. “And save them. And bring them back. Mr. Wright, just let me do this. There’s no use, anyway. Let me prove myself.”
“. . . I know.” Mr. Wright slowly got up, and went to the corner where Mr. Charley sat. He began to pick a branch, and then another branch, and another, and in his hands, they seemed to transform into a shimmering color of silver, slender and beautiful. He tied them firmly into a halo, which seemed to glow in the room.
“Yeah. Just watch.” Apollo felt less and less confident with every passing moment, but he also felt less and less like himself. “You can’t argue with me. I might—I might not be Apollo. The Apollo. I might just be false. But—but I’m going to try, and you can’t stop me.”
“I know.” Mr. Wright tugged on the red silk scarf under Trucy’s silk hat, and he tossed it in front of Apollo. As he watched, the red bled into the carpet, and slowly became hyacinths, flowers with a strange smell that made him feel achingly sorrowful, as the flowers began to fill the room.
And his son flew the chariot across the sky.
Apollo struggled, trying to regain the last of his memories in a last-ditch effort. Mr. Wright approached him, and up-close, Apollo could see his short stubble, and the sad look in his eyes, the bags underneath them that spoke of seven long years, and five hundred longer ones. Gently, his big hands placed the laurel wreath on Apollo’s head, and he could smell Mr. Wright.
And so the horses screamed and ran out of control, and his son screamed as well.
“To get there,” Mr. Wright said, “You just pull on existence.” His own fingers tightened together and seemed to gently yank away at the image in front of him. “And you’ll arrive at the titans.”
And there was a lightning bolt that struck the chariot, and it fell from the sky, the horses still kicking, but his son, dead.
“I’ll lead you there,” Mr. Wright said, his beanie low on his head. “But I can’t stay long. This body won’t let me.”
And he cried, screamed, for his son, his precious son, who had always been his son, who he had always been proud of, who was dead.
“I had a dream,” Apollo said, hands dropped to his sides. “I thought it was my dream, at first. I couldn’t remember it. But now I can’t remember anything else.” He chuckled, a low tone in his voice, and sheepishly ran his hand through his hair. Too late did he realize that he hadn’t gelled his hair at all that day, and his bangs fell in his face.
“Mr. Wright,” he said, lost. “That wasn’t my dream. That was yours, right?”
“. . . There are many different ways to consider a father,” Mr. Wright said, and he looked even sadder, standing in the blood-red flowers, than he had ever looked before. “Your physical father. Your godly father.”
“. . . Mr. Wright?”
“I consider you my son.” Mr. Wright drew down his beanie. “You don’t have to prove anything to me. I know that you’re Apollo Justice.”
“Mr. Wright,” he said, lost. He reached forward, and pinched the air, and felt existence, felt the world shift beneath him, felt the roar of the titans and their dripping teeth and large mouths and laughing faces and arms the size of giant trees and fists larger than boulders and harder than diamond, but he could also feel the sunlight beating upon him like a welcome relief, finally entering into a world after he had done something right and he began to pull himself in, existing, not existing, entering, exiting.
“. . . Dad,” he said.
--
And sometimes he dreamed.
He dreamed that he never returned from the battle, but he had won. And with his last breath, he sealed away the memories, dormant again, slumbering. And Damon Gant and Kristoph returned to their prisons, and when Mr. Edgeworth returned, even Mr. Wright broke down a bit. Maya’s nightmares ebbed away, and Mia returned to her resting place, and Dahlia and Iris Hawthorne were never heard from again. And one fateful day, Lamiroir sat down opposite of Trucy, who wore a familiar bracelet, and they talked quietly. Nobody remembered their past lives, nobody remembered their powers ,and nobody remembered Apollo, though Trucy seemed to remember, though she never spoke about it.
And sometimes Mr. Wright had dreams of a bright young defense attorney, who fought in the courts for justice and truth, who laughed and cried and shouted too loudly.
But he always woke up, because that was all they were.
Dreams.
.part three: false god
And yet the crowd applauds below
They would not encore death
– Emily Dickinson, You’ve seen balloons set, haven’t you?
And sometimes he dreamed.
His own son, breathing and living, strong and young, bright and fierce, made him promise by the river Styx, and he loved his son, his beloved son, his precious son, there was no doubt about his heritage, and he never wanted his son to doubt his heritage, to doubt his blood, so he promised the unbreakable oath.
The world was going to ruins, and he couldn’t even get out of bed. There were no cases, no clients, and there hadn’t been for a while. There was little point in going to work, especially when Mr. Wright had stopped seeking him out to talk to him.
He rolled onto his side, looking at his dusty room. Darkness had settled dankly into his hair. The curtains were pulled shut. Trucy hadn’t stopped by lately. He never knew he could feel so disappointed by his sister going to school.
His sister.
