Archive of Our Own

"What you're talking about is science fiction," Edgeworth says, and it is more than logic that rejects the very notion of what he's being told.

"A week ago, I would have agreed with you," Lang replies, and Edgeworth waits, still, for the reckless grin, the sharp, barking laughter. But still it doesn't come. "But I assure you, this is real."

Edgeworth turns to Franziska, who has been uncharacteristically quiet throughout the entire exchange. Where he expected to see disbelief and indignation, he finds only terror.

This is forty-two days before the end begins.

They fly out to Zheng Fa to see the specimen. No one's believed it until they've seen it, Lang tells them, and how could they? The idea is repugnant, outside the realm of what we know to be possible.

They're blindfolded on the drive to the facility--a top secret military base, not even Lang's good word is enough to grant them knowledge of its location. When the car finally stops, Lang tells them to remove the blindfolds, and the three of them exit the vehicle. Edgeworth can tell from the bitter cold that they're in the northern part of the country, and from their immediate surroundings he can deduce that they're in the forest, but otherwise he hasn't a clue as to where they are. Still, it's all he can think about as they walk down one long, anonymous corridor after another: Where are they?

His mind will not let him think about why they're here.

Just outside of the containment cell, Lang stops them.

"It's not pretty," he says, and the pain and disgust in his eyes suggests that's an understatement. "I won't think any less of you if you have to leave, or if you lose your lunch; you certainly wouldn't be the first."

Edgeworth opens the door for Franziska, and for a moment she does not pass through, just stares at him. He is unaccustomed to seeing her fear play so openly across her face. Then she squares her shoulders, raises her chin, and walks defiantly into the room.

For all they had been told, neither of them could have possibly expected what they now see before them.

There is a child, no more than six years old, squatting in the corner of the cell. Her clothes are tattered and bloodied, her long, dark hair matted and tangled; her left arm has been torn off at the elbow, and half of her face is missing, jaw bone broken in half and skin ripped away. A gruesome sight, but some part of their brains still thinks it's not so bad as it truly is, that they are looking upon a tragedy rather than a nightmare, until the girl notices their presence and throws herself at the glass, kicking and flailing, scratching and gnawing. It's as though she thinks that her will alone can set her free.

"She's gotten more aggressive since they first brought her in," Lang says quietly, his voice steady but anguished. "The first couple of days, she mostly seemed disoriented. We're not sure yet if it's the cage that's got her so riled up, or if it's an advanced effect of her contamination."

"What happened to her?" Franziska breathes, pressing one gloved hand against the glass. The girl focuses on the spot, biting at the glass with her remaining teeth, leaving a gory mess in her wake.

"Car bombing, initially. That's what got her arm and her jaw. As for what's happened to her now?" He shrugs, anger mixed with his sorrow. "That's what we're trying to figure out, sis."

"What could possibly do this?" Edgeworth asks. He's staring at Franziska's hand on the glass, resisting with every fiber of his being the urge to yank her away, get her as far away from this place as possible. "Something in the bomb?"

"That was our first guess, but we didn't find anything suspicious--just your standard, run-of-the-mill IED. And besides that, the other three people in the explosion stayed dead."

"You said there were other specimens," Edgeworth notes. "They're not from the same incident?"

"We got five others along with her, in a small town outside of Beirut. But she was the only one directly involved in the bombing."

"And the others?" he asks.

"They were all in a grocery almost five blocks away. Apparently our little lady here wandered right in."

Edgeworth frowns, eyes still on Franziska. "So the possibility exists that she's contagious."

"Like I said, it's more than a possibility. But it's not air-borne; our tests are showing that it's communicable only via blood and other bodily fluids."

"She bit them," Edgeworth says, remembering their earlier conversation. "Ridiculous."

"All five of them had hunks ripped out of them, the marks matching up perfectly with our girl's chompers. You gotta admit, it's hard to see how else this could have played out."

"You're sure she's dead?" Franziska interrupts, watching in horror as the girl continues to claw and gnash at the glass, her fervor increasing with each passing second.

"They check her out twice a day, and she hasn't had a pulse since they picked her up two weeks ago."

"This is impossible," she says, and her voice breaks, anger and fear and disbelief overwhelming her. Edgeworth gives in to impulse and reaches out to her, but she recoils, moves away from his touch to wrap her arms tightly across her chest.

Lang smiles sadly, shaking his head. "I wish it were, sis. I really wish it were."

Their tour continues. Upstairs, an array of doctors and scientists have the other specimens in pieces, dissecting and inspecting. They wear Hazmat suits, both for their own protection and so they don't contaminate the sterilized environment.

In pieces, they look like any other dead body. The heads are all arranged on one table, and each of them has an entry wound square between the eyes.

"Our sharpshooters took out these guys," Lang says, almost casually. It's easier, with the truly dead. Not like what's downstairs. "It looks like only a head shot will do the job."

"What have we learned?" Edgeworth asks, keeping an eye on Franziska. She is hovering over one of the doctors, watching as the man collects tissue samples from a cadaver's liver.

"Well, like I said, we learned that it's not air-borne, and that it is communicable. We've learned that their brains don't need oxygen, but not how or why. We know they can go at least two weeks without food or water."

"And that's it?" Franziska snaps, and the doctor jumps, his slides clattering to the ground. She scowls at him, then turns to Lang. "How are we supposed to fight this if that's all we know? You've had these bodies for two weeks."

Lang holds up his hands. "I know how you feel, sis, but it's like nothing we've ever seen. Everyone here is just as anxious for answers as you are."

"Fools," she mutters, and Edgeworth is relieved for this return to form.

"What about bioterrorism?" Edgeworth asks.

"To what end?" Franziska asks. "Something like this, you can't control it. A plague knows no borders."

"But if you had a cure?" Edgeworth asks rhetorically. "Then you could stand to gain quite a bit, I would think."

Lang nods. "That's why you're here. If someone let this loose, we need to find them, and stat."

They think they've got time. They can't possibly imagine what's to come.

The rest of the world, they don't have the benefit of Interpol's top secret research.

The rest of the world, they never see it coming.

It's easy enough to keep a single incident outside of the city under wraps, but then there's an outbreak in Hong Kong, then one in Mexico, then one in Ghana. Interpol rushes in, cleans up the mess, but people start to wonder, start to ask questions. Then there's an outbreak in Ireland--three weeks to the day since Lang made his trip to Germany--and someone has to say something; silence is almost worse than the truth.

So they say it's an infection, they liken it to rabies, and they tell you to stay out of the woods, wash your hands ten times a day, and you'll be fine. And people, they like this sort of tangible advice, something they can do; they're content so long as they feel like they're still in control of their own destinies.

So they avoid the woods, and they wash their hands eleven times a day, and they're convinced they'll be fine.

This is twenty-one days before the end begins.

"Look at the spread of infection," Edgeworth says, staring at the map as though the truth will reveal itself in longitude and latitude, in elevation and depth. "It travels across continents, jumps the sea and comes back again. This is not a natural spread."

Franziska doesn't respond, standing by the window, hand clenching and unclenching around the hilt of her whip. This is nothing she doesn't already know; this is nothing they haven't already discussed in endless circles, coming no closer to an answer than they were at the start of this.

"Interpol can't hide this forever. And once it spreads to the cities, forget it; even if there was a cure, how would it be administered?"

Franziska hasn't been sleeping; neither of them have. But while Edgeworth is up working until his body quits, poring over the data, rereading the daily reports they've been receiving from Interpol, Franziska stays awake staring at the stark white ceiling above her bed, haunted by the fractured face of that girl, dead but somehow still alive.

"Each outbreak has been larger than the last--this last one saw nearly twenty infected--and sometime soon it's going to be too big for Interpol to handle. All that needs to happen is for a single infected body to get away, and we'll lose all control. It will spread unchecked."

The panic in Edgeworth's voice grows with each word. He operates on logic, and there is no logic in this, no rhyme or reason they've been able to sniff out. They have facts and data and research and samples, but they have not a single answer. And he is beginning to understand that they are running out of time.

"Why target the country, the remote villages?" Franziska asks suddenly, finally turning to face him. "If this is man-made, why target areas that are easy to contain?"

She knows what he'll say before the words leave his lips. But she needs to hear it, needs that independent confirmation to believe that it might be true.

"If this is man-made," he says, "I would have to surmise that these incidences have merely been practice, and we have yet to see the real thing."

A shiver of terror runs up her spine.

A week later, there are outbreaks in Colorado and in England on the same day. There is an unease in his conference call with Interpol that evening, and Lang admits that they're not sure, but there may have been an escapee in the US. Agents are stationed throughout the woods, along the highways, and around the towns. Everyone assures everyone that if an infected escaped, they'll catch him.

No one wants to be the one to panic. There is nothing to be gained from losing your head.

Edgeworth sits at his desk for a long time after the call is over, considering his next move. He is dealing with top secret information; he has been sworn to secrecy. But the possibility exists that there is an undead roaming the wilds of the American west. If even one of the infected escapes, they've already lost.

And of all places, it had to be America.

He makes the call.

On the phone, Edgeworth is cryptic, but the fear is plain in his voice. And more than that, Phoenix trusts him.

Get out of the city, he says. Get Trucy and go to Kurain.

There's a pause, then, and after a moment of heavy silence he adds: Get Gumshoe.

"What irresponsible, imbecilic foolishness is this?" Franziska snaps, her fear overshadowed by her blinding, consuming fury. "You cannot be serious."

"I have to do this, Franziska."

"There have been six reports of infected in the States in the last two days, the last one in Oregon. Only a fool walks head-long into a danger he knows exists."

"And just yesterday there was a sighting in France," he snaps back. "It is no safer here than there."

"We have Papa's estate," she says cautiously. She knows that this argument presents him an opening, but it's a risk she feels she simply must take. "If it comes to it, we could survive several months in the bomb shelter."

"I plan on being back well before it comes to that," he says stiffly. "I am not a fool."

What if his plane crashes on the way there? What if he touches down to find it's already too late? What if he cannot find that foolish, fallen attorney, what if he spends the rest of his days searching for someone who is no longer there to be found?

What if, by the time he makes it back, there is nothing to return to?

She doesn't say any of this, though the thoughts spill and tumble inside of her head. Instead she says, "You are clearly a fool, flying foolishly across the planet for a man you have not seen in three foolish years."

"What if it were Adrian?" he asks, gently.

"Adrian Andrews is my wife," she spits, and her whip cracks the air beside him. "She is not some foolish school-age crush that I have pathetically clung to for my entire, foolish life. Do not belittle our relationship with false equivalencies."

He's quiet for a moment, pain and regret etched in his brow. He says, his voice low, "I cannot leave him to the wolves when it is within my power to protect him." She says nothing, her lips pulled into a stern frown. He adds, "As soon as I've got him, we'll fly immediately back to Germany. I will be gone but a matter of days."

"And the girl?" she asks. "You'll be bringing her as well?"

"Of course."

"How many do you expect us to support, Miles Edgeworth? Every mouth is a liability."

"We will support as many as we need to," he says sharply. "There's yet time to make the necessary preparations."

"If it comes to that," she amends.

He nods. He knows that if she was angry before, she will be livid at this next point, but he forges on regardless. "I want you and Adrian to stay at the estate."

The whip cracks again, its tongue catching his shoulder, the sting felt easily through the layers of fabric he's wearing--a familiar sensation that he does not react to. She says, her voice quaking in anger, "There is work to be done, Miles Edgeworth. I will not run off with my tail between my legs, I will not fly off to America on my own agenda as soon as things look bleak. The world will not wait to be saved while I cower in fear."

There is a fire in her eyes, a defiance in her stance that he has never known if he should admire or pity. She sees the path down which the evidence is leading, knows the way this story will end, but still she fights.

Well, so does he.

"I'm leaving as soon as my flight can be scheduled, which should be no later than morning. I need to know that you'll be safe while I'm gone."

"I do not need your protection, Miles Edgeworth," she says, but her voice falters. She looks away from him, eyes glassy and distant. "I need you to not waste your considerable abilities on a fool's errand."

"Promise me, at least, that you will go should things begin to look bad."

"Things already look bad, Miles." She regards him with a look he can't quite decipher; he wonders if there will ever come a day when he fully understands her. "I will go to the estate only when there is truly nothing left to be done. I cannot sit by and just watch this happen." He nods, understanding despite his disapproval, and she continues, "And if you are so worried about my well-being, Miles Edgeworth, you are welcome to hurry home from America and try to force me to the estate yourself."

