"Evidence is everything. There is nothing more."

Kristoph Gavin stood facing the court from the witness stand, arms folded, his smiling expression as serene as ever. Apollo, meanwhile, was still struggling to take in those seven simple words.

This...this can't be happening! The truth is right here, the evidence is plain! That evidence...all those long, hard years Mr. Wright spent searching for the truth...it's all being tossed aside like it's nothing! For the sake of a broken system, that 'The only thing definite in a court of law is evidence.' I can't let it end this way! I won't!

"Y-Your honor!" Apollo began, with more than a hint of desperation, but the judge was already shaking his head.

"Mr. Justice...you have performed admirably well for a novice attorney, and I respect your partner, Phoenix Wright's determination as well."

"However," Kristoph interjected, clearly wanting to say the last part, "without direct proof, you have nothing. Isn't that right, Klavier?"

He shot his brother a mingled look of triumph and scorn, still slightly reeling from Klavier's decision to turn on him. The prosecutor just stood there, eyes closed, fingers endlessly snapping to some inaudible tune, or the rhythm of his own imperceptible thought processes.

"Unfortunately...yes, Kristoph. You're right." Klavier's eyes slowly opened, but instead of defeat or resignation, he shot back his own look of triumph and scorn at his elder brother.

"...That is, you would've been right, until now."

At this Kristoph's face visibly darkened, but, true to his old nickname, he kept his cool.

"...What?"

Klavier continued, "Did the news not reach your desk in solitary?" He was clearly itching to deliver the knockout blow, just as his brother had apparently done only moments before. "The eyes of the nation are on this courtroom today."

"And why would that be?" Kristoph calmly returned. "Surely there is nothing concerning this trial that is of interest to the nation at large?"

"Oh, but there is," Klavier retorted. "This is the trial case for a new judicial system."

Apollo, who, along with the rest of the court, had been following this polite but intense exchange with bated breath, suddenly felt like his stomach had just shot up into the stratosphere.

"That's right!" he exclaimed, feeling positively light-headed with relief. "The Jurist System!" I'd totally forgotten!

"Jurists, you say...?" Kristoph's voice remained steady, but Apollo could tell his cool front was falling to pieces, fast.

"The current judicial system has been deemed too 'closed off' from society," the judge explained. "This new system attempts to inject the wisdom of common citizens into the law."

"Common citizens? Wisdom? Is this some kind of a joke?" He seemed genuinely astounded. Appalled, even, Apollo thought.

"What could we possibly gain by doing this? Entrusting our judicial system to a mindless, emotional mob of irrational mouth-breathers?" The outrage and contempt in his voice were unmistakably sincere.

"Common citizens have something called 'common sense,'" the judge replied, clearly unperturbed. "Common sense is not restricted by the law."

"Nonsense!" Kristoph scoffed, unimpressed by this sentiment. "There is only room for two in this court: Me, and the law!" His voice had slowly been rising in scale this whole time, but now it reached a fever pitch. "Keep the riff-raff out! Out, I say!"

Silence filled the courtroom as this outburst hung in the air. At length, Apollo finally responded.

"They're not in the court, actually. They're watching everything by video camera."

Everyone glanced over at said camera, wondering how the jury had taken that little scene. Kristoph, now barely able to control his emotions, turned back to the judge.

"H-How can you...allow this?" he managed to get out.

"Incidentally," Apollo interposed, eager to put the final nail in Kristoph's coffin of defeat, "the one responsible for making this happen..." he paused for maximum effect, "...was Phoenix Wright." Kristoph looked like someone had just swung a ten-ton weight into his face.

"Phoe... Phoenix Wright...?" he gasped out, like he was struggling for air. Slowly, a look of total comprehension crossed his face, as though several pieces had just fallen into place. In a motion very familiar to Apollo, he slowly raised his fist, then slammed it down on the podium with a force Apollo hoped he would never personally experience. Kristoph was now trembling with barely contained rage.

"So... Everything was leading to this. Of course... Right..."

He seemed to be talking to himself now, lost in his own thoughts.