That wasn’t a lie, right? He swung his legs over the side of the bed, and rapidly shuffled to the refrigerator. Between the gifted magnets that Mr. Wright and Trucy had deigned to give him as leftovers, he found the Wright Anything Agency number. He tore it from the cold surface, squinting at the yellowed paper. For some reason, he wanted to call her, to reaffirm—to reaffirm something.
He fumbled through his small apartment, stubbing his toe on a table, before finding his cell phone on the maple cabinet. He flicked the cover open, squinting through the sudden light, and began to tap the numbers in.
Both phone and paper were discarded onto the sofa a few moments later. Discontented, he flipped through his contacts list, and finding it surprisingly bare, he tossed his phone onto his table. It skidded with a loud clunk and a clatter.
Rolling onto his stomach, he found the remote control to his television, and flicked it on. The sudden array of lights hurt his eyes as the news channel came on, with the same serious news reporter in his deep baritone voice.
“The tidal waves are going strong, while millions are stranded—“
Click.
“A recent series of storms in the south-west area has left many famished and homeless,” said a woman with a helmet-styled hair.
Click.
He went through three more Breaking News Reports before settling on a cartoon with a talking dog.
Prosecutor Gavin would probably save the world, and ride off into the sunset with his guitar riff strumming behind him, and Trucy watching him with starry eyes and a respect that she’d never give Apollo. And then Mr. Wright would turn into a phoenix and fly off into the distance, leaving a bright trail of feathers behind. And then the world would be saved.
Happy end.
Feeling more depressed by his imagination, he shut off the television and opened the curtains with a flourish. All he did was stir up a small cloud of dust, and he coughed as the hazy dust particles floated in the rays of sun. He took off his bracelet and pressed it against the window, listening to the clinking sound.
His bracelet fit perfectly around the sun.
There was a small ruckus below. To his surprise, he saw a familiar woman, dressed in purple robes, standing outside the apartment gates. She didn’t seem to be looking at the plate, but arguing with a man on the corner, holding a map in her hand adamantly and pointing to the distance.
He heaved a great sigh, slipping his bracelet back onto his wrist. When he reached the front gate, Maya was still there, except her map had been turned upside down in serious contemplation.
“Are you lost?” he asked, his breaths coming out in puffs. Despite the sun overhead, the weather had been anything but warm. His hands numb, he shoved them into his pockets and leaned over to look at her map.
“Oh, it’s you!” Maya smiled. “I would say that this is a coincidence, but there are no such things as coincidences. Yes, I’m a bit lost. I haven’t been in this town for a while.”
“Are you looking for the Wright Anything Agency?”
“What? Oh, no!” Maya clapped her hands and a brighter smile bloomed on her face. “I know where that is! It’s where that strange smell is coming from.”
“Then what are you looking for?”
“The nearest McDonalds. Do you know where it is?” Maya leaned in, conveying an obvious secret. “I’m hungry.” As if to emphasize her tragic struggle, her stomach gave a loud rumble, enough to attract the attention of some elderly men sitting on the bench nearby.
“I guess I’m paying,” he said weakly, feeling his thin wallet. Maya laughed.
“Wow, you really are Nick’s pupil!” She gave an affirmative nod. “You learned well, young grasshopper.”
For one thing, he wasn’t a grasshopper. And for a second thing, he really didn’t want to be connected to Mr. Wright. Even the name repulsed him, stirring him bile in his throat.
“If you’re really that hungry,” he said, “Eldoon’s is closer.” And better for his wallet, though the salt could only be terrible for his health. He could feel his cholesterol skyrocket with every theoretical bite of noodles.
“Then noodles it is.” She continued to chatter on while they reached the stall, where Eldoon himself came out to welcome back his favorite customer, Maya, which only lead to a sick feeling to Apollo’s stomach and his wallet. They were seated in a nice weather, where the wind wasn’t blowing, and the sun was barely falling over the black horizon, the noodle stall was lit up warmly with lanterns hung around the sides.
On her third bowl, Maya finally came up for air to talk.
“How long has it been since you ate?” he asked her, deferring his half-eaten bowl of noodles to Maya. Already the salt was churning in his stomach. Peacefully, the crickets seemed to sing in the nearby People Park.
“Oof ‘ors,” she said, mouth full.
He waited.
“Two hours,” she said, swallowing. “I only had a middle breakfast before coming down, though.” She took another large chomp from the salt wedge. He watched her eat.
“I talked to Mr. Wright,” he said. “I know the truth.”
She stopped in mid-bite. Slowly, she chewed the noodles, hand casting a dark shadow over her face. She swallowed. “He told you?”
“I figured it out.” He leaned on his elbows. “I’m a defense attorney, too.”
“I see.” Maya folded the napkin over her lap. “Are you mad?”
“I used to be,” he said slowly.