He laughs, shaking his head, and feels the bright sting of tears at the back of his eyes. He stands, and he pulls Franziska into a rare, awkward embrace. She does not break away, but stands stiffly in his arms. Eventually, when she can no longer bear the weight of everything they stand to lose, she brings her hands up, softly, to the small of his back. She pretends not to hear him cry, that there are no tears sliding down her own cheeks.

This is the last time they will ever meet.

Apollo blinks, his brain trying to make sense of the scene before him.

Phoenix Wright. Behind the wheel of a car.

He brings a finger to the bridge of his nose, pressing until the pad of his forefinger slides forward, comes to a rest squarely between his brows. Already, he can feel the headache coming on.

"Something wrong, Polly?" Phoenix asks, leaning out the window. Like this is something he does all the time, casually parking outside of the agency. In a car.

"So much is wrong," Apollo says, "that I don't even know where to start."

"Well hop in!" Phoenix says with a grin. "We haven't got all day!"

"If you think I'm letting you drive me anywhere, you are sorely mistaken."

For a second he thinks Phoenix is going to argue--certainly, he expects the man to argue; never in his life has he met anyone who takes more delight in being contrary--but then Phoenix shrugs, angles awkwardly over the auto-transmission stick, and plops into the passenger seat with a bounce.

"Alright then, you drive."

Apollo sighs. "I don't have a driver's license either."

Phoenix brings a finger to his chin, miming thoughtfulness. "Quite the pickle we find ourselves in, hm?"

"Where did you even get this car?" Apollo asks, exasperated, opening the door and sliding reluctantly into the driver's seat. His license is expired, but he does know how to drive; if he has to, he can get them back to the car's owner in one piece.

Phoenix shrugs, and it briefly crosses Apollo's mind that maybe he stole it. But that's ridiculous, right?

"It's Gumshoe's," Phoenix answers when Apollo fails to press him further. "He'll be back in a minute--just ran around the corner to the deli. You should probably get in the back."

Apollo exits the vehicle, irritated, just as Gumshoe appears on the horizon, arms filled to the brim.

"Hey pal," the detective says, tilting his head toward Apollo in greeting. "Mind opening that door for me?"

The younger man obliges, and Gumshoe throws two twenty-four packs of ramen in the back, along with two cases of bottled water and a first aid kit.

"That's all you got?" Phoenix asks from the front.

"I've only got two hands, pal!" Gumshoe complains. "And the shelves were empty. Everyone's thinking the same thing, I guess."

Apollo's eyes narrow, and he looks around the car as he takes a seat in the back. In addition to Gumshoe's delivery, there's a case of canned pork and beans at his feet, as well as several boxes of matches, a lantern, and a pack of toilet paper. On the seat beside him there's a blue duffle bag he'd guess is Phoenix's, if its shoddy condition is any indicator. And there's another bag on the floor beside him, a ratty brown backpack filled to burst.

"Where are we going?"

"To pick up Trucy," Phoenix says, and doesn't elaborate.

"Where are we going after we pick up Trucy?" he asks, suspicious.

"Then we're taking you home to pack."

"Pack?" Apollo asks. "Where do you think I'm going, exactly?"

"We're all going to Kurain for a while," Phoenix says. "Get out of the city, breath in some of that fresh country air..." He inhales deeply, as though they're already there. "Aaah, I can practically smell it, Polly."

"I'm in the middle of a case," Apollo says, his voice pitching in distress.

Phoenix shakes his head. "Do you think I'm so irresponsible? I've already found someone to cover for you."

"You transferred my case?" He's going red in the face now, his voice rising with every word. "Do you have any idea how unprofessional that is? And god, how that's going to make my client look, her attorney just abandoning her at the last minute?"

"Now now, Polly. I used to be an attorney, you know. The judge, prosecution, and jury are all aware that you were called away suddenly and against your will on a family emergency."

"Emergency," Apollo parrots disdainfully. "It's a freakin' vacation."

Phoenix shifts in his seat, turning to look at Apollo. "I promise I'll explain everything once we're in Kurain. But for now, I need you to trust me, okay?"

Apollo looks to Gumshoe, but the man's eyes are glued to the road; he knows better than to get in the middle of it. Though he knows it won't do any good, Apollo reaches for his bracelet, trying to divine what might be going on in the head of the man in front of him. But as always, he can't get a read on Phoenix. He's got nothing to go on but his gut.

"Fine," he says, crossing his arms and sinking into his seat.

Trucy seems unperturbed to be taken out of school in the middle of the day, and she buzzes around Apollo's studio apartment as he packs, Phoenix and Gumshoe waiting downstairs in the car.

He's not stupid, of course. He's been following the news, heard about the make-shift poison control centers opening up and down the coast, heard about the supposed quarantine somewhere up in Canada. There were some protesters outside of City Hall yesterday afternoon, claiming that God had sent a scourge upon the earth to cleanse it of sin. It all seemed a bit much to him.

And now the aisles of the grocery stores are running bare as the city stocks up on the essentials. He's used to the paranoia of the masses, but he hadn't expected it from Phoenix Wright, of all people. Hovering over his sock drawer, he wonders how many pairs he should pack; how many nights will it take him to convince Phoenix that he's over-reacting?

"You haven't met Mystic Maya, right?" Trucy asks. She's standing in front of his mirror, holding one of his vests up to her torso and bouncing from one foot to another. Trucy he has a hard time reading, too, for all she seems like an open book. Watching her, his bracelet hums softly against his skin, and he knows he's not getting the full picture.

"I have not had the pleasure, no," he says, sounding more irritated than he'd intended as he turns back to his socks.

Trucy pays his surliness no mind, continuing, "She's pretty much the best ever. You're going to totally love her." Her eyes go wide, struck with a sudden idea. "Oh man, maybe you'll fall in love with her!"

He rolls his eyes. "Highly unlikely. Now here, do you mind helping me carry this downstairs?"

Trucy lets out a little grunt as she helps him lift the duffle bag off of the floor, each of them taking a strap. He's packed enough for two weeks, easy. Longer than he intends to stay out in Kurain, but as his bracelet continues to thrum as he watches her shoulder the weight of the bag, part of him worries it's not going to be enough.

Gumshoe's on his cell when they step out onto the sidewalk, pacing back and forth at the end of the block. Though he doesn't know the man very well, Apollo can tell immediately that he is worried and agitated, his mind's eye drawn to the twitch of the detective's left eyebrow.

"Whoa ho," Phoenix says, letting out a low whistle. He's leaning against the trunk with his hands stuffed into the pockets of his hoodie. "Think you packed enough there, Polly?"

Apollo answers him with a glare, and Trucy drops the bag at the curb to scramble into the passenger's seat. Phoenix shrugs and pulls himself off of the car. "Here, let me get that for you."

"It's pretty heavy," Apollo says, and tugs at the strap to demonstrate how little he's able to lift the thing. "You better let me help."

"No no, I'll get it."

And there, there's this flash of something, gone as quickly as it came. Apollo drops the strap, letting it fall across the bag. "Suit yourself."

Phoenix lifts the duffle with relative ease, and Apollo searches his face for any sign of exertion and finds nothing. This is perhaps the most irritating thing yet. Still, he smiles and makes for the back door of the car. He waits until Phoenix has opened the trunk before he sneaks back around.

"What the hell?" he asks, the words out of his mouth before he's even fully processed what he's seeing.

Phoenix looks up at him, surprised and alarmed. He slams the trunk shut, leaving a possessive hand on the top of it.

"What the hell?" Apollo repeats, his voice a hiss.

"You were supposed to get in the car," Phoenix says evenly.

"There's a gun in there," he says, whispering the word and throwing a worried look in Trucy's direction. The girl is fidgeting with the radio, unaware of the tension just a few feet away from her.

Phoenix frowns, and Apollo can tell that he's considering. After a moment he says, "Look, I can't give you all the details, because I don't have them myself. But I can tell you that things are much worse than what we're seeing on the news."

"And you know this how?" Apollo asks, snippy and accusing. He feels something dark and tight knotting at the pit of his stomach.

"I can't tell you." At Apollo's look of exasperation, he adds, "I know. I wish I could be less vague, but I can't, not yet."

For a second Apollo's scowl remains, but then his features soften. "How bad is it?"

"Pretty bad. I promise I'll tell you everything once we're in Kurain." He pauses, then adds, "I just don't want to upset Trucy; if she sees you're all riled up, she's going to get riled up, too. So if you could relax, that would be swell."

Right, Apollo thinks, watching Trucy through the back window, her form a silhouette in the afternoon sun. Relax. Nothing to it.

"Fräulein Detective," Klavier says pleasantly, leaning against the doorjamb. "I've been looking for you."

"Just Detective will do," she corrects absently, peering curiously into her microscope.

Klavier breezes further into the room, coming to rest his hip against the counter beside her. "Certainly, Fräulein. Now, you have not asked why I am looking for you."

Ema doesn't respond, fingers tweaking the position of the lens. She asks, "Were you able to get me those charts?"

"I'm afraid not. You see, I was at the crime scene, conducting your investigation."

She straightens, cheeks flushed red. "Oh. I forgot."

"So I see," he replies amiably. "What is it that has my Fräulein's head so far in the clouds?"

She frowns, crossing her arms over her chest. "My head is not in the clouds, Fop, it is in science."

"What have you been doing, exactly?" he asks, and now his tone is not quite so light, his eyes slightly narrowed. When she doesn't respond, looking away from him, he says, "If you want those charts, I suggest you share."

Her frown deepens, but she offers, "Did you hear about that crazy call to animal control last week? It was on the news."

"Nein," he says, shaking his head. "I'm afraid I must have missed it."

"So basically, this junkyard kept a rottweiler, I guess for security or whatever. And while they're closed over the weekend, they would just leave the poor thing tied up on this twenty foot rope." Klavier frowns at that, and she nods, saying, "Yeah, I know, totally terrible. But that's not the story. The story is, when the guy goes in on Monday, the dog is just going berserk, barking his head off, straining the rope so it's threadbare, and he's got this gnarly gash on his stomach.

"So the guy calls animal control, because he's afraid to go anywhere near it. When they get there, they try to tranq the rott, but he's totally unfazed. I'm talking enough to take down an elephant, and the dog keeps on like he's just had a cup of coffee. So then they try to get him muzzled--which, obviously: bad idea--and one of the animal control guys gets bitten."

She stops then, frowning as Klavier mutters, "Mein Gott."

"At that point, they shot the poor rott," Ema says quietly, eyes on her hands. "Didn't know what else to do with him, I guess."

"That's horrible."

Ema nods. "But that's not it, either. The guy who got bitten? He starts feeling kinda sick later in the day, so he checks himself into the ER."

She stops again, for dramatic flair, and when she doesn't continue, Klavier asks, "And? What happened?"

"No one knows. The guy checked in, but he never checked out, and no one knows where he is."

"That's ridiculous," Klavier says, laughing uncomfortably. "Someone has been telling you tales."

Ema shrugs. "Well, most of it was in the news, so you can read about it yourself. The rest of it I heard from this girl I went to school with. She works in poison control but they had her working with animal control for a few days."

"For what purpose?"

"They had her do a bunch of tests on the dog, see if she could find anything strange."

"And?" Klavier asks.

"And she did--so strange that she wasn't sure what she was looking at. So she let me take a look," she says, gesturing to her microscope.

"And what do you make of it?"

"I'm not really sure," she says, resting a finger against her cheek in thought. "I haven't seen anything like it, either. The cells look... weird." She stops, looking thoughtful, then turns her attention back to Klavier, "Which is why I need those charts."

"Mr. Bitan, he is the gentleman from animal control?"

"Got it in one," she confirms. "I'm wondering if they found anything strange when they were checking him out, before he disappeared. I asked Amy if she'd heard anything, but she hasn't emailed me back."

"Fräulein, perhaps we'd best leave it to the professionals, ja?" he asks, smiling widely to mask his discomfort.

She huffs at that, and he gets a Snackoo square between the eyes. "I am a professional, you fop!"

It's not a long drive to Kurain, but they get lost twice on their way out of the city, and it's nearly dusk by the time Los Angels recedes in the rearview mirror. In the front seat, Trucy fiddles with the radio, jumping between pop stations, and Phoenix and Apollo sit quietly in the back, staring out their respective windows.