"Wright.. Wright... Wrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrr
iiiiiiiiiiGGGGGGGGgggggggggggGGGGGGG
HhhhHHHHHHHHHHhhhhhhhhHHHH
hhhhhhhhhhhHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH
TTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTT
TTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTT
TTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTT
TTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTT
TTTT"

Without warning he let out a terrible scream, a scream that froze Apollo's blood and certainly made anything his Chords of Steel had ever produced sound like the weakest whisper in comparison. He literally had to keep himself from shuddering. It was just so full of unearthly rage. That was the key word, "unearthly."

Vera said her client was the devil... Maybe she was right.

By the time Kristoph was finished, his customarily dignified appearance and demeanor had totally evaporated: his hair was a mess, his suit coat was rumpled, his cravat had come loose, and his face was contorted with that unbelievable rage.

"I won't accept... I can't accept... This is no court!"

Incredibly, he still seemed unable to accept the legitimacy of the proceedings.

"Law...! The law is everything! Law is absolute!"

He was almost rambling now, but he pressed on regardless.

"You'd let ignorant swine soil your courts?"

"Kristoph... It's over," Klavier said simply, head tilted back slightly, his eyes hidden from view.

"K-Klavier!!!" Kristoph exclaimed."

"The law is 'absolute'...? You can't be serious," Klavier continued.

"Wh-What...?" He sounded genuinely incredulous.

"Odd. I thought you spent your life looking for loopholes." Klavier smiled grimly, then went on. "The law isn't absolute. It's filled with contradictions."

The judge picked up the thread of this philosophical discussion and spoke about the evolutionary nature of the law. Klavier chimed in again, claiming that Kristoph had stopped changing and that he was no longer needed. During all this, Apollo simply listened. Then, finally, it was time for a verdict to be declared. Having said as much, the judge addressed the jurists:

"For the death of Drew Misham, how do you find the defendant, Vera Misham? Innocent...? Or guilty...? ...I turn to you now to consider this matter."

About an hour and a half later, the verdict was in: "Innocent," by unanimous decision. Upon hearing this, Kristoph Gavin...laughed. A laugh louder than any ever heard before...or since. A laugh that echoed in the halls of justice, lingering for what seemed like hours. Interminable as his laughter seemed, Kristoph finally collected himself and turned to face the court, still...smiling, just as calmly as he had ever done before.

"Oh, you poor, pitiable idiots. Do you have any inkling of the far-reaching consequences you have brought upon yourselves with this damning precedent? Do you?"

"I don't think the court needs to hear any more from a bitter mad-ma-" Klavier began, but he was cut off by an

"OBJECTION!"

"You will hear me out. All of you," Kristoph addressed the room at large.

"Admittedly, the old system was somewhat broken and prone to corruption," he continued, as if there had been no interruption. "But let me ask you this: What makes you think this new system will be any less broken or corrupt? Criminals will still unjustly walk free, as they always have and always will, only now the people, the masses, will be held accountable as well...assuming there is anyone to demand justice."

"That's not true!" Apollo shouted, but Kristoph ignored him and went on.

"As corruption grows rampant, the entire judicial system will shatter and the nation's very foundations will crumble as surely as those of ancient Rome. Darkness and despair will blanket the country like a blight, leaving nothing but a hollow travesty of what it was before."

"Enough of this!" the judge burst out. "Bailiff, escort the witness back to his cell, where he will be held until trial for the murder or attempted murder of Vera Misham."

"The court may think of me what it will," Kristoph called out as the bailiff took him away," but just remember when my words come to pass that you failed to heed me, that you denied reality, and that in so doing you became her fools." The doors finally shut on the two men, leaving a heavy silence in the courtroom.

Did he just call us...reality's fools? Apollo wondered.

"Well, it's nice that he's gone," said Klavier, breaking the silence. "There's nothing worse than the sour grapes of a man who can't accept his loss, right, Herr Forehead?" Klavier glanced at Apollo with a smile that was even more pasted-on than usual.

"Uh... Right, Prosecutor Gavin," Apollo replied, but his heart wasn't really in it. He tried to focus on what an obvious triumph this case was for the new legal system, but Kristoph's words had brought on a cloud of apprehension and uncertainty that he could not shake, this feeling that the sun he thought was rising might actually be a setting sun, leaving the nation behind in darkness and oblivion. It was only a chance, but as long as it existed...

Apollo had to keep himself from shuddering again.