“It’s okay if you’re mad at me,” she said suddenly, “because I think too much with my head nowadays. But don’t be mad at Nick. He really didn’t want to do it. We were even supposed to start this earlier, but when Kristoph disappeared, too, with Damon Gant, we couldn’t help it. The world was going to end, and Hera was out to get Apollo, so—so then I talked to Athena, and we decided—”
“I’m not mad.” He couldn’t figure out what exactly he was feeling. Numb, perhaps, like a sword had just pierced through his heart, but nothing registered yet, and his heart still throbbed with a sword embedded through and through.
“. . . Are you sure?”
“I don’t know what I feel,” he said. He watched a caterpillar slowly crawl upwards in the stall. “How is—Prosecutor Gavin?”
“Not well.” Maya slurped another long strand of noodles. “I mean, well enough, he’s in good condition to play the guitar and everything. But he still hasn’t regained any of his memories.”
“Memories?”
“Of his past life. With his memories, he’ll remember how to use his powers, and with his powers, he can get back Mr. Edgeworth, Damon Gant, and Kristoph Gavin. But it’ll be a long battle.” She scowled. “I don’t want to send anyone out to do it. Not alone. But we don’t have any choice. We’re running out of time.”
He remembered those words, from a long time ago. “Why do you have keep to a schedule?”
“Because the phoenix can only send him to the titan’s world in the full moon,” she said, “and that’s in two days.” With an exasperated sigh, she motioned for Mr. Eldoon, who was wearing headphones, for another bowl of noodles. “But he hasn’t gained back any memories yet.”
“. . . Are you a goddess?” He typically heard those types of lines in shady bars, and never thought the day would come that he would ask earnestly.
“No,” she said, “Just a Fey. We’re spirit mediums, and I’m the middlest. My older sister is Athena, and my younger cousin is Pearly. But we’re also priestesses. We’ve been helping Greek Gods out for more than a thousand years!”
It sounded like a car insurance commercial gone terribly wrong.
“Don’t think so hard on Nick, okay?” She toyed with her chopsticks in the air. “Seven years ago, he lost everything. When Dahlia Hawthorne died, her anger woke up the memories within ourselves, and we had no idea what to do. None of us did. And Mr. Edgeworth didn’t even have time to get used to it, and he was first to go. And after that, me and Nick tried to find everyone and protect them, but now it’s too late.”
“So then you tried to find Apollo,” he said, “to save them.”
“Exactly. Nick found one. Your sister. But her memories are so dormant that she wouldn’t last long in the battle. He’s very protective of her, you know.”
“I know.” He knew.
“And then there’s this whole thing about Apollos.” She slumped on the counter, sleeves rolling down. “You know, he thought it was you at first. But I think it’s that bracelet that’s throwing him off. Then he said it might be Klavier, and now I don’t know what to do. The ceremony is too dangerous to perform on someone who might not be a God.”
“Wait,” he said. “What did you say about us?”
“He really did think it was you at first,” she said. “But now he thinks it’s Klavier. I think he’s thinking too much like a lawyer and not following his phoenix self, because the phoenix is never wrong. But you know how it is. You have to trust a phoenix.”
“So it could be me?” Apollo felt his heart race in his mouth.
“Well.” She hesitated. “Yeah, I guess. But if you were, that means it was a bad idea to use you as a decoy. Actually, wasn’t it a bad idea anyway?”
“I might be him,” he said, urgently, almost feeling like he had gotten a second chance. A second chance at what? To be someone he didn’t want to be? But his name throbbed hurtfully in himself. “Sometimes—I can feel it.”
“Feel it?” She tapped her chopsticks in thought. The hazy smoke in the stand began to waft away in the wind, clinging to his dry mouth with the taste of wood. “I guess when we’re talking about belief, that sort of statement is evidence enough.”
“Is there any way to get back the memories?” he asked. “Something that we can do quickly?”
“The ceremony,” she said, her eyes suddenly focusing. “But it’s too dangerous to do this on someone who might not be Apollo. Do you understand?”
“What happens if you aren’t?” He hid his trembling hands behind a stack of napkins, pressing his fingers quickly against the smudged silver napkin case.
“The ceremony starts your memories of the past life,” she said, “and, at first, it’ll take away your memories of this life. But if you’re really Apollo, getting back those memories shouldn’t be the problems. If you aren’t, then you won’t even remember who you are.”
“That’s . . . pleasant.”
“I don’t think Klavier Gavin is Apollo,” she said quietly into her bowl of noodles. “I don’t think Nick thinks so, either. He didn’t want to do the ceremony when we were in the Kurain Village, so all I could do was try to instigate the memories peacefully. But if he wasn’t Apollo, then I guess our only choice would be—you.”
“That’s . . . pleasant.” He cleared his throat. “Well, I mean, it’s easy to think Prosecutor Gavin might be Apollo. A guitar seems to be like a lyre, if you think about it.”