Apollo's been trying to put the pieces together in his head; he's a smart guy, and he likes to think he's gotten a lot better in his deductive reasoning.

If Phoenix knows something the rest of them don't, well, that's nothing new. But what on earth could he know that would make hiding out in the woods with canned beans and ammunition seem like a good idea? Does Mr. Wright even know how to use a gun? He looks over at the man, considering. It seems unlikely, but Phoenix has always been full of surprises.

It must be related to the infection, right? What else could it be?

He feels that knot of dread in his stomach tighten.

Is it airborne? It hasn't been reported as airborne, but then, not much has been reported on it at all. It seemed like someone else's problem when he'd heard about the outbreak up North. But on the news they said it was under control, a few people died but they were able to isolate it.

Well. Maybe Phoenix has heard differently.

He must have heard something from Mr. Edgeworth; that's the only thing that makes sense. It's no secret that Mr. Edgeworth has ties to Interpol, and if anyone knows what's going on, probably it's them. Which is not exactly the most comforting thought. Fortunately, those thoughts are interrupted.

"You think Maggey's there already?" Gumshoe asks, not for the first time.

"You want me to call her?" Phoenix offers. The detective visibly hems and haws; Maggey is an independent woman, and she can take care of herself--as she has made a point to tell him on more than one occasion.

"Ooh, I'll call her!" Trucy offers, turning around to snatch up the proffered cellphone.

Except she doesn't get to make the call, because on the horizon is a distant lick of flames, growing larger as they approach.

"What do you think, pal?" Gumshoe asks, eying Phoenix in the rearview mirror. "Should we stop?"

Apollo catches Phoenix's thoughtful frown, but Trucy doesn't, not letting him answer as she chides, "Of course we'll stop; what if they need our help?"

"Pal?"

"We'll stop," Phoenix says, still frowning.

As they near the scene, they can identify the source of the flames: a slow-burning sedan in the parking lot of an otherwise empty gas station. Gumshoe pulls up a few yards away, into the dirt on the side of the road.

"I don't see anyone," Trucy says, leaning out the window. Cupping her hands to her mouth, she calls, "Helloooo?"

"Stay in the car," Phoenix says, opening his door and stepping out of the vehicle. Apollo's not sure if that charge was directed at him or if it was just for Trucy, but he follows Phoenix out anyway.

"What's the plan?" Gumshoe asks, joining them as they round the front of the car.

"We'll take a quick look around, see if anyone needs help, then be on our way," Phoenix answers, looking past the detective to the small convenience store on the other side of the parking lot. "Weird that there's no one behind the counter."

"I'll go check it out!" Gumshoe volunteers, then takes off at a brisk jog before anyone can say otherwise.

"So," Phoenix says, hands in his pockets as he and Apollo cross the parking lot. "Too old to stay in the car, are you?"

He knows better by now than to respond to Phoenix's prodding, so Apollo says nothing, rolling his eyes.

A few feet away from the sedan, Phoenix stops, and so Apollo stops beside him. After a moment of consideration, Phoenix asks, "You think this thing might blow?"

Apollo's eyes go wide. "I actually hadn't thought of that."

"Yeah, let's wrap this up: Hello? Anyone still alive in there? You've got like ten seconds to respond if you want some help."

They wait, straining their ears for a response. After exactly ten seconds, Phoenix shrugs and starts to turn back around. But just as they're about to leave, there's a faint moan from the other side of the car.

"Fantastic," Phoenix mutters. He spares a quick glance back to Gumshoe's car, sees Trucy peering curiously out of the window, and gives her a wave. To Apollo he says, "Maybe you should wait here."

Were he a bird, Apollo's chest would puff out to three times its normal size. Instead, he says with false confidence, "We'll go together."

"Alright, let's go on three."

Edgeworth had been vague on the phone, and despite his evident panic, Phoenix had not been able to convince him to spill the beans. But he's been able to piece things together, he thinks: outbreaks of some mysterious infection all across the globe; the relative lack of details from any and all news outlets; Edgeworth calling with warnings and top secret information he can't reveal--some sort of biological weapon, most likely. A terrifying thought, but not as unthinkable as what he now sees before him.

There is a torso on the ground in front of them, limbs reduced to shreds. There's a pulpy red mess where the back should be, and the surrounding pool of blood turns into a trail across the remaining parking lot, disappearing into the high grass beyond.

But that, as horrific as it is, is not what's so unthinkable. The head--or what's left of it--is staring up at them with one glassy, mindless eye, its mouth opening and closing uselessly as it lets out a guttural, inhuman whine.

Apollo immediately runs to the edge of the asphalt, retching the contents of his stomach into the grass. Phoenix feels a similar disgust rising in his throat, but he can't look away, his eyes locked with the one dead eye of what he's hesitant to call a human being. And then, as he's staring at it in mute terror, the most horrifying thing of all happens: it starts slowly wriggling toward him, its howls growing all the more desperate.

"Get back in the car," Phoenix says quietly, backing away from the thing that used to be a man. Apollo doesn't need to be told twice, bolting across the parking lot.

"Roll up your window," he says sharply to Trucy, watching anxiously as Phoenix rounds up Gumshoe.

"What happened?" Trucy asks, though she rolls up her window as instructed, arm working the crank. "Did you find someone?"

"I don't--" he starts, then feels sick again, the image of the mangled, writhing remains as vivid as if he were looking right at them.

"Polly," she says, turning to rest a comforting hand on his arm. "What's wrong? What's over there?"

He's spared having to give her an answer as Gumshoe, just as confused as she is, slides into the driver's seat. He's still half out the door, watching Phoenix as he moves to the trunk as he asks, "Pal, what are you doing?"

Apollo's eyes go wide as Phoenix pulls the gun from the trunk and starts back across the parking lot without a word.

"Polly, what's going on?" Trucy asks, panic creeping into her voice as she watches her father's retreating form. "What's Daddy doing?"

When the guns shots ring out--two of them in quick succession, followed by a third several seconds later--Apollo is ashamed of the relief that floods through him.

Maggey Byrde is not having the best of days.

First, Dick calls her up in a panic, saying she's got to leave work and drive to Kurain. Immediately. So then she goes to her boss and has to sweet talk her way into cutting out of her shift early, and she's got to pick up two extra days next week to make up for it. And now, now she's got a flat tire.

"Well, at least we've got a spare," Kay says, sounding unreasonably perky. But Maggey's thankful for it; it's easier to keep her own spirits up with Kay's sunny disposition around.

She wonders if she should call Dick--he's such a worrier--but there's the very real possibility that he'll turn right back around and come get her. She smiles faintly at the thought, love swelling in her chest.

"Alright!" she says, squaring her shoulders and adopting some of Kay's enthusiasm. "Let's change ourselves a tire!"

Ema is in the middle of a chemical analysis when the alarms go off. Around her, the lab techs regard each other with wide, frightened eyes, then dash out into the hall.

She watches after them, thinks probably she should follow suit, but she's got another five minutes before the results of her current test are back. She pokes her head into the hall and doesn't smell smoke, so she goes back to her work.

She's got another two minutes 'til her results when Klavier bursts through the door, breathless and pale.

"Fräulein!" His voice is a harsh pant, completely unbecoming. "What are you doing?"

"I've got another minute-forty," she says, gesturing to the timer with a nod of her head. "What the hell is going on?"

"I am-- I am not entirely sure," he admits. "I saw-- No. I'm not sure what I saw. But we are leaving, now."

Part of her wants to argue, but he seems pretty shaken up, and the alarm is still going off. She nods, and his shoulders relax in relief. She reaches to grab her bag as he goes for the door, but by the time she's turned back around, he's locking the thing.

"The hell?"

"There is a man in the hall," Klavier says, very, very quietly. "I think we best not attract his attention."

He flicks out the light, and they are left with the sickly green glow of the power lights of the equipment around them and a strip of clinical white light from the hall, streaming in through the cut-out window in the door. Klavier moves quickly across the room, positioning himself behind a desk. He motions for her to follow.

Ema frowns. This is not like Klavier.

"A man?" she asks as she kneels down beside him, joining him in a whisper. "Did he have a gun?"

Klavier shakes his head. "His face was covered in blood," he says, gesturing vaguely to his own face before covering his mouth, looking sick to his stomach.

"Blood?" Ema repeats, eyes going wide. "He might need help, Gavin."

Klavier shakes his head again, dropping his hands to his lap. He peers over the top of the desk, looking out into the hall. "I do not think so, Fräulein."

"Gavin," she says, as patiently as she can manage, "I can tell that all this has upset you, and I get that. But you're going to have to tell me what you saw. I can't help if I don't know what's going on."

This time he nods, slowly. He says, "The man in the hall, I'm not sure that he's a man at all."

A chill runs down her spine. No, this is not like Klavier at all.

"I don't know what that means. I need you to tell me everything, okay?"

He swallows, audible in the silence between them. Then he says, "He was walking, moving, but I do not-- I do not think he was alive."

"Scientifically speaking, that's impossible."

He grabs her hand, his grip firm. "Downstairs in the lobby, everyone was running. A man like the man in the hall was chasing this woman, I think--it was hard to tell, there were so many people, so much panic--and he-- attacked her. He bit into her."

Ema frowns at him. "Is this some sort of joke, Fop? Because it isn't funny."

His grip on her hand tightens, and he shakes his head vigorously. "I am telling you what I saw. What could it mean, the way he attacked her? And the dead man walking down the hall?"

She's about to tell him he's been watching too many horror movies, but then a shadow stains the light falling in through the hall. Ema holds her breath, watching as its bearer comes into view.

She can tell immediately that Klavier is right: this man is not alive. As Klavier had said, his face is covered in blood, but he himself does not seem to be harmed; at least, not that Ema can see. She thinks of what Klavier just told her--of the attack in the lobby--and doubts that the blood belongs to the man at all. He seems disoriented, his movements sluggish and imprecise, and he seems oblivious as he stumbles into the door. He stares at it dumbly for a moment before shuffling further down the hall.

"Yes, definitely something wrong there," she manages. Klavier nods, and she adds, "We should get out of here, I think."

"But he is out there."

"You think that guy can manage to open the door to the stairs, or call the elevator?" She shakes her head. "If we wait for him to leave, we could be waiting for forever. And I've only got one bag of Snackoos left."

That makes him smile, though it doesn't reach his eyes. Still, she has never been so grateful in her entire life to see the fop smile.

"So we'll go?"

"Ja, we'll go."

He finally lets go of her hand, and she slowly rises on shaking legs. She will not let him see that she's scared, she decides, and takes a slow, deep breath before approaching the door. Moving cautiously, she peers through the window, keeping herself hidden as best she can. The man is several feet down the hall, running repeatedly into one of the closed office doors, his body thudding against the wood.

"Now?" she asks in a whisper, afraid they'll be heard. But the man keeps right on at his battering.

Klavier scopes the situation over her shoulder, and it's almost funny, how he hides behind her. But more than that, his fear just serves to fuel her own.

"If not now, then never."

She nods, flipping the lock of the door. The man stills for a moment, and Ema can't breathe. But he doesn't turn toward them, instead ambling further down the hall, whatever he'd wanted on the other side of that door already forgotten.

Their door opens in blessed silence, and they begin to creep quietly down the hall. Ema turns to look back, and the man is still moving away from them, but the sight of him with no barrier between them gives her a fright, and she trips over her own feet, stumbling into the wall with a thud.

"Shit."

It comes out of her like a breath, and she doesn't have the courage to turn and look as the man lets out a primal, chilling wail, and then she can hear his heavy footsteps fall in her direction. She's already running when Klavier grabs her by the arm, trying to pull her along faster. Behind them, the man shrieks again, and Ema does not look back as she raises her arms forward and opens the door to the stairwell, Klavier pushing her in front of him, through the doorway.

The door has just closed behind them when they hear the smack of the man slamming against it. The door creaks in its hinges. She stares at it, terrified, unable to move.

"Fräulein."

Klavier's voice, a thick whisper in her ear, and she moves, her feet flying down the stairs of their own accord.

It's gruesome, the scene in the lobby. They pick their way carefully through the bodies, and Klavier nearly slips on the slick film of blood coating the tiled floor. Ema tries not to look at the faces; she doesn't want to know which mangled heap of flesh might belong to a coworker, a friend.