When the judge’s gavel came down and the verdict was declared—“Not guilty”—it wasn’t exactly the victory Matt Engarde had been anticipating. He’d been waiting for this since he’d been arrested—that sweet moment when he would be a free man once again, free to cultivate his career, the fame that went with it, and his legions of adoring (and naïve) fans. Now, however, all that had fallen apart: his misdeeds had been laid bare to the public eye, probably irrevocably shattering his “refreshing like a spring breeze” image; his career would be sunk; no woman would ever get close to him again, now that everyone knew what he was really like; for that matter, he would never be able to manipulate others like he had before, when just about everyone he met thought he was such a nice guy.

But worse, far worse than all of those things put together, was the fact that he was now a marked man, thanks to that damned tape he’d thought was such a brilliant idea. Who knew how long he would have, once the police released custody of him? All of this, at the hands of his one-time defense attorney, that man whom he thought he could play, as with so many others, like a violin. Matt glanced over at him to see the attorney staring right back, with a grim smile and a hard look in his eyes. Surely the attorney was confident he wouldn’t last long, not with De Killer dead-set on upholding the honor of his name by eliminating his betrayer. It was quite sadistic, really, but Matt was familiar enough with that side of human nature to know that it could turn up in even the most virtuous of characters.

The judge was on his way out the door now, his briefcase in one hand and his gavel in the other. People in the gallery were getting up as well, talking amongst themselves about the trial, several of them very heatedly (probably about how outrageous it was that a jerk like him had been set free). Matt shook himself a little, trying to clear his thoughts. He needed to plan his next move, figure out how he was going to keep himself alive. Assuming there was a way.

Two days later, Matt was back at his splendid mansion, but feeling none the better for it. He had gone through all the possibilities in his mind, but none of them seemed very viable.

He could live the rest of his life on the run, always moving, never settling down, constantly looking over his shoulder for that tell-tale, stitched-up face. But, even as rich as he was, he wouldn’t be able to keep that up indefinitely. Besides, he distinctly remembered De Killer saying he would follow him “to the ends of the earth” if he had to, and he was pretty sure that wasn’t a bluff.

He could hire another assassin to take out De Killer, but that seemed like a dubious prospect. He had sought out De Killer in the first place because he was the best in the business, so what kind of chance would he have if he tasked the second- or third-best, maybe even worse, with the job?

He could hire a body-guard, the top one there was, to protect him. But who was to say that a great assassin wouldn’t be able to deal with a great bodyguard? Apart from that, anyone he hired would have no motivation other than a paycheck. What was that against the burning, righteous passion of a man who was determined to regain his honor?

That left one possible course of action—and probably the craziest of them all. He could stay right where he was, wait for De Killer to show up, then somehow take him out before the assassin got his chance to exact bloody revenge. Just the thought filled Matt with hope, made him giddy with it. If he could just get De Killer out of the way, the whole mess would be cleared up, would lift from his life like a thunder cloud dissipating.

But then reality kicked in. What POSSIBLE chance did he have of getting in a lucky shot on De Killer, who, again, did what he did better than anybody? Well, he was willing to invest his hopes in a freak chance. It was better than anything else he had because there was the slightest possibility of hope, of salvation, dancing before his eyes, charging him with the energy of a desperate man whose fate is riding on the slenderest thread.

He was as ready as he was going to be, or so he figured. After a couple days of preparation, his bedroom door was rigged with the most sensitive alarm money could buy, all other entrances into his room had been sealed (including the air vent), and he had a high-powered handgun at the ready for anyone who dared poke his head through the doorway. Nonetheless, he couldn’t shake the gnawing fear that De Killer would find a way in regardless, that all his planning would be for naught, that he would soon be staring into eternity. But no, the situation was better than that, he reminded himself. If De Killer was going to kill him, he would have to come into this room. And he was not going to be able to come into this room without being very obvious about it, whether because of the alarm or for some other reason. And as long as he, Matt Engarde, had ample warning of De Killer’s entrance, he would be able to level the gun and end it all before De Killer had a chance to do anything else. Comforted by his own reasoning, Matt soon fell into slumber, gun in hand, in the chair he had positioned in a corner, where he was able to see the whole room at once, ready for anything.

The next thing he was aware of was the alarm blaring in his ears. This was it! He was going to free himself from this cloud of fear! He pointed the gun at the door and waited expectantly, his emotions mounting to such a pitch that his ragged breathing bordered on hyperventilation. His gaze on the door was so intent, in fact, that he never felt the debris falling from above or saw the growing, circular crack forming right over his head. By the time he glimpsed the ceiling falling in on him he scarcely had time to open his mouth to scream before his head erupted in pain and darkness swallowed him, his gun clattering harmlessly to the floor.