“A guitar isn’t a lyre,” she said.
When Eldoon came to offer another bowl, she shook her head, and with the stack of bowls next to her, she took out her wallet and paid the bill.
“I could have—”
“You didn’t even eat,” she scolded. “You’re no fun. When Nick ate, too, I could pretend that he ate it all, so he should pay it all.” The wind whipped at her hair, and she shivered. “I guess times have changed.”
“Are you cold?”
“No,” she said, “But the spirits wait in the wind. When Mr. Edgeworth comes back, this’ll all be over.” She hesitated. “If it’s over.”
“What do you mean?”
“Even when they come back,” she said, looking down at her sandaled feet, painted with a glowing purple nail polish, “What are they to do with themselves? Are they Gods? Are they humans? Are they going to ascend to Mount Olympus?” Her eyes seemed strained, and under a better light, Apollo could see shadows under her eyes. He remembered her screams that night, suddenly.
They didn’t speak any more, reaching the Wright Anything Agency in silence. He opened the door for her with his spare key, and the bells jangled lightly.
“Polly?” Trucy sounded surprised as she was pulling her scarf from the three-boxed closet. She held the fake saw in her other hand, apparently having pulled it from the umbrella holder. Mr. Wright also looked up from the sofa, newspaper across his lap.
“Maya,” he said, but there was a grumble of warning at the back of his throat.
“Don’t worry, Nick, I won’t stay too long. I just wanted to stay the night, like old times!” She tapped her chin. “Well, I mean, you didn’t used to live in the office.”
“No,” he said. “No, I didn’t. Maya, what are you doing with Apollo?”
“He just walked me here, that’s all,” she said defensively. Mr. Wright looked at her, and then looked at Apollo. With a grunt, he tossed away the newspaper.
“Trucy, go upstairs. We need to talk privately for a little bit.”
“Why do I have to go?” Trucy put her hands on her hips. “Daddy, lately you’ve been excluding me from more and more conversations! Don’t I get to talk to Polly, too? We haven’t seen him for a while, and—”
“Trucy.” There was a warning note in Mr. Wright’s voice. Apollo had never seen Mr. Wright so aggressive towards his own daughter, but Trucy only slipped upstairs, a magician’s trick for the scared.
When she was finally gone, Mr. Wright showed Apollo and Maya to the seats, which had been since cleaned off from socks and scarves. Apollo sat next to Maya, and watched as Mr. Wright slowly lumbered back into his seat.
“Nick, we’ve been talking, and Apollo says that he thinks that he’s the real Apollo,” Maya began.
“Then he doesn’t know anything.” Mr. Wright’s eyes were sharper than any of Plum Kitaki’s hidden katanas. But Maya squared off to him, her shoulders set.
“Didn’t you say it, too? In the beginning, you thought it might have been him.”
“I shouldn’t have told you.” He lowered his beanie, casting a dark shadow over his eyes. “I was mistaken. The phoenix spirit was new to me.”
“Klavier just isn’t the one. We both know this.”
“Apollo doesn’t remember anything, either,” Mr. Wright said. Apollo felt surprisingly grateful to be insulted by Mr. Wright. Being underestimated by Maya just didn’t feel the same. He suspected it was the ounce of respect that she had actually given him.
“I think I might be,” he said. “Sometimes, I have dreams—”
“Dreams are just that,” said Mr. Wright. “Dreams.”
“But when we’re talking about Gods,” she said, “what else can we believe?”
“I want to try the ceremony,” Apollo injected, slamming his hand down on the glass table. He immediately regretted it. His fingerprints had left a smudge, and he knew that he would be the one cleaning it off.
“No.” Mr. Wright leaned back, crossing his arms over his chest. “That’s out of the question.”
“Why not?!” He pounded the glass table, and immediately regretted that, too. “Is it because you don’t think I can handle it? I think—I think I really might be Apollo, so don’t make fun of me!” His last sentence dribbled out weakly.
“I want to protect him, too, Nick,” Maya said, her voice strained. “But time’s running out. The full moon is less than three days away. We can’t wait any longer. Just let me try. If he’s not the one, he’s not the one. Then the world will sink into the seas and the seas will sink into the sky and the sky will sink into the underworld. And then it won’t matter he can’t remember his life.”
Mr. Wright hesitated. “. . . That’s true.” Even though Apollo had been arguing the most adamantly, he still felt let down that Mr. Wright had agreed, for some reason.
“Think about it Nick. Our only other option is to use Trucy,” Maya said. “She’s definitely a Goddess, and even if her memories would only be half-developed, she still might be able to rescue the world.”
“I won’t allow it,” Mr. Wright said firmly. “And that’s final.”