Outside, the street is quiet. They stand squinting in the sun, taking in deep, harsh breaths, the unreality of the moment pressing heavily on their chests.

Then a horn echos from down the block, and the world comes rushing back in.

"What the fuck just happened?" she snaps, trying to push out the fear.

Klavier mutters something in German, then sinks to the sidewalk, shaking his head.

They're not close, but Ema's noticed the change in him since his brother's sentencing. A subtle thing, but she knows that feeling, sitting on one side of the glass and seeing someone you love on the other. Maybe this is finally his breaking point, maybe this is when he's had enough. She can't blame him, really.

Though it goes against her instincts, she rests a hand on his shoulder, and he covers it thankfully with his own.

"What could do this?" he asks, his voice rough, threatening tears.

"Scientifically speaking, I think maybe zombies."

He tilts his head back to look up at her, and she looks down at him somberly, her mouth a thin line.

And then he laughs, burying his face in his hands until she's no longer sure what emotion is heaving his shoulders.

"Listen," she says, sitting down next to him. She's starting to feel better, back in control. "Let's think this through. First, we've got that dog I was telling you about earlier: he doesn't respond to a shit-ton of tranquilizer, and he has to be put down. Before he goes out, he bites some dude, and the dude gets sick and then mysteriously disappears. And now today, you see a man take a chunk out of another human being with his teeth, and it looks like a slaughter house in the lobby, and that guy upstairs was upright and walking but he wasn't alive; you know it as well as I do. So what else would you call it?"

He stares out into the street, listening to the sirens in the distance.

"I need to see Kristoph."

Maggey's trying her best to figure out her options. The situation is this:

1. Due to unforeseen circumstances, they had to abandon the tire-change in the middle of the job.
2. As a result, her car is currently tilted at an angle, still up on the jack, and the new tire is on but not bolted into place.
3. The aforementioned unforeseen circumstance is currently throwing herself at the windshield, beating at the glass with now-bloodied fists.

Kay's watching the woman in morbid fascination, but Maggey can't bear to look at her. She's a middle-aged woman, probably in her late thirties, and she's got a Sunnyside Middle School PTA shirt on. Every time Maggey looks at her, she thinks about how terrified this woman's children would be to see their mother so transformed.

"I think we should try to drive," she suggests, turning to Kay. "I think I can keep the tire on for a while."

"Do you think she's still human?" Kay asks, moving her face closer to the glass. The woman claws frantically at the windshield, trying to get through to them.

She makes herself look at the woman, and immediately a lump forms in her throat. Who was she, Maggey wonders. What was she going to do today, before she changed into the monster now before them?

"No," Maggey whispers. "I don't."

Kay nods, the curiosity in her eyes replaced by something else.

"What if the tire falls off?"

It would have been better driving on the flat. Maggey says, "I could drive on the rim, if it came to that. Once we're out of the city, we'll call Dick."

Kay considers the road before them. Traffic is halted, a four car-collision at the intersection up the block. They'll have to get creative in their route.

"We can do this," she says, determination sparkling in her eyes. She reaches over and gives Maggey's hand a squeeze, as much to draw strength from the other woman as to give Maggey some of her own. "Let's drive."

The rest of the drive to Kurain is silent, save for the radio. Trucy's stopped jumping stations, settling on some old ragtime coming in with fairly poor reception; every few minutes it will cut out, leaving them with several seconds of static. She's resting her head in her arms out the open window, letting the wind tangle her hair. Apollo wants so badly to tell her what he saw, but he doesn't know how, or if he even should.

Maya gives them all a hug--even Apollo, accepting his hand when he offers it only to pull him into her arms--and insists they all sit down for dinner. The thought of food makes Apollo's stomach turn, so he picks at his hamburger as the others catch up.

"How long are you guys staying?" Maya asks around a mouthful of beef.

"I'm not sure," Phoenix says, feeling the weight of four sets of curious eyes upon him. "Through the weekend at least."

"Where's Pearly?" Trucy asks.

"She's out at Hazakura Temple, visiting with Iris and Bikini," Maya says easily. "She should be home in a few days."

Immediately Apollo's bracelet tightens, and from the corner of his eye he checks to see if Trucy's noticed something, too. If she has, it doesn't show on her face. He doesn't know this woman, he reminds himself, and tries to ignore the pressure at his wrist; he's spent all of five minutes with Maya, and he's never been able to read someone that quickly before.

Phoenix frowns, troubled. "How long is the trip out there?"

"Just a few hours; Bikini's got a car now, one of those little Mini Coopers." She lets out a hoot, her laughter a stark contrast to the lingering tension in the others. "She looks so adorable in it, you gotta see it."

"Could she come home sooner? Like tonight?"

Now Maya frowns. "Well, they're doing some spirit training. It would be a pain in the butt for them to stop in the middle; they'd have to start from the beginning if they wanted to pick it up again later."

"I'd feel a lot better if she were here."

Maya tilts her head, giving him a look of mild confusion. "She's with family, Nick. They'll take care of her."

Phoenix doesn't look satisfied, but he lets it drop. Apollo suspects they'll be continuing that conversation later.

Gumshoe gets the call from Maggey just after dinner. She doesn't tell him everything--she doesn't want to alarm him--but she tells him enough: They're stuck on the side of Route 101, sans a back tire. She doesn't tell him she's been driving on the rim for the last twelve miles.

He asks Phoenix if it's okay, but it's pretense; there isn't anything that could stop him from driving back to get her. Phoenix knows that well enough, and neither does he relish the thought of Maggey and Kay stranded on the highway, so he gives his blessing, just so long as Gumshoe can wait long enough for them to get some things out of the car.

"Franziska, please."

"Adrian Andrews," Franziska snaps into the phone, "I will be home once my work is complete. There is no need for your concern."

"Turn on the news," Adrian snaps back.

Franziska doesn't need to turn on the news. She knows very well that there was a sighting in Hoppegarten; Lang called her the minute he heard, urging her to get to safety until the situation could be controlled. And she knows just as well that the situation is far beyond the hope of control.

"I do not need to turn on the news," she confirms. "We are running out of time."

"Time's up," Adrian corrects, her voice shaking. "You can do your work here, where it's safe."

"If I cannot figure out what's going on..." she trails off, unwilling to speak the possibilities out loud.

"Please, Franziska." Adrian is begging now, but she doesn't care. "Come home to me."

So she does.

Despite her better judgement, Ema agrees to go to the prison with Klavier. The thought of being alone after what they just went through is too much for her to bear, so she rides on the back of his bike, holding on for dear life as he zigs and zags in and out of traffic. There are these pockets of chaos along the way--crashed cars, running mobs--and she wonders how long they have until it spreads to the entire city.

The prison is surreal in its normalcy, removed from the turmoil outside its high stone walls. Klavier checks in with the desk staff--it's not visiting hours, but he is apparently friendly with the guards--and Ema waits in the lobby while Klavier is led to Kristoph's cell.

"Brother," the elder Gavin says brightly, looking up from his book. "What a pleasant surprise."

Klavier nods, taking a seat on the bed, and Kristoph's eyes narrow. His brother does not look well. He asks, "What's wrong, Klavier?"

"How much do you know about what's happened?"

"What's happened?" Kristoph asks, but Klavier does not trust the innocent confusion in his voice.

Still, he tells Kristoph his story. He gets through it without a single crack in his voice, and when it is all told he almost feels as though it happened to someone else.

"They took the power cords from the televisions and radios in the shared spaces this afternoon, I've heard. I can verify that someone came in not five minutes later and confiscated my old Jackson-Bell. He said they'd return it later, but of course I know better than that," Kristoph says derisively. But then, getting serious again, he continues, "But Klavier, what you are speaking of is ridiculous. You should know better than to rely on that Skye girl for answers. Think it through for just one moment, then tell me your conclusion."

Klavier doesn't need to take a moment; he has been thinking of nothing else since Ema first offered her deduction. "I think she is right. Perhaps they are not the zombies of late-night horror films, but it is as apt a description as I can make. That man in the hall was not alive, I am telling you."

Kristoph rolls his eyes, arms folded across his chest. "And suppose it's true, then. Why are you here?"

Klavier mutters a string of curses in German, which nearly makes Kristoph laugh. Then he says, "I am here because you are my brother, and I love you. I needed to make sure you were safe and well."

"As well as one can be, waiting for death," he says cruelly. "Tell me Klavier, what difference does it make? I am scheduled to die in less than two weeks, and you do nothing about that. What do you care for my well-being?"

Another litany of curses, and Klavier stands, moving to get in Kristoph's face. Through his teeth he hisses, "I will not see you turned into a mindless, waking corpse. You can make of that what you like."

Kristoph simply shrugs.

"It doesn't have to be like this between us," Klavier says as he exits the cell, and Kristoph says nothing.

"Can I ask you something?" Apollo asks. They are sitting around the fire--him, Phoenix, and Trucy--their hostess absent to attend to whatever responsibilities with which a Kurain Master might be tasked.

"As long as I don't have to promise you an answer," Phoenix says, giving him a grin and a wink.

"Where's Lamiroir?"

For the slightest moment, Phoenix's careful smile slips. He says, "In Borginia, finishing up her tour, I'd imagine."

"Is she safe there?"

Phoenix casts a quick glance over to Trucy, who is looking between the two of them with rapt attention. She's a smart girl, his daughter; she undoubtedly knows that something is up, and he's got the feeling she's pieced a good deal together already, all on her own. While he'd like to continue hiding under pretenses, this is probably an occasion best served by honesty.

"I've got someone looking for her."

The look of confusion on Apollo's face is priceless, but Phoenix doesn't particularly feel like laughing.

"You've got someone looking for her?" he parrots. "What, do you command vast Borginian armies or something?"

Well, Phoenix can't help but laugh at that, and he's thankful for the levity. "Maybe I do, maybe I don't. But in this case, I'm calling in a favor from one of Edgeworth's Interpol friends."

"Someone in Interpol owes you a favor?" Apollo asks, incredulous.

"Well, he owes Edgeworth a favor. And Edgeworth owes me... Well. Edgeworth doesn't really owe me anything, I suppose, but he was surprisingly amenable nonetheless."

"That's what friends are for," Trucy adds, and Phoenix nods sagely.

"So has he found her?"

Phoenix shrugs. "Not that I've heard, but then, he only started looking yesterday."

"And when he finds her?"

"He'll get her some place safe," Phoenix says, looking to Trucy. He'd expected her to start hassling him by now, but she stays silent, her lips pressed together in a thin, thoughtful line. He takes a deep breath and decides to go all the way with this: "There's something I should probably tell the two of you."

The pair exchange a look that, to Phoenix's eyes, could mean anything. He catches them doing that a lot, wonders if they even realize when they're doing it. It causes a welcome warmth to spread in his chest, though it makes what he's about to tell them no easier. He waits for either of them to prompt him, but they both stay silent, and so he has to work up the courage on his own. Eventually he says, "Lamiroir isn't quite who you think she is."

Still not a peep from either of his young charges, and that's just weird. He raises an eyebrow at Trucy, and she gives him an encouraging little nod.

"But you already knew that?" he guesses, regarding Trucy with narrowed eyes.

"We, uh, kind of figured it out," Apollo says sheepishly.

"We were taking bets on how long it was going to take you guys to tell us," Trucy adds. "I totally win."

"Huh," Phoenix says, crossing his arms over his chest. "And just when were you planning on telling me?"

"When were you planning on telling us?" Apollo counters, crossing his own arms.

"I didn't think it was my place," Phoenix says, sounding guilty. "I wanted to, believe me."

That he's moved to tell them now isn't lost on Apollo, and it makes him swallow, his throat dry. What is it that Phoenix knows?

"It's okay, Daddy," Trucy says, laying a hand on her father's arm. "I'm sure Lam-- Mom has her reasons. What matters is that we're all a family."

"You're too much, you know that?" Phoenix asks, pulling Trucy into a hug. She laughs, wrapping her arms around him right back. Over Trucy's head, he makes eye contact with Apollo. "I really did want to tell you."

"I know," Apollo says with a shrug, though he hadn't known, not until the words passed his lips. "It's okay. I'm not sure I was ready for her to tell me, anyway."

Phoenix nods, his smile sad. He says, "Well let this be a lesson to you: Never trust Phoenix Wright with a secret."