When he came to, he tried to move, but found he was completely tied down in his chair, hand and foot. The lights had been turned off and it was dark out, but it didn’t take long for his eyes to make out that slim silhouette standing feet from him: Shelly de Killer.

“I see you have returned to consciousness, Mr. Engarde,” De Killer said smoothly, always the picture of gentility, even to a man he was about to murder in cold blood.

“How the hell did you get in here?!” Engarde managed to choke out, feeling sick with dread.

“Mr. Engarde, you should know, seeing as you saw it—and felt it—yourself. I came in through the ceiling.”

“But what about the ALARM, why did it go off?!”

“Oh, that. Well, you see, that alarm you set up was frightfully oversensitive. So oversensitive, in fact, that it was a simple matter of setting it off to distract you from my true entry point.”

“How did you even KNOW about that alarm?!” Engarde persisted, his mind racing frantically to come up with a way to save himself. “And how EXACTLY did you get through the ceiling?!”

“No more questions,” De Killer said, disregarding him. “All that is left to you now is your termination at my hands.”

“Wait!” Matt screamed in desperation. “I’ll make you a deal!”

“We already made a deal, Mr. Engarde,” De Killer replied, with a touch of coldness now discernible in his voice. “As I recall, you were rather remiss in fulfilling your end of that bargain.”

“Seeing this pistol in my hand,” he continued, brandishing said item right under Engarde’s nose, “you may wonder why I am not making your death drawn-out and excruciating. That is simple. Since you broke our agreement, you are nothing but worthless trash to me, and you will die as such, unworthy even of my contempt.” He cocked the pistol and put the muzzle to Engarde’s forehead.

“De Killer,” he began, the struggle gone from him, all hope abandoned, resigned to his fate, “I may be the spawn of hell myself, but your status isn’t exactly solid either.”

“Thinking of someone else before yourself? Really, Mr. Engarde, I would never have thought it of you,” De Killer replied, just before he pulled the trigger.

The next day, when people saw the caved-in ceiling and came to investigate, Engarde’s body was found still tied to the chair. In his lap was a card, with a picture of what looked like a shell. However, it was difficult to make out, as it was heavily stained with blood.

“So who exactly is this Prosecutor Godot?”

It was the day after the murder of Elise Deauxnim, the famous picture book author. Against his own better judgment, he, Miles Edgeworth, had allowed himself to get dragged into the case after Larry had called him up in the middle of the night babbling about Wright having “taken a really nasty spill” and how he “might already be dead.” He’d flown right over, of course, but now he was apparently expected to actually take Wright’s place and defend the accused! Pure insanity! Yet, here he was going along with it. Just to complete the ludicrous picture, everyone’s favorite incompetent homicide detective, Dick Gumshoe, had been put in charge of the investigation. Joy. Surprisingly, however, Gumshoe had just managed to stumble onto a topic he felt he could actually use some information on: Prosecutor Godot.

“Well, sir, he’s a new guy… Showed up after you left the country,” Gumshoe explained.

So he “showed up” just like that, huh? Suspicious…

“He’s a complete rookie, but nobody can say a bad word about the guy.”

“Really?” Edgeworth raised an eyebrow. “What kind of a man is he?”

“He just became a prosecutor recently, but he’s good, sir. Real good.”

If he’s so good, how is it that I’ve never heard of him…?

“Is he the lead prosecutor on this case?” Edgeworth continued.

“You bet he is!” Gumshoe asserted with an emphatic nod. “After all, ‘you know who’ is right in the middle of it.”

“‘You know who?’”

“Phoenix Wright, of course!” Gumshoe shrugged, as if the connection were obvious. It certainly wasn’t, as far as he was concerned.

“For some reason, Godot has really got it in for Mr. Wright!” Gumshoe went on.

“Oh?”

“Yeah, he seems to have some kind of a grudge.”

“And what would be the cause of this grudge…?”

“I dunno…” Gumshoe shrugged again. “Maybe he made fun of his mask or something.”

“Made fun of his mask”? Right… Guess I’d better look into this Godot myself.