And he would sacrifice Apollo. He felt like saying something sarcastic, but the situation had left him at a loss for words, because it felt like twenty-two years ago all over again, and he couldn’t speak, but a woman soon to be forgotten by even herself gently sacrificed him for a new life, and a baby cried in the distance.
Maya bit her thumb hesitantly. “We could do it tonight,” she said, “We have to do it tonight. And if possible, here. I brought some of my incense. Without the heavy atmosphere in the Kurain Village, it might be easier. Is there an empty room?”
“My room,” Mr. Wright murmured. “It’s the office where we found her body.” Maya’s eyes darkened for a moment, but then she was suddenly bright smiles and happy laughter.
“All right,” she said. “Apollo, come with me. I know the way.” A shadow passed over her pale moon face. “I couldn’t forget, even if five hundred years went by.”
There were still a few locked rooms in the office that Apollo still didn’t know. He sometimes cleaned the hallway (another side-effect of being a defense attorney), but there were doors that kept their secrets bottled inside, behind the maple wood panels that spoke no lies. Maya slipped a key from underneath his sleeve and unlocked the door.
There was a deep silence in the room, which was mostly bare except for a bed and a desk. A window was open on the east side, a few brown feathers strewn on the sill. On the floor, a single green glass bottle rested near the bed, and if Apollo squinted, he could make out some sort of dust at the bottom.
Maya began to place candles around the room, the cheap type at the local grocery store, which Apollo recognized from their kitchen drawers. He felt oddly numb. He wasn’t sure what he was expecting. But he was sick of being left out of the mysteries, and only knowing the ticking world’s end.
Mr. Wright still stood at the doorway. In the night, he looked grimmer, shadows casting off odd angles from his face. He fit perfectly in the stark room.
“Apollo,” he said, in a low voice. “You don’t have to do this.”
“I want to,” Apollo said, his heart beating so loudly that he was amazed nobody else could hear it.
“Dreams are just dreams,” he said, “but those memories are yours alone.”
“I’m not lying about the dreams,” Apollo said, and he wasn’t. He had chosen his surname a long time ago, and he had never stopped believing in it. But he had to admit, there was something nagging on him, something about his dreams. He had never clearly remembered his dreams, but he pushed the worry down his throat.
“But you’re not telling the whole truth.” Mr. Wright bowed his head. “I don’t want this ceremony to happen.”
“I know,” he said. And he did. But there was a citrus taste in his mouth that wouldn’t ebb away.
“I’m against this,” Mr. Wright said. He was about to say more, but Maya impatiently waved him out. Mr. Wright clapped a hand on Apollo’s shoulder, with enough force to feel like it had dislocated, and retreated from the room, careful step by careful step. He shut the door slowly, so slowly that Apollo could almost still feel his gaze even when the door was completely closed.
Maya took out a legal note pad from the desk with familiarity, tugging the cap off a pen with her teeth before scribbling down the letters he had never seen before, characters that crawled and slipped and strangled. With a flourish, she ripped the paper and using the dusty Scotch tape, she stuck it onto Apollo’s forehead.
“Hey, wait—”
“Take off your shoes and kneel down.”
The incense had already started burning, the earthly smell pressing along the room. It was a woody scent, with a hint of an exotic spice. Apollo could feel himself relaxing against his better judgment and better wishes.
“Don’t be nervous,” she said, “I’ve done this before.”
“How’d that go?” Apollo’s voice was pitched higher than he last remembered it.
“I don’t remember,” she admitted. “It was in my past life.”
Somehow, he failed to find their conversation reassuring. But the incense had already started its work on him, and he closed his eyes behind the yellow legal pad paper, that smelled like Mr. Wright’s smoky scent, and a different waft, the luxurious perfume of a woman, prickling and haunting.
“Are you dreaming?”
His eyes were closed, but he could see the burning chariot in front of him. It was unnerving, to see his dreams in reality. When he looked down at himself, he was no longer dressed in his favorite red vests and pants, but clad in ancient garbs. In his hand was a type of polish, and the chariot was gleaming, its wheels still flaming from the sky. He had been oiling down his chariot, covering his arms and legs in splatters of oil.
“What do you see?”
But his horses were fierce, and when they whinnied, flames flared from their white teeth and red tongues. Their fur sleekly covered the firm muscles underneath, and the white of their eyes showed in their madness. Even their silky manes were painted in fire that burnt his hands and his face. But his son was always young and happy, and he could only see himself in his son, and he passed over the reins, urging his proud son to stop, to think.
“Apollo?”
His young son laughed loudly, in a voice that came from the chest. He took the reins in his young, child hands, and smiled at him, proudly. The sky was dark, ready to be torn away by the light shed by the chariot, but he still clutched at his son’s shoulder, feeling the muscles beneath it, seeing his son’s bright eyes.