"Oh, I already knew that," Trucy says, grinning.

They banter for a few more minutes, the tension slowly easing its way out of the room, and then Phoenix takes his leave, off to look for Maya.

"Okay," Trucy starts the second Phoenix is out of earshot. "Time to spill it, mister."

"Ugh," Apollo groans, sinking back into the worn couch, covering his face with his hands. "I don't know."

"I will get it out of you," she threatens, and gives him a poke in the side to illustrate her point. He lets out a half-hearted yelp, shooing her away.

"I think-- Maybe you should ask Mr. Wright." He considers that for a second, then nods. "Yeah, you should ask Mr. Wright."

Trucy frowns, nearly pouting. "Daddy's not going to tell me anything."

"So, there you go," he says. "You can't come to me after Mr. Wright says no and expect that I'm going to say yes. That's a good way to get myself in a whole heap of trouble."

"Well technically he hasn't said no yet," she points out.

"Trucy."

"Polly," she counters. "Look, Daddy doesn't want to tell me anything because I'm his little girl and he wants to protect me. That's what good daddies do. But what good daughters do is find out what's going on anyway, so they can be there for their daddies."

"Trucy, it's--" He doesn't know what to say. How can he possibly tell her, tell anybody about what he saw in that parking lot? For a while, he was almost able to push it from his mind, but now it's back, the memory of this horror he doesn't even know how to describe etched into the backs of his eyelids. "It's hard. I don't know if I can."

"It's okay," she says. Her dark eyes are soft and sincere. "Let me be there for you, too."

He nods, taking a deep breath. And he tells her what he saw, tells her everything he knows.

"There you are," Phoenix says, and Maya jumps about a foot and a half, nearly dropping the the jar of pickles in her hand.

"Oh, hey Nick," she says, smiling largely. "I didn't hear you come in."

"Are you okay?" Phoenix asks cautiously, not quite sure what it is that's making him feel so uneasy.

"Yeah, of course." She pops the second half of her pickle into her mouth, then twists the lid back on the jar, putting it back in the fridge. "What's up?"

"I wanted to talk some more about Pearls," he says. She takes a seat at the large counter running the length of the industrial-sized kitchen, and so he takes the stool next to hers. "We're not just here on vacation, Maya."

"Yeah, I sort of got that impression. What's going on?"

He tells her everything Edgeworth told him over the phone. He thinks to tell her about their stop at the gas station, but he can't. He wants to, but he just-- He can't.

"I wish I could tell you more," he finishes. "It's just-- This is for real, Maya. I don't know what's going to happen, but I know we all need to be together."

She nods. She'd been quiet before, listening carefully to his story. Now she says, "If it's really important to you, Nick, I'll have Bikini bring her home."

His relief is visible, the tension coming out of him a quick huff of air. "Thanks, Maya."

She smiles at him, and it still doesn't feel quite right. But he smiles back at her, anyway.

When Dick wraps his arms around her, she can't help it, she loses it, bawling into his chest, tears streaking her glasses. She didn't even realize it was coming, but the safety of his warmth around her lets her relax, gives her permission to stop being strong, and it all comes gushing out of her. He just holds her, runs gentle fingers through her hair, and she has never been so grateful for him in her entire life.

"Hey, little bird," he murmurs, his voice a soft rumble. "It's okay now."

Kay waits until Maggey's calmed down before getting herself a bear-hug of her own, and Gumshoe nearly crushes her ribs in his enthusiasm, but she wouldn't have any other way.

In the car, Maggey and Kay tell him their whole awful day, and Gumshoe's eyes get wider and wider as they go.

"But now we're all together, safe and sound," Maggey says, leaning across the auto-transmission stick to give Gumshoe a kiss on the cheek.

"That's right!" Kay says, throwing her arms around the both of them, leaning over from the backseat. "Now off to Kurain!"

"Uh, oh. Heh heh."

"Oh Gummy," Kay says, arm still around him. "What?"

"I, uh, I'm not sure I remember how to get back, pals."

"You okay, Fop?" Ema asks.

Reports from the outside have gotten both fewer and worse, so she and Klavier have been given one of the conjugal visitation trailers to stay in for the night. Klavier's fixing himself a make-shift bed of blankets on the floor, and he's been quiet since his visit with Kristoph.

His shoulders stiffen at the question, and he answers quietly, "Thank you, Fräulein Skye, but I am fine."

She doesn't believe him for a second, but she lets it go; she doesn't know what to say, anyway.

Once they're settled into their respective beds, Klavier flicks off the light. It's strange, hearing Klavier's breath in the dark beside her--strange the turns her day has taken to land her here, sleeping at the prison. When she closes her eyes, all she can see is the carnage of the lobby, the bodies that may have been friends.

She's just about to say something--anything to end the oppressive silence that leaves her alone with her thoughts--when Klavier asks, "Fräulein, when your sister said she killed that man, did you believe her?"

"No," she answers immediately, though she no longer knows if it's true, no longer knows what is a valid memory and what is history rewritten.

"Why not?"

There's a thousand answers to that question: it didn't make sense; Lana had no reason; she didn't it want it to be true.

"Because I love her."

"I know my brother killed those men," Klavier says. "I know what the evidence says, and Kristoph does not deny it. I know it is true. But my heart does not believe it."

"It never will," Ema says.

For a moment, Klavier is quiet. Then he asks, "Did you ever reach your sister?"

Ema frowns into the darkness. She'd been doing her best to push this from her mind. "No, not yet."

"I'm sure you will hear from her tomorrow," he says, and she almost believes him.

"Mmm-lo?"

"Wright?"

"Edgeworth?" Phoenix asks, suddenly wide awake. "Yeah, I'm here."

"I'm on my way to California. I trust you've made it to Kurain?"

"Yeah yeah, we made it. You're coming here?" He hadn't been expecting that.

"I'll be there in time for dinner."

Though Edgeworth's voice is calm and even, Phoenix isn't fooled. "Jesus, how bad is it?"

"Things are... not good, Wright. We can discuss it further when I arrive."

They discuss practicalities for a few minutes more, and then Edgeworth bids him a terse goodbye. And Phoenix has a hard time falling back asleep.

Phoenix hears from Gumshoe in the morning; they spent the night on the side of the highway, afraid of losing their way in the dark. He gives them some directions and hopes for the best.

The village is quiet on his way to the dining hall, and though he didn't think too much of it last night, it occurs to him that he didn't see anyone around then, either. Kurain's never been a lively place, but he's unaccustomed to seeing the streets so empty.

Maya's made them all pancakes for breakfast, chirping to them about the weather and the spread she's got planned for lunch. Apollo just nods along without much enthusiasm, and even Trucy's quiet. Phoenix guesses he wasn't the only one who had trouble sleeping last night, and he wonders exactly how long Apollo was able to resist before telling Trucy everything that happened at the gas station.

"So," Maya says, clapping her hands together. "What should we do now?"

"I bet the kids could use a nap after that food-bomb," Phoenix says, and Apollo gives him a half-hearted scowl. "What say you and I go for a walk?"

Maya looks to Trucy and Apollo, who both shrug. Apollo wonders if Trucy's really just tired, or if she's picking up on the strange tension in the young woman, too.

"Sure, Nick. Anything you want."

"Great," Phoenix says, pushing himself away from the table. "Let me grab my hiking boots and I'll meet you outside."

"I didn't think you owned a pair of hiking boots," Maya says, smirking at Phoenix's ratty sandals.

"What can I say," Phoenix offers with a shrug, "I am no outdoorsman."

They wander through the empty streets of the village, and Phoenix pays close attention to all the darkened windows and closed shades as Maya fills him in on the most recent episode of the Titanium Samurai. The magatama thrums with power in his pocket, and Phoenix is sure Maya must be able to sense it, but she gives away no such recognition.

"Maya," he says abruptly, and he thinks his hands would be shaking if they weren't shoved into the pocket of his hoodie, grasping the magatama tightly.

"Nick?" She eyes him sideways, and he knows he's right, something's going on, there's no reason for her to pretend not to notice that he's holding the spirited stone.

"Maya, where is everyone?"

Five Psyche-Locks slam into place in front of her, and he can tell from her face that she feels them every bit as thoroughly as he does, even if she can't see them.

"They're at Hazakura, with Pearls," she says, and beads of sweat form on her forehead. Her response is physical, her breaths coming short and her face coloring as she over-heats with the effort of lying. He's never seen such a visible reaction before, and he wonders if it's because she's a Fey.

"I don't think they are," he says slowly. When she doesn't respond, looking away from him, he says, "Maya, please don't make me do this. Not to you."

She holds out for just a moment longer, and then the locks shatter violently. She doesn't say anything, simply taking him by the hand and leading him to the Master's Quarters.

Pearl is in Maya’s quarters. Except that it’s not Pearl; it is the moving, breathing shell of Pearl, empty of the vibrant, silly, determined young woman who once inhabited the body he now sees before him.

She doesn't notice them right away, too busy gnashing futilely at the thick metal chain that keeps her anchored to the wall, her mouth a bloody mess of broken teeth and torn gums. When she finally senses their presence and looks up, she doesn't move, she just lets out a low, desperate whine.

He wants to run, wants to scream at Maya, shake her and ask her what she's done; how could she have let this happen? But she's staring at him, watching him watch Pearl, and he can see in her eyes that she's broken, that she needs him to fix this.

But there's no fixing this, not this time.

"Maya," he manages, his voice a weak and damaged thing. "What happened?"

"She's sick," Maya says, positioning herself between the two of them, desperation in her eyes. "But she'll get better."

"That's not--- That isn't Pearl, Maya. Pearls is gone."

"No!" she argues, suddenly in his face, fisting her hands in his sleeve. "She's in there Nick, I know it."

"She's not--"

"I can't channel her!" she says, nearly shouting now. "I tried and I tried and I can't."

That's not what he was expecting--no, not at all--and his mind immediately goes back to that parking lot, to pulling the trigger once, twice, three times, until the writhing mound of flesh on the ground in front of him finally stilled. That could not have been a living thing. The bloodshot, vacant eyes that are staring through him cannot belong to Pearls.

He rubs at his face with the ball of his hand, turning away from what he can't believe is still, somehow, his Pearls. He wants to believe it, but it doesn't make any sense. But what does it mean, if Maya can't channel her?

"We should get Apollo."

Phoenix watches Apollo's face, because he can't bear to look at Pearls. But as Apollo's features contort in horror, he finds he can't look at the young attorney, either.

"Can you sense anything?" Phoenix asks quietly, not even sure what it is he thinks that Apollo might be able to see.

Apollo can't answer, just shakes his head and backs quickly out of the room, empties the contents of his stomach onto the grass outside. The room is quiet in his absence, save for the low, inhuman hum from the thing that isn't Pearl. Phoenix can't stand it, the steady, wretched moan, and follows Apollo outside, leaving Maya alone with the ghoul.

"Are you okay?" Phoenix asks, his voice hollow and distant to his own ears.

"Not particularly," Apollo says, letting out a pained cough. "You?"

"No, not really."

Phoenix senses his daughter's presence before he sees her, stepping out from around the side of the building. Her face is pale, eyes both terrified and fearless. His relief at her appearance is replaced immediately by a flood of guilt; this is no time for weakness.

"Go back to the house."

"Let me see her."

He's not sure how she would know, but he's not surprised, either. She's got this way of reading him, of seeing right through him, and he's never been able to lie to her, though sometimes she lets him pretend. Still, he doesn't want her in that room.

"Go back to the house," he repeats, and for a moment he thinks she might actually listen to him for a change, but then her face hardens and her shoulders stiffen and she strides right past them, into the Master's Quarters.

"You let her go," Apollo whispers, and it's nearly a question. Phoenix shrugs helplessly, following her in.

"Pearly," Trucy breathes, and the thing that was Pearl quiets, turning to the voice. She looks at Trucy--or maybe looks through her--and Phoenix searches for any sign of life or intelligence in her dull eyes. He finds nothing, but Trucy's eyes narrow, considering, and she takes a step closer.

"Trucy, don't."

And he's already stepping forward, moving to pull her away, but it's too late. She closes the distance between herself and the undead husk of her friend, rests her hand gently on the thing's cheek as though she thinks her Pearly might yet be in there. But she's not, and Phoenix knows she's not, and he's already drawn his gun by the time the thing digs its teeth into Trucy's arm, but it's still too late.