“Detective,” Edgeworth began, trying not to give too much away. “Do you think you could carry on with the investigation by yourself for a while? There’s something I need to see about at the Prosecutor’s Office.”

“Trying to learn more about Godot, huh, Mr. Edgeworth?” Gumshoe grinned.

“Sharp as ever, Detective,” Edgeworth replied with that slightly jaded smile that was unique to him. “I just can’t help but feel there’s something suspicious about him and the circumstances behind his sudden appearance. Can you take care of things here?”

“You got it, sir!” the detective exclaimed with his characteristic enthusiasm. “I’ll be here when you get back!”

“Thank you, Detective,” Edgeworth allowed himself a small, real smile. Turning to leave, he added, “I should be back before too long.”

“No problem, Mr. Edgeworth!” Gumshoe responded buoyantly. “I’ll search this entire mountain from top to bottom! I won’t miss a thing, sir!”

That, Edgeworth thought as he made his way back down the mountain, would be the day.

Once he was at the Prosecutor’s Office, Edgeworth headed toward the archives, which contained, among other things, dossiers on every prosecutor under the employ of the district. Based on what Detective Gumshoe had said, he didn’t expect to find anything of note, but it was a place to start. Opening a file cabinet at mid-level, he sorted through the G’s until he reached the file labeled “Godot.” He took it out and opened it, but what he saw made his brow furrow. The sole form inside was the standard “Basic Information,” and the only two fields that had been filled out were “Name: Godot” and “Gender: Male.” All the other fields—“Birth Date,” “Ethnicity,” “Country of Origin,” “Education,” “Work Experience,” and several others besides—were blank.

How did this even get accepted?! Edgeworth wondered in disbelief. He must have influenced some people in high places to get this pathetic excuse for a dossier pushed through, especially considering he doesn’t even have any references.

Well, one thing was certain: whoever this “Godot” really was, he was obviously intent on keeping his past shrouded in secrecy.

Unfortunately for you, Mr. “Godot,” Edgeworth smirked to himself, your efforts to stay in the dark simply make me all the more determined to find out who you really are.

If Godot’s official dossier had nothing to offer in the way of information, perhaps an alternative source would be more fruitful: previous trial records. All courtroom proceedings were transcribed by a stenographer. Ergo, it was at least possible that he had said something in court that might give clues to his true identity. It was a long shot, seeing as the man had been so careful to keep his own personal file free of any information, but it was still the only lead he had.

He took a last glance at the file just in case he had missed something. There it was! “Cases Prosecuted: KB-7, TB-5.” Apparently, he had overlooked it due to his mild shock from seeing how empty the file was. Armed with this new information, he moved to the adjacent rows of cabinets that stored all the trial records. He opened the drawer of most recent trials and looked through it until he found what he was looking for: KB-7 and TB-5.

Deciding to start with KB-7, he opened the file and turned to the court proceedings transcript. Near the top, a highly unusual phrase caught his eye. At the start of the trial, Godot had apparently told Wright he had “returned from the depths of Hell to do battle” with him.

“Returned from the depths of Hell” to do battle with Wright? What a bizarre thing to say! In fact…it’s so bizarre it strikes me as something I’d better remember. It may be important later.

He continued to skim through the file, noting Godot’s skillful arguments and astute courtroom tactics buried amongst the ridiculous coffee metaphors and would-be-stud one-liners.

Even granting Gumshoe’s tendency to exaggerate, there’s no doubt that this man is talented.

He had definitely had legal training—you couldn’t just find people like that on the street.

One last thing he noticed throughout the transcript was that, as Gumshoe had said, Godot clearly had a grudge against Wright. More than that, he seemed to totally despise him. He frequently insulted Wright and refused to even call him by his proper name, consistently referring to him as “Trite.”

I don’t know what it is yet… But there’s obviously something deeply bitter driving this man. The real question is, what in the world could Wright have to do with it?

Seeing nothing else significant in the KB-7 file, he turned to TB-5. It was rather similar to the previous trial in that Godot’s proficiency in court and contempt for Wright were still very evident. The only other thing that made TB-5 stand out was the interesting exchange involving a ketchup stain on an apron. It hadn’t been related to the case per sé, but, astoundingly, Godot had been totally unaware of it until the judge asked him why he hadn’t mentioned it. The whole scenario was quite odd because, based on what had been said, Edgeworth got the impression it would have been difficult, if not impossible, to miss the stain, yet Godot had claimed there was nothing of the sort on the apron, at least initially.