Stepping upon a cloud, that felt firm underneath his heels, he could only watch as his son took away in his chariot, his horses screaming, but in a different type of scream, madness and sorrow, as they galloped upon the clouds before reaching the path in the air. The inky blackness of the night, spotted in diamonds of stars, tore away as easily as wet parchment against the chariot’s glow, and he heard his son’s laughter, and for a moment, could only hope that his son would be satisfied by their heritage.
His heart beat loudly, and he shouted something to the winds, but Zephyr had taken them away and he was left with his feathers burning and the chariot riding into the fateful sky.
He stretched out his hand to try and capture the—the something in his hand, but it always escaped his grasp. Instead, he seemed to be grabbing a fistful of hair, and when his eyes shot open at this revelation, he could see Maya’s puffed up face as he tugged her hair closer.
“W-waugh!” He rolled backwards, paper flying off his face. It landed close to a candle, which Maya quickly blew out. The sunlight was already streaming in through the window.
“Did I fall asleep?” Apollo rubbed his forehead, which was still sticky from the tape.
“Well, you were supposed to,” Maya said, kneeling on the ground. She tented her fingers together, eyes worried. “Do you—do you remember?”
The empty room stood behind him, an echoing solemn ritual chamber, light barely glancing off the pastel paint, and the faint remainder of the dead body that would never leave the memories, forever captured in the tragic moment. Despite the sunlight beating on the curtains, the room was still dank and dark. He swallowed rapidly, but the content of his mind was as empty as the room.
“. . . Yeah,” he said. “I do.”
--
Mr. Wright had met them with a blank face, which sprouted into a half-smirk, half-frown, when he heard the news. Apollo stared up at him adamantly, but he was never challenged. Mr. Wright only told them that breakfast would be ready in a few minutes, and Trucy, in her pajamas, watched them from the stairs.
In the bathroom, alone, though, that was a different matter.
After he finished vomiting, he stared at himself in the mirror. There was a spiderweb crack crawling on one end, hitting directly above his eyes. He tried to memorize himself in the mirror. He could hardly breath, because he was just a defense attorney.
There was a small knock on the door.
“Polly, it’s time for breakfast.”
The world seemed different to him now, all inverted colors and his heart wouldn’t stop beating (not that he would want it to, but slowing down would be nice.) He took a deep breath and, drawing down his sleeves, opened the door.
Trucy stared up at him.
He hesitated, and then awkwardly patted her shoulder. “Let’s go eat breakfast.”
Suddenly, she became all smiles again, and they ate a disgusting breakfast that tasted like Mr. Wright’s Special. She had school that day, and left the house, leaving Maya and Mr. Wright and Apollo sitting at the table.
“So it worked,” Maya said brightly. “Now, tonight, we’ll—”
“You mean, I will.” Mr. Wright looked solemnly across his orange juice. “Go home, Maya.”
“Go home?” She puffed out her face. “Why? I can help!”
“You don’t know how to get to the titan’s world,” he said. “I do. And you’re needed back home. The other spirit mediums can’t handle the influx of spirits without you.” She hesitated, and fidgeted.
“Yes, but . . .”
“We’ll be fine.” Apollo excused himself to go to the bathroom again, and after he carefully washed his hands, he peeked out the window. Maya and Mr. Wright had gotten to the streets, and they were talking quietly. Mr. Wright took Maya’s face in his hands and then hugged her.
It was the end of the world as they knew it. Apollo gritted his teeth, and rubbed his forehead, but for some reason, he couldn’t remember the name of his grade school.
--
“Polly!”
They had done this before. He had a feeling that they had done this before, and he couldn’t quite remember why. He rubbed his forehead in confusion, watching Trucy hold up a vacuum to the wall, cheerfully bouncing as if he would have to—to do something for her, though he didn’t remember what.
“Don’t nap,” she scolded, “You promised to spend the day with me. And Daddy said I could, too, as long as I walked you back safely.”
“Oh,” he said. “Why are you vacuuming my walls?”
“I told you before,” she said, “Anything that works, works, right? You have to think outside the box!”
“Unless you put that down, we’ll be thinking outside my apartment.” He forcibly took the vacuum cleaner from her, setting it on the floor. He looked at his fishes, and picked up the fish flakes.
“We already fed your fishes,” she said, “and you even gave more to Apollo Jr, like always. He’s going to become fat because you feed him too much, Poly!”
Apollo Jr? Which one was that? He peered at his fishes, and all three eagerly swam towards him. He gently placed down the fish flakes beside them, and after a fond pat of the glass, sat on his bed again. It had become near sun-down, the brilliant gold rays slowly beaming under black strands.
“Let’s go home,” she said, pulling him forward almost gently. “We’ll have Daddy’s Special again, tonight. It’s good.” He couldn’t remember the Special, so he trusted Trucy’s words. Before turning off the lights, he took one last, long look at his apartment. It was a nice place, he thought. He wondered if he actually lived there.