Maya screams when the shot rings out, and the creature falls into Trucy as Maya throws herself at Phoenix. She beats her fists against his chest, wailing incomprehensible condemnations--he killed her, he killed Pearly--but all he can see is Trucy, the blood welling up at the wound on her forearm.

"Bathroom. Now."

Apollo's already on it, pulling Trucy away from the scene, out of the room and down the hall. Phoenix gently extricates himself from Maya, and she collapses to the ground, sobbing. He can't look at her, can't look at the dark, thick blood spreading from the hole in Pearl's head. He has to get to Trucy.

"It's not that bad," Apollo says, quick to reassure as Phoenix enters the bathroom. He's got a handful of gauze pressed against the girl's arm, and a bottle of rubbing alcohol is open on the edge of the vanity. Trucy's seated on the lid of the toilet, looking pained and bewildered. She's covered in a fine red mist of someone else's blood.

"I thought-- I thought I saw her in there," she says quietly, looking up at her father. "I really did."

"I know, honey." Phoenix drops to his knees beside her, feeling about two seconds away from collapse. But his daughter is shaking, terrified, and she needs him. He runs a hand through her hair, and she leans against him, trying not to cry.

"I'm so sorry," she whispers, voice breaking, and that's what does him in. He pulls her in close, tucks her head under his chin so she can't see his tears.

He finds Maya in the woods, at the alter. He doesn't know what to expect, but he sits down on the dirt beside her, folding his legs beneath him.

"That wasn't Pearly," she says at last, her voice hoarse.

"No, it wasn't."

She can't look at him, so she says to the fallen leaves and the ground beneath her, "I'm so sorry, Nick."

He swallows, afraid he'll choke on his anger and his fear, that he'll lash out at her if he's not careful--not because she deserves it but simply because she's there.

"I need to know what happened to Pearls. I need to know that Trucy's going to be okay."

She nods, taking a deep breath as she tilts her head toward the sky. Already the afternoon is fading, and she thinks of coming to this very spot with Pearl just last week, how simple things had been.

"We came out to the alter together," she starts, and she takes another breath, steadying her voice. "After a while, I went back to help with dinner, but Pearly stayed; she's always liked the peace and quiet out here.

"She came back pretty soon after me, though, because she'd been bitten by a snake." She lets out a sharp laugh, brittle and hard. "Can you believe it? I got kind of panicked, but she told me it was just a shovel-nose and I shouldn't worry. And she seemed fine--ate a big dinner, helped do the dishes--but then she started feeling sick around bedtime.

"She didn't have any numbness, though. Her pulse was strong and her vision clear, but she had a pretty bad fever. The place where she'd been bitten was sore and swollen, but it wasn't discolored or anything. I thought it was just a coincidence, she was just getting sick..."

She trails off, stopping to blow her nose in the sleeve of her robes. Phoenix lays a hand on her back, rubbing small circles across her shoulders, and she leans into him, thankful for the touch.

"The next morning, there was screaming. I went outside and it was just-- it was chaos. And Pearly was in the center of it all, she had Gretchen and she was-- she was--"

She loses it then, falling into Phoenix, and he holds her until her sobs slow to sniffles, until her breathing evens, and then he holds her longer still. She wraps her arms around him, holding him just as tightly, and she says into his chest, "Everyone was running, or throwing things at her, trying to knock her off the-- the body. I ran out into the street and chased everyone away--I don't know where they went, probably they really are at Hazakura--and then I just... waited. Until she'd finished. She was sort of dazed, all slow and disoriented, but I was able to lead her back to my quarters."

"What was she doing, on the body?" Phoenix asks, though he thinks he knows the answer.

Maya shakes her head, burying her faced into his chest. He doesn't want to, but he needs to hear her say it, or else he won't be able to believe it. He gently pushes her away from him, looking her in the eyes.

"What was she doing, Maya?"

Her eyes are round, terrified. And she says, "She was eating her."

The airport is vacant when Edgeworth lands, a wasteland of asphalt and cement. At a loss, he walks to the car rental counter, dings the little silver call bell and waits for someone to appear. No one does, of course, and the unease he's been feeling for months now prickles at his skin.

He's not quite sure what to do, but then he thinks of Phoenix, and he reaches behind the counter and grabs one of the numbered sets of keys from its hook. As an afterthought, he leaves a small stack of bills tucked next to the register, along with his reservation number and contact information.

He calls Phoenix once he's seated in the rental car--a bright red SUV, which is probably lucky, though he's mildly embarrassed to be seen in the thing, even under present circumstances. The phone rings and rings until it hits Phoenix's voicemail, and his unease turns to dread.

But no, there are plenty of reasonable explanations as to why Phoenix might not be available to answer his phone. So he leaves a message, instructing that he is en route, and does his best to calm his nerves.

There's not much on the radio, most of the stations nothing but static, and the few that remain are on a constant loop of breaking news. Things have degenerated rapidly, it seems; quarantine zones have been established across the evacuated city, and the announcer urges anyone listening to get the Sunshine Coliseum, where the National Guard has set up camp.

He turns off the radio when a young woman comes on to tearfully relate how she lost her husband twice: once when he was attacked by an infected, and once when she had to decapitate him with a shovel after he rose from the dead.

It occurs to him--not for the first time--that he is running a fool's errand, that any action he might take is just prolonging the inevitable.

Lost in these thoughts, he startles when his phone trills in his pocket, and he pulls over, not trusting himself to both talk on the phone and operate a motor vehicle in his current state of distress.

"You need to tell me what the hell is going on," Phoenix snaps, before Edgeworth has a chance to speak. "Now."

At Phoenix's tone, that dread he's been trying so hard to bury rears its head, creeps up his spine and spreads through his veins until his hands are shaking and the world spins around him.

"Wright, what's happened?"

"Trucy--" And that's it, he can't get any further, the anger rushing out of him as terror rolls in to take its place. But he doesn't need to say anything more.

"Was she bitten?" Edgeworth asks quietly, and that's all Phoenix needs to hear for his worst fears to be confirmed.

"How do I stop it?"

There is no easy way to say this, and Edgeworth closes his eyes, bracing himself. He keeps thinking, against all logic, that one of these times he'll open his eyes to find this has all been a dream--some terrible nighttime horror. But when he lifts his lids, he is still in the garish SUV, still parked on the side of a deserted highway. He still has to tell Phoenix this horrible truth.

"You can't."

The von Karma estate has remained largely unchanged over the last century, and as such, Franziska has no means of opening the large, wrought-iron gates at the main entrance other than to get out of the car and physically pull them open. Generally she has a man posted to open the gates for her, but none of the estate staff have shown up for work in over a week, and though she disapproves of such unprofessionalism--some of them didn't even bother to call!--she understands their absence.

She is cautious, exiting her sleek BMW. Three miles from her nearest neighbor, she has no particular reason to believe there's likely danger, but she doesn't care to take any chances. She clutches the hilt of her whip tightly, her muscles taut, ready to spring to life. The evening is quiet, and her heels click sharply on the asphalt, loud and invasive.

The gates are weighty, and she has to holster the whip to get a grip on the thick, heavy iron. It drags against the driveway with a terrible wail, the sound piercing her ears, instantly rooting a headache at the base of her skull. It is loud enough to mask the rustling in the bushes, not ten feet away from her.

She's wrestling with the second gate when the ghoul makes its move, throwing itself at Franziska with as much strength as it can summon. Her body reacts instinctually, elbowing the man in the gut with enough force to knock him back, make him stagger on his feet before he lunges at her again.

This time she's ready, and she strikes at him with the whip, lashing him across the face. But he doesn't react, and she curses herself--of course, he's dead, what does he care for pain?--as she's forced back against the gate, her momentum pushing it open further. The gate's wailing, and the ghoul's wailing, but she can't hear any of it over the rush of blood in her ears. There is a moment, as the thing closes the space between them, as she can feel its foul breath on her face, in which she nearly surrenders, nearly accepts this terrible fate. But then a fury rises in her chest, and she pushes the thing away from her with all of her strength, and it goes flying back, sprawling onto the pavement.

And she hurries, closing the space between them in two long strides, and with all the force she can muster, she brings her foot down upon its head, her sharp, pointed heel shooting through its skull. She feels the bone breaking beneath her weight, and she twists her ankle, digging the heel in deeper, until the thing thrashes and finally stills.

It's over nearly as quickly as it began, and as she stumbles back onto the hood of her car, the first thing that enters her mind is the gory mess on her shoe, and how she can't show up at the house looking such a wreck.

She wipes her shoe off in the grass, and it's passable: if you're looking for it, you can catch a slight discoloration at the heel, but it's a subtle thing, barely noticeable. She smooths her hand over her shirt, disappearing the imagined wrinkles, and her finger catches in the fabric, in a hole in the silk that wasn't there before, the skin beneath it slick and torn. Her thumb glances over the wound, and it's then that the pain comes rushing in.

"Hurensohn," she breathes, feeling faint. It's a small wound, but it's enough; she knows it's enough.

She slides into the driver's seat and leans over to root through the glove compartment, pulling out the first aid kit. She fights back the panic building in her chest as she wets a cloth with disinfectant, her breath hissing through her teeth when she presses it against the bite. Focusing on the pain, on the practicalities of getting herself cleaned up and presentable, she's able to even out her breathing, slow the rapid drumming of her heart.

When the bleeding has slowed, she wraps the wound in gauze and gives the arm an experimental rotation. It's up near her shoulder, the bite--convenient, as she pulls on the jacket of her suit and it's like nothing ever even happened. She checks her reflection in the rear-view mirror, tames the few remaining hairs that dare to wander out of place, and continues her route home.

"Are you sure you're okay? Adrian asks, eyes worried behind her glasses. Franziska has offered more than once to pay for the surgery that could correct Adrian's poor vision, but the woman has always refused; she wouldn't look like herself, she always says, without her glasses. Once Franziska asked who she would look like, then, and Adrian just laughed, which Franziska had not found to be a satisfactory answer in the least.

"I am fine," Franziska replies shortly. She immediately feels guilty for it, but she cannot help it; this meal must be perfect, and Adrian Andrews is thwarting her efforts at every turn. She adds, somewhat awkwardly, "Your scalloped potatoes are, as always, perfectly delicious."

Adrian smiles at that, shy and pleased. "Well, I'm glad you think so."

It's difficult, carrying out a normal conversation when they both know how dire the situation has become. Still, they manage, Adrian speaking casually of her completed inventory of the non-perishables stored in the large pantry off the kitchen, as well as in the storage room down in the cellar. It should be more than enough to last them for several months--possibly a year, if Edgeworth can resist bringing home with him every lost puppy he happens across.

"We should count ourselves lucky that the plane can only accommodate six," Franziska says disdainfully.

Adrian nods, placating. "It''ll be nice to see Mr. Wright." She laughs nervously. "Though I wish the circumstances were better."

"Yes," Franziska says, doing some placating of her own. She's never understood what her little brother and her wife see in that fool of a man, but with Adrian, at least, she's willing to be tolerant.

"Poor Trucy," Adrian says, suddenly frowning. "She was supposed to graduate this year."

Franziska's lips twist into a matching frown. She does not want to see such an expression on her wife's face, not tonight.

"Perhaps we can do something nice for her when she arrives," Franziska offers clumsily.

"Oh!" Adrian exclaims, her features shifting again, into a sly smile. "I think I might have just the idea."

"And what might that be?" Franziska asks, then takes another delicate bite of her potatoes. They really are delicious.

Mischief dances in Adrian's eyes. "Oh no, you'll just have to wait and see."

There is an ache in Franziska's chest. "If you want my help decorating, you will have to tell me now, Adrian Andrews."

The other woman pouts, but it's playful. "How did you know there would be decorations?"

"Come now, Adrian Andrews; there are always decorations."

Adrian laughs, shaking her head, and it is still the most beautiful sound Franziska has ever heard. Adrian says, "Well, you must want to know pretty badly to make such an offer."

Franziska excuses herself after dinner, but not before wrapping Adrian in a tight, lingering embrace. When they part, the worry is back in Adrian's eyes, but she gives Franziska a fond kiss on the nose before moving to clear the table. Normally Franziska would help with the clean-up, but not tonight. She closes the door to her office behind her, and the solitude is an unexpected relief. Her arm is throbbing--a constant, dull pain.