It doesn’t make any sense. What reason could there have been for him to miss the stain? Unless…it has something to do with that mask he wears?

After finishing with TB-5, he closed the file and placed both it and KB-7 back in the drawer.

All right. Time to think everything over.

He folded his arms and closed his eyes.

A man with legal training, who has returned from “Hell,” with a grudge against Wright and a possible vision problem. How does it all tie together? Hmm...

Maybe I should “think outside the box” like Mia Fey was always telling Wright.

He thought back to when he had met her in his first trial (her first trial too, if he remembered correctly), that fateful case from several years ago. He could clearly recall her earnest, determined face on that day as they squared off in the courtroom. There had been a man with her, some hotshot with a roguish grin and a steaming mug of coffee.

…A hotshot with a roguish grin and a mug of coffee?

He yanked open a different drawer and frantically sorted through the files until he found the right one. He hurriedly flipped it open and found what he was looking for right at the top. “Defense: Mia Fey,” “Prosecution: Miles Edgeworth,” “Counsel for the Defense…” he stared at the name printed there and spoke the words aloud.

“Diego Armando.”

The next night, Godot was back at the Prosecutor’s Office and feeling good. He was all but certain the trial was in the bag. Trite could point, yell, and pound his desk all he liked, but there was no way he would turn up another suspect to pin the crime on. Even if he did, what evidence did he have? There was no doubt about it, tomorrow was the day he would finally get to see Trite fall, watch him grimace and sweat as he desperately fought against the inevitable, and when the judge’s gavel came down and the verdict was declared—“Guilty”—oh, what a glorious victory it would be to see Trite’s eyes opened, to see him suffer as he himself had suffered ever since he had woken up. Just the thought of it made him grin like the cheeky bastard he was.

Everyone else had already gone home, but he was still there for one last cup of coffee. Sure, he could have made it at his apartment, but why deplete his precious stock when he could use the stuff at the office and make it taste almost tolerable? He was standing by the coffee pot waiting for it to percolate when in came a lacy cravat and magenta suit—Miles Edgeworth.

“How many cups have you had?” Edgeworth asked bluntly, without preamble.

“That depends,” Godot answered. “Are we talking about today or for all time? Because if you mean the latter, I’m afraid even I don’t know.”

“You shouldn’t drink it so much, you know,” Edgeworth continued. “You’ll die a premature death.”

“Do you know how many times I’ve heard that?”

“Enough to make it easy to ignore such dire warnings, I’m sure.”

“Quite,” Godot smirked. “Now don’t you have an earthquake to cower over, frilly boy?”

“No, I’m too busy marveling at the broken caffeine addict,” Edgeworth replied in an even tone, glancing pointedly at Godot’s mug.

“Is there any particular reason you’re here at the office this late, or did you just come to condemn my personal habits?”

“Actually, there is,” Edgeworth said. “I wanted to talk to you.”

“What would the great ‘demon prosecutor,’ Miles Edgeworth, want to talk to me about?”

“Where did you come from, and why are you here?” Edgeworth asked point-blank.

“Simple,” Godot said. “I’ve returned from the depths of Hell to do battle with Phoenix Wright.”

“I see… And what exactly do you mean by ‘Hell?’”

“I don’t see any reason to tell you that. It’s none of your business,” Godot snorted dismissively.

“You don’t need to tell me anything. I already know.” Edgeworth went on before Godot could respond.

“Five years ago, a defense attorney named Diego Armando was poisoned by one Dahlia Hawthorne, in the middle of a meeting between the two of them regarding the fake kidnapping perpetrated by Terry Fawles in conspiracy with Dahlia and her stepsister, Valerie. He did not die, but slipped into a coma from which he reportedly never awoke.”

“Bad luck for him,” Godot said, smirking again, “but what does that have to do with me?”

“No one else may have connected the dots yet, but I have…Mr. Armando.” For the first time, Godot’s face became expressionless, but he said nothing. “I don’t know how, but you’ve returned, and from a type of ‘hell,’ you might say.”

“Nice detective work, Mr. Edgeworth.”

“That’s not all, though,” Edgeworth continued. “You’re out for revenge against Wright because of her.”

“‘Her?’”

“Mia