They took a walk down the street, where the gas lights had begun to blobbily glow, and the lanterns sparked suddenly, as if only realizing they were late to the show. Apollo watched as Trucy drew out a key and opened the Wright Anything Agency, and Mr. Wright welcomed them home, and they had dinner. Apollo felt shocked that the Special tasted like shoes.
“Pass the salt.”
“You have to pass Go first.”
“This isn’t Monopoly.”
“Actually, I took some Monopoly money from Kurain Village. So we can still play!”
“Isn’t that called stealing?”
“Not if you do it right! And here at the Wright Anything Agency, we do everything right!”
“Stop advertising to me. I already work here.”
“Yeah, but you don’t do very much, do you, Polly?”
It was a nice dinner. Afterwards, they played three-way Solitaire, and Apollo couldn’t remember how it worked, except he knew he lost anyway. He washed the dishes, and then Trucy said she was going upstairs to sleep and see you tomorrow, Polly! Before she left, she hesitated, and then flung herself around Apollo, arms gripping his back.
“Tomorrow, right?” she asked in a small voice, as if he had just kicked a billion puppies. He found himself gently hugging her, as well, a little lost.
“Yeah,” he said. “Tomorrow.”
When she had finally gone to sleep, Mr. Wright finally spoke.
“Go take a nap,” he said. “I’ll wake you up before midnight for the ceremony.” Mr. Wright was reading the newspaper with an almost strong disinterest. Apollo considered it almost refreshing to be ignored so cleanly, so slipped down the empty hallway until he reached a room that might have been his office. There were boxes stacked in the bookshelves, and a small desk with various legal-looking papers sitting on the desk. A musky smell filled the room, like paper and law textbooks.
He nodded off slowly, and almost unwillingly.
--
When he woke up, it had already become dank in night. His limbs hurt, and he stretched out his arms. His elbow bumped into a light switch, and spluttering, a lamp slowly opened from the desk, illuminating a box near his foot.
Curious, he took the cover off. There were journals underneath, and he plucked one out at random, removing it like it was a precious stone in a temple. He propped it on the desk and opened up the fresh pages, looking down the lines of neat handwriting.
That was how Mr. Wright found him, sitting on the desk, journals spread at random pages.
“What are you doing?” he asked quietly.
“Just reading.” For some reason, Apollo felt particularly defensive. “There’s nothing wrong with that, is there?”
“Not if you read quickly.” He leaned on the desk, which groaned under his weight. “Time’s running out.”
“I know.” He flipped through a journal. “Vera Misham. Machi Tobaye. Wocky Kitaki. They’re interesting people.”
“Yes,” Mr. Wright said. “They are.”
“Was Apollo Justice interesting, too?”
Mr. Wright picked at the desk, peeling off the wood splinters. He twisted them in his hands and dropped them on the floor. “. . . He is.”
“Where are we doing the ceremony?” he asked.
“In the living room.” Mr. Wright pushed his hands back into his pockets again, and if Apollo looked out the sides of his eyes, he thought Mr. Wright looked rather like a phoenix. “I’ll wait for you.”
Apollo cleaned up the journals, sliding them back into the boxes, fitting them like bad jigsaw puzzles. The box wouldn’t close, so he left it partially open. He fumbled clumsily for the switch, and the lamp flickered off suddenly. His eyes slowly adjusted, and then he exited the room, closing the door finally behind him.
He ran his fingers down the cold rail, like he wanted to memorize the very formation, before he reached Trucy’s room. Slowly, he opened the door, and saw her sleeping form curled along the pillows. Her magic hat sat on her bed post.
He stood above her, and remembered when he first awoke from his dream, where she had been beating his apartment with a broom. He slipped off his bracelet, which had given him so much comfort and so much pain, and gently took her hand and folded her small fingers along the sides of it.
Finally, he looked at her peaceful face, eyes closed in sleep.
“Good night,” he told her, softly, and left the room, feeling more wistful than he entered. When he walked into the dark living room, he wasn’t surprised to see Mr. Wright sitting on the sofa, leaning on his knees and waiting for him.
“I told you not to do anything stupid,” Mr. Wright warned.
“I didn’t!” Apollo scowled and crossed his arms over his chest.
“. . . How are you feeling?”
“I’m fine, sir,” he said stiffly. He couldn’t remember any of his childhood beyond working at Kristoph’s office. Even some of his court cases had already returned spotty, missing in memory except for a rush of exhilaration. But the names that he had listed off a few minutes earlier had since disappeared.
“So what do I have to do?”
“Nothing.” Mr. Wright leaned back onto the sofa. “You’re not going to fight the titans.”
“No,” Apollo said firmly. “I fight for justice. That’s why I chose it as my last name.” Though he couldn’t remember the moment he chose it, or any of the events that followed it. Judging by the look Mr. Wright was giving him, his scary boss knew that, as well.
“You’re not going,” he said. “You’ll die the way you are now.”
“I’m fine—”
“You can’t lie to a phoenix, Apollo,” he said. “You lied to Maya, and you lied to me. I shouldn’t have ever allowed you to ever accept the offer. But what we can do now is try and stop the flow of memories before you lose it all.”
Apollo gritted his teeth, leaning forward. “But who else can go?”
“I can.”
“You don’t have enough power,” he said, and he knew his words were true when he said them. “Your role is the rebirth. You have to survive.”
“I’ve been living too long,” Mr. Wright said softly. “Long enough to see my friends turn into gods and fade away.” Suddenly, Mr. Wright looked lonely, sitting on the sofa all by himself.
“I’ll rescue them,” Apollo said. “And save them. And bring them back. Mr. Wright, just let me do this. There’s no use, anyway. Let me prove myself.”
“. . . I know.” Mr. Wright slowly got up, and went to the corner where Mr. Charley sat. He began to pick a branch, and then another branch, and another, and in his hands, they seemed to transform into a shimmering color of silver, slender and beautiful. He tied them firmly into a halo, which seemed to glow in the room.
“Yeah. Just watch.” Apollo felt less and less confident with every passing moment, but he also felt less and less like himself. “You can’t argue with me. I might—I might not be Apollo. The Apollo. I might just be false. But—but I’m going to try, and you can’t stop me.”
“I know.” Mr. Wright tugged on the red silk scarf under Trucy’s silk hat, and he tossed it in front of Apollo. As he watched, the red bled into the carpet, and slowly became hyacinths, flowers with a strange smell that made him feel achingly sorrowful, as the flowers began to fill the room.
And his son flew the chariot across the sky.
Apollo struggled, trying to regain the last of his memories in a last-ditch effort. Mr. Wright approached him, and up-close, Apollo could see his short stubble, and the sad look in his eyes, the bags underneath them that spoke of seven long years, and five hundred longer ones. Gently, his big hands placed the laurel wreath on Apollo’s head, and he could smell Mr. Wright.
And so the horses screamed and ran out of control, and his son screamed as well.
“To get there,” Mr. Wright said, “You just pull on existence.” His own fingers tightened together and seemed to gently yank away at the image in front of him. “And you’ll arrive at the titans.”
And there was a lightning bolt that struck the chariot, and it fell from the sky, the horses still kicking, but his son, dead.
“I’ll lead you there,” Mr. Wright said, his beanie low on his head. “But I can’t stay long. This body won’t let me.”
And he cried, screamed, for his son, his precious son, who had always been his son, who he had always been proud of, who was dead.
“I had a dream,” Apollo said, hands dropped to his sides. “I thought it was my dream, at first. I couldn’t remember it. But now I can’t remember anything else.” He chuckled, a low tone in his voice, and sheepishly ran his hand through his hair. Too late did he realize that he hadn’t gelled his hair at all that day, and his bangs fell in his face.
“Mr. Wright,” he said, lost. “That wasn’t my dream. That was yours, right?”
“. . . There are many different ways to consider a father,” Mr. Wright said, and he looked even sadder, standing in the blood-red flowers, than he had ever looked before. “Your physical father. Your godly father.”
“. . . Mr. Wright?”
“I consider you my son.” Mr. Wright drew down his beanie. “You don’t have to prove anything to me. I know that you’re Apollo Justice.”
“Mr. Wright,” he said, lost. He reached forward, and pinched the air, and felt existence, felt the world shift beneath him, felt the roar of the titans and their dripping teeth and large mouths and laughing faces and arms the size of giant trees and fists larger than boulders and harder than diamond, but he could also feel the sunlight beating upon him like a welcome relief, finally entering into a world after he had done something right and he began to pull himself in, existing, not existing, entering, exiting.
“. . . Dad,” he said.
--
And sometimes he dreamed.
He dreamed that he never returned from the battle, but he had won. And with his last breath, he sealed away the memories, dormant again, slumbering. And Damon Gant and Kristoph returned to their prisons, and when Mr. Edgeworth returned, even Mr. Wright broke down a bit. Maya’s nightmares ebbed away, and Mia returned to her resting place, and Dahlia and Iris Hawthorne were never heard from again. And one fateful day, Lamiroir sat down opposite of Trucy, who wore a familiar bracelet, and they talked quietly. Nobody remembered their past lives, nobody remembered their powers ,and nobody remembered Apollo, though Trucy seemed to remember, though she never spoke about it.
And sometimes Mr. Wright had dreams of a bright young defense attorney, who fought in the courts for justice and truth, who laughed and cried and shouted too loudly.
But he always woke up, because that was all they were.
Dreams.