Her options are limited. The incubation period for the virus--if that's even what it is; they still don't know, not for sure--is anywhere from five hours to five days, though it usually falls on the shorter end of that spectrum. That she is not yet feeling ill is a good sign, but it's impossible to know exactly when she'll turn.

She calls Edgeworth and it goes straight to voicemail, of course; he's still in the air. In her message, she tells him that he must keep his visit to America as short as possible, that it is imperative that he return home as quickly as he can. She impresses upon him that should anything happen to her, she expects him to care for Adrian in her stead.

And, after a prolonged moment of hesitation, she tells him that she loves him. Then she turns off her cellphone, removes the battery, and puts it in the top drawer of her desk.

She feels numb as she eases herself into the desk chair. She would like to wait, to know that Edgeworth is on his way back, to know that Adrian won't be on her own. She would like to wait until Edgeworth and his guests have arrived, so that Adrian will not be alone in her grief. But it's simply too risky. However she might feel now, she may go to bed tonight and then never wake up. It is a risk she cannot take, not when every minute she waits puts Adrian in danger. Miles will know from her message that things are amiss, he will turn around and fly home just as fast as he can, and Adrian will not be alone for long. Her brother will arrive, the Wrights in tow, and Adrian will have a family.

Never in her life has she been so grateful to her foolish, headstrong little brother.

She thinks to lock the door, but no, that would be worse. As much as she does not want Adrian to have to find her, she knows that it cannot be as bad as being trapped on the other side of the door, knowing what's waiting for you but being unable to see it for yourself, unable to believe it until you see it.

So she leaves the door unlocked, and she takes a deep breath as she enters the combination for the locked bottom drawer of her desk. Inside, wrapped in velvet, is a small silver handgun--a gift from Miles, around the same time he'd been pressing Wright to learn to handle a weapon, when they'd begun to uncover the truth of Kristoph Gavin. With Franziska, he'd had no arguments; she and Adrian, they'd gone to the range just as soon as her arm had healed from de Killer's little gift. Adrian likes to joke that it was their first date, though that's not quite true; that night was the first they'd gone home together, but there had a been a lunch or two before hand, casual things that Adrian insists were not actually dates, though Franziska seems to remember it quite differently. Certainly she'd been nervous enough for it to qualify as a date, she's argued, which never fails to make Adrian laugh.

She's staring at the gun, lost in these memories, when Adrian quietly enters the room. When she sees the weapon in Franziska's hands, she lets out a nervous laugh.

"What made you bring that out? I haven't seen it in years."

"Adrian Andrews," she starts, but then she stops. For once in her life, she has no idea what to say.

"Franziska...?"

Franziska checks the safety, then puts the gun on the desk. Reluctantly, she shrugs out of her jacket, revealing the blood-stained tear in her sleeve. Adrian gasps, and Franziska is careful not to look at her.

"What happened? Are you okay?" The blonde immediately closes in, moving to push back the fabric to get a better look, but Franziska bats her hands away.

"Don't touch it," Franziska commands. "Even dried, it may be dangerous."

Adrian's face goes pale, her mouth slack, and she shakes her head, disbelieving. "No..."

"I'm afraid so," she manages, keeping her voice even.

"How?" Adrian asks, on the verge of tears.

"It doesn't matter. I killed the beast--once and for all--so he is of no danger to you."

"If you think that's why it matters-- No, I know you're not that foolish."

Franziska sighs, makes herself look at Adrian, at her wide, wet eyes. "At the gate. He attacked me at the gate. I hadn't even realized I'd been hurt until it was over."

Adrian loses it then, weeping openly, and Franziska reaches out to hold her, feeling guilty and helpless. If she'd been more careful, if she'd come home sooner, like Adrian had asked...

"But you seem-- you seem fine," Adrian manages at last, her words couched in sniffles. "Are you sure...?"

Franziska nods. "There have been no recorded cases of immunity. I may seem fine now, but we cannot predict what may happen during the night."

"That's ridiculous!" Adrian says, wiping at her cheeks. "You can't just-- If something happens, then we'll deal with it then. What if you're the first person to ever be immune? And then you did it all for nothing?"

"Unlikely," Franziska says, "though of course I cannot argue that the possibility does not exist. Still, the odds are dangerously low, and I refuse to be responsible for any harm that may come to you if my body is no longer my own." Adrian starts to argue further, but Franziska cuts her off: "Adrian Andrews, imagine our positions were reversed. Can you honestly tell me that you would not feel the same way?"

Adrian considers this, then reluctantly shakes her head.

"Then please," Franziska begins, and now her voice wavers, "give me a kiss and leave me to it."

Adrian nods, closes the remaining space between them and presses her lips to Franziska's cheek. She would like to kiss her full on the mouth, to taste her, but Franziska would be furious, might never forgive her for putting herself at risk.

"Let me do it," Adrian whispers, and Franziska's eyes go wide. "You shouldn't be alone."

"No, absolutely not. This is not your responsibility, and I will not allow you to behave otherwise."

"And were our positions reversed?" Adrian asks.

Franziska frowns, bested. Normally she takes pleasure in the occasions in which Adrian is able to outwit her, but not this time. Still, she carefully places the gun in her wife's hands.

"If you are sure."

"I am." Her voice breaks, and she takes a deep breath. "Close your eyes."

Franziska obeys, tears sliding unbidden from between her lashes.

"I love you, Franziska von Karma."

"And I love you, Adrian Andrews. Always."

Franziska hears the click of the safety released, hears Adrian's low, pained sob, and then she hears nothing.

Adrian's hands tremble as she rests the gun on the desk, and she leans forward to brush the hair out of Franziska's eyes, careful to keep it out of the blood. Miles will want to know what happened, she thinks, considerate even in her panic, on the brink of breakdown. She reaches for Franziska's writing set--a gift, years old now, possibly for a birthday, though Adrian can't quite remember; she does remember, though, learning early how Franziska preferred gifts of some practicality--and carefully dips the pen into the ink. She'd never quite learned how to use the thing, and the ink blots, ugly, as she presses the pen to paper. Still, it's legible, and so Miles will not have to come home to some terrible mystery.

She reads the letter over twice, knows well enough that she'll never be satisfied with it, and leaves it prominently in the middle of the desk. This isn't what Franziska wanted, she knows that, but it no longer matters what Franziska wants. Together, it would have been worth the struggle; together, she would have found hope in the promise of a new day. But now there is nothing but inevitability, and she isn't strong enough for that, not without Franziska.

She presses a final kiss to Franziska's still-warm cheek, whispers apologies into the shell of her ear, and then brings the gun to her own temple.

"I don't know, pal," Gumshoe says, frowning at the cellphone in his hand. "No one's picking up."

"That's not so good," Kay says frankly. "I'm pretty sure I'm going to have to pee soon."

The woods around Kurain are thick, crisscrossed with lots of little roads and thick dirt paths. Gumshoe remembers the rain-worn wooden sign that marks the winding road leading to the village, but he doesn't remember which road will get him to that one.

"It's alright," Maggey says calmly, though the rapid tapping of her foot against the floor gives her away. "We've got toilet paper in the trunk, and there's a box of cereal bars in my purse. We'll be just fine until we get there."

"I'm getting thirsty, too," Gumshoe complains. Maggey bends down to the bag between her legs, roots around until she finds what she's looking for. She passes him a warm bottle of Gatorade, and he smiles brightly. "Hey! Thanks!"

"Kay?" Maggey asks, as Gumshoe chugs his drink. "What do you think?"

The young woman shrugs, peering out the back window. "If we keep driving around, we're going to run out of gas. Maybe we should take a break."

"It might be nice to stretch our legs," Maggey agrees. "What do you say, Dick? Let's have a little pit-stop, then try calling again in a bit."

Gumshoe nods, feeling better now that he's hydrated. "Sounds good to me, pals."

He's not even pulled the keys from the ignition when Phoenix throws the passenger-side door open, climbing into the SUV. He doesn't say anything, just pulls the door shut behind him and takes a deep breath. Edgeworth watches him, cautious.

"Wright..." he begins, unsure of what to say. But Phoenix shakes his head, he doesn't want to hear it. So they sit in excruciating silence as Phoenix struggles to pull himself together.

"What am I going to do, Edgeworth?" Phoenix asks when he finally speaks. He turns to look at the other man--his old friend--with such an earnest desperation in his eyes that Edgeworth almost wishes he hadn't come; he doesn't know what to do with someone looking at him like that, like he has all the answers, like he's capable of fixing things.

"Did you tell her?" Edgeworth asks.

"No. And I don't intend to."

Edgeworth smiles faintly and feels like he might cry. "You think she doesn't know already?"

"Of course she knows," Phoenix snaps. Then, his voice softening, he adds, "Too smart for her own good, that one."

"Wright, I'm... I'm sorry."

He makes himself look at his friend then, forces himself to witness a pain he can't possibly understand, and he doesn't turn away when Phoenix's resolve melts, when the sobs wrack his shoulders. He reaches out, pulls Phoenix to him, and when it occurs to him that this is the first they've touched in nearly a decade, he swallows down his guilt and pushes the thought away.

Back with the others, Phoenix shows no signs of his earlier breakdown, all sly smiles and gentle sarcasm. His apparent ease is a sharp contrast to the tension radiating from everyone else, and Edgeworth can't help but be impressed by how easily Phoenix is able to turn on, to flip that switch, even as he knows that no one is fooled.

He watches Trucy carefully as they prepare dinner. She's keeping up, participating animatedly in the conversation and giving Phoenix just as much guff as he's giving her, but already he sees the signs. When she thinks no one's paying attention, she lets the pain of the bite show on her face, lets the exhaustion show in her eyes--just for a second, but it's enough, Edgeworth doesn't miss it. Nor does he miss the way she picks at her food, the thin sheen of sweat glazing her forehead.

She'll make it to morning if they're lucky.

He has no idea how he's going to tell Phoenix.

After dinner, Apollo takes Miles to the body. He peels back the blood-soaked sheet and tries to remember that he is not looking at Pearl, that the smart young woman he remembers so vividly was gone well before Phoenix put a bullet in her skull.

"How long was she...?"

The young man shrugs, clearly uncomfortable. "I don't really know. Mr. Wright said maybe a week."

"Oh, Maya," he mutters, feeling sick and sad. He can't imagine what that must have been like for her--doesn't want to imagine.

He closes his eyes, taking a breath to center himself, and then really looks at the body in front of him. The sunken features, the pallid skin--it's everything he's seen before, and he still doesn't know what to do about it. He pulls the sheet back into place in helpless disgust, wondering what he hopes to accomplish in coming here.

"We shouldn't just leave her here," he manages, standing.

Apollo is silent for a moment, stricken, and then he says, "Trucy... she wants us to wait." Edgeworth nods, overcome with a feeling of unreality, and Apollo adds, quickly, "Uh, don't say anything to Mr. Wright. He wouldn't-- She doesn't want him to know that she knows."

They walk most of the way back to the dining hall in silence, until Edgeworth stops Apollo with a hand on his shoulder. Apollo startles, looking up at him nervously.

"I'm heading back to Germany tomorrow," he says, not quite sure what's compelled him to say this now. "I came here to get them, Phoenix and Trucy." Apollo nods, and he opens his mouth as though he might say something, but then he closes it just as quickly, perhaps thinking better of it. Edgeworth continues, "I would like for you to come as well, along with Maya."

"I don't-- Is it safer in Germany?"

"No," he answers, honest. "But I don't quite know what else to do."

"We need to talk," Edgeworth says gently. It's just the two of them now, alone in the kitchen as they finish off the dishes--Edgeworth on washing and Phoenix on drying. Phoenix doesn't respond, staring intently at the plate in his hands, so Edgeworth continues, "I'm sure you can guess why I'm here."

"Edgeworth, don't. Please."

But he has to. He says, matter-of-factly, "The von Karma estate is well-fortified, the pantry well-stocked, and there are enough bedrooms for us each to have six of our own. I can think of no safer place to ride out this storm."

"I'm not going anywhere without Trucy," Phoenix says quietly.

Edgeworth closes his eyes, lets the sound of the faucet fill the silence between them. They shouldn't be having this conversation; this is not the way this was supposed to go.

"Her symptoms are progressing rapidly," he manages, though he's not able to look at the other man, eyes focused on the task at hand.

"If Trucy isn't going, neither am I--end of story."

It's irrational--Trucy isn't going anywhere, they both know that--and he doesn't know how to argue against such a complete disregard for facts and logic. Still, he has to try.

"Things can only get worse before they get better," he says, and he wonders if Phoenix believes that, or if he can see right through him, see how little faith he has in tomorrow. "You won't be safe here."

Phoenix says nothing, though he grabs the next dish from Edgeworth's hands roughly, clearly agitated.

"Well, neither am I leaving without you," Edgeworth says frankly, somewhat surprised by his own honesty. "Surely you don't think I flew all the way out here just to take no for an answer."

"Maybe you should have asked before putting yourself through the trouble."

Though a reasonable enough thing to say, Edgeworth knows that it is cruel in its intent. Never have either of them turned a blind-eye when the other was in trouble, not since Phoenix proved Edgeworth's innocence so many years ago. Perhaps Phoenix did not know how bad things truly were, but certainly he knew that Edgeworth would not abandon him in a time of trouble.

"My only thought was to get to you as quickly as possible, to get you somewhere safe," Edgeworth says quietly, as close to a confession as he's ever gotten.

Phoenix rests the final dish in the cabinet, then turns to look at Edgeworth. There is a knowing in his eyes, and Edgeworth finds he must look away.

"I can't leave my little girl," he says, regret tinging his voice. "I'm sorry, Edgeworth."

Trucy's health deteriorates quickly after that, and Phoenix puts her to bed early, reads to her from his worn, well-loved copy of Alice in Wonderland. She fades in and out of consciousness, but all the while, she holds on tightly to her father's hand. Apollo joins them, sitting uncomfortably at the foot of Trucy's bed, knees drawn up to his chest. Phoenix thinks they have never been so much a family as they are tonight.

"You tell the best stories," Trucy murmurs as Phoenix closes the book. His chest tightens, and he brushes the hair off of her forehead. She tilts her head to lean into his hand, cool against her fevered skin.

"Well, I did learn from you," he says, and she smiles. He remembers how they'd spent late nights reading together, right after she'd first moved in with him, and how she insisted that he create a voice for each character.

"Polly," she says, her eyes slowly, heavily moving over to Apollo. "You'll take care of each other, won't you?"

Stricken, Apollo turns to Phoenix. The older man is smiling sadly, and for the first time, Apollo's bracelet tightens as he looks at him. Phoenix spares him the need to answer, saying, "Hey now; a good night's rest, and you'll be right back to chasing after me with the vacuum and making sure I remember to eat dinner."

"You're pretty sweet, Daddy," she says, and when a tear slides down Phoenix's cheek, she raises her trembling hand to wipe it away. "I need you to promise me something."

"What's that?"

"I don't want to end up like Pearly."

Apollo closes his eyes, unable to look at the grief on Phoenix's face but his mind's eye drawn to the twitch of his frown. Trucy's asked the same of him already, but it's different somehow--more real--hearing her ask it of her father. To his surprise, Phoenix replies without hesitation, "I won't let it happen, honey. No matter what."

She nods, serious and relieved, and drifts back into a fitful sleep.

"What are we going to do?" Apollo asks, his voice raw.

Phoenix doesn't answer for a moment, watching his daughter's pained face as she sleeps. Eventually he manages, "Whatever we have to."

Apollo wakes at Maya's hand on his shoulder, feeling as though he hasn't slept at all. Her face is drawn and pale, and when she suggests he try to get some sleep in his own bed, he doesn't argue, though he can tell well enough that she has other things on her mind. He gives Phoenix a nod, and the smile he receives in return is haggard and unconvincing.

"How are you?" Maya asks quietly, once they're alone. Phoenix looks at Trucy, moaning lowly in her sleep. He can still feel her pulse beneath her cool, clammy skin, but it's weaker by the minute.

"Terrible? I'm not sure that covers it."

She nods, taking a seat in front of him, perched on the edge of Trucy's bed. She reaches out and slides her hand into his, and they sit like that, quiet, for several long minutes. Then she slips her other hand inside of her robe and pulls out Phoenix's handgun, resting it in her lap without a word. His grip on her fingers tightens, and he looks away, his eyes wet and bright.

"I don't know if I can do it," he whispers hoarsely, and he knows that he can't.

"You don't have to," she offers, her finger resting lightly against the trigger. He swallows harshly, leaning forward to press a kiss to Trucy's sweat slicked forehead. And then, closing his eyes, he nods.

In the hallway--though he knew it was coming--Apollo flinches at the sound of the gunshot.

They bury the girls in the morning, in the soft, fertile earth by the altar. They each say a few words, and Maya leads them in an old, solemn prayer in a language Apollo's never heard before.

She can sense them, she tells Phoenix as they walk back to the village. She's not yet ready to channel them, but she can feel them, knows that she can reach them when she's ready. Neither of them wishes to think too much about what that might mean.

The news broadcasts have stopped. Apollo sits at the radio, but the stations are all static. Maya sits across the table, quiet. He wonders what she was like, before all this started. Trucy talked about her often, with a sort of hero-worship in her voice that had sometimes made him jealous. He cannot see in this woman in front of him any of the joy, wit, or mischief Trucy had described.

He wonders what she sees when she looks at him.

Edgeworth tries again to call his sister, and again it goes to voicemail. The last message he received from her, she did not sound like herself, and though he would rather not give too much thought to what that might mean, he can hardly think of anything else. Though her words had been worrisome, her voice had been crisp, clear, and strong, and it is inconceivable to him that he might never hear it again.

"Still nothing," he says, and across the room, Phoenix looks up from his hands.

"You want to go home," he says, and he isn't wrong.

"Not without you. I believe I've made that clear enough."

Phoenix's face goes hard. "And I've told you that I can't. It seems we're at an impasse."

"Do you think that's what Trucy would want?" he snaps, harsh, because he won't be able to do this if he tries to do it gently. Phoenix's face crumples at the mention of his daughter, but Edgeworth continues, "Do you think she would want you to give up, to sit and wait for the end? Or would she want you to fight, to do your best to live?"

Phoenix takes a breath, composes himself. He says, "I'm sorry, I just-- I can't. Please, don't make me be the reason you stay here. If something happened to you because of me…"

If there has ever been a time for him to say it, to voice the reason he is willing to fly across the ocean and uproot his life and take stupid, selfish risks for Phoenix Wright, now would be it. He has always been so terrified of Phoenix's rejection, of offering of himself only to be found wanting. But if this is to be their last meeting, what has he to lose?

He looks at Phoenix, at the quiet defeat in his eyes, and he can't.

"I am leaving for Germany," Edgeworth says, and Maya and Apollo both startle at the sudden break in the silence. "You are welcomed and encouraged to join me."

Apollo looks to Maya, who asks, "Is Nick going?"

Edgeworth hesitates, tries to swallow his disappointment so that it does not reveal itself in his voice. "No, Wright has chosen to stay behind."

"Then so will I," she says immediately. "I'm staying with Nick."

Edgeworth is unable to hide his chagrin, his lips twisting into a frown. Franziska was right; he is a coward and a fool, and this has all be for naught. Still, he asks, "And you, Mr. Justice?"

Apollo pulls a frown of his own. Hesitantly, he asks, "You have someone looking for Lamiroir?"

Edgeworth's eyes widen; he'd completely forgotten. "Yes, though I have not yet heard from Agent Lang on the matter."

"Do you think he'll find her?"

"If anyone is capable, it's Lang."

Apollo turns to Maya, strangely guilty; it's not as though he is any better acquainted with her than he is with Mr. Edgeworth. Still, there is shame heating his neck as he says, "I'll go with you."

The call goes to voicemail--again--and Ema slams her phone down in disgust, sliding it across the table. There's been no news from New York--and now there's no news at all--and she still hasn't been able to get in touch with Lana.

Klavier's disappeared again, off to speak with his brother. An uneasy feeling settles in Ema's stomach.

Last night, they'd gathered up the remaining prison staff--those who had not skipped out as the worsening news continued to trickle in, off in hopes of finding their families well and whole. There are certain practicalities involved in running a prison, and at half-staff and with a limited store of necessities such as food and clothes and toiletries, there's some well-founded concern as to how things will play out moving forward.

The dispute over how to proceed had grown heated, and finally Klavier had spoken up, quite and calm and serious, and the din had settled, arguments dying on still parted lips.

"We're talking about human beings," he'd said. "Prisoners, yes, but also sisters and brothers and parents and lovers. Our responsibility to them has not changed. If there are drastic measures to be taken, the time for them has certainly not yet come."

And that was reasonable, no one could argue with that, not even Ema, who is already looking into the future, into next month when everyone's exhausted and they're running out of food and they're going to have to make some tough decisions--decisions that no one is going to want to make, but that doesn't mean they can be ignored.

She's going to have to talk to Klavier. She didn't like the tone of last night's conversation, either, but that doesn't mean it doesn't need to happen. If it's just the two of them, maybe they can put their heads together and come up with something.

And as if on cue, Klavier reappears, looking solemn and thoughtful.

"So, hey," she says, and he startles at the sound of her voice, pulled from whatever thoughts he'd lost himself in.

"Fräulein," he says, smiling brightly, and then corrects himself: "Ema."

She fidgets, unsure how to start the conversation. Might as well just dive right in, she figures, and says, "We should probably talk about what we're going to do. The longer we wait to figure this out, the worse it's going to be for everyone in the end."

Klavier nods, brightening further as he takes a seat next to her. "Ja, I could not agree more. In fact, I was just talking this over with Kristoph, and he had some very interesting ideas."

"Your brother," she says, wary. Klavier nods again, smiling and enthused, and she feels very uneasy indeed.

Their goodbyes are stilted, no one quite sure what to say. Phoenix gives Apollo a manly, back-thumping hug, then tells him to get lost before the waterworks start. He obliges, and Maya helps him finish loading the rental car, giving the old friends the privacy for a proper goodbye.

It occurs to Phoenix that this is the first such goodbye they've ever had, and he titters nervously.

"Something funny, Wright?"

"I'm used to seeing you coming, but not so much going."

"Yes, well." But he doesn't have anything to say to that, so he quiets, awkward.

"I'll miss you," Phoenix offers, then amends, "I have missed you."

Edgeworth nods, something tightening in his chest. There is an unpleasant heat working its way up his neck and into his cheeks, and an inconvenient lump has formed in his throat. He fears he won't be able to speak around it, but he's saved the embarrassment as Phoenix pulls him into an awkward hug.

"I'm sorry I can't go with you," he whispers into the thick wool of Edgeworth's jacket.

Edgeworth swallows, feels no relief from the tightening of his throat. But he manages, "I am sorry that I did not get here fast enough."

Phoenix says nothing, but his arms snake further around Edgeworth's waist, pulling the man closer. They stay like that for a long moment, each the one safe, sure thing in the other's world, until Apollo returns, clearing his throat.

"Uh, I think we're all packed."

They are quiet on the ride to the airport. Edgeworth rolls down the windows, takes the road as fast as the engine will let them. If Apollo minds, he says nothing, staring out at the blur of passing scenery.

There is a knot of guilt and regret growing steadily in Edgeworth's chest. He should never have come here, should never have left Franziska and Adrian--his family; he should have come sooner, should left for America at the first sign of trouble. And now he's taking this poor boy half-way across the planet--away from Phoenix, away from his mourning--for a promise he doubts he can make good on.

"Are you sure about this?" he asks, because he feels he has to. "It's not too late to turn back."

Apollo nods, stilted and uncertain, still looking out the window. He says over the roar of the air rushing into the vehicle, "I'm not sure if it's the right thing to do, but I know it's what I have to do."

Edgeworth knows the feeling well.

"Hey!" Kay shouts, startling Gumshoe and waking Maggey from her light sleep. She leans forward between the front seats and points out the windshield. "Isn't that it?"

Gumshoe squints, leaning over the steering-wheel to get a better look. In the distance, he can see the familiar wooden sign, barely legible after decades spent out in the elements. Seeing it, he lets out a whoop of joy.

"It sure is, pal!" he affirms, turning to ruffle her hair. Normally she'd complain that she's a bit too old for that, but not when she's just thrilled as he is.

The energy in the car is electric, the three of them buzzing with relief and excitement. They've had quite the journey, and they can't wait to reunite with their friends, for the safety and comfort found in being together, in a familiar place.

They can't wait to be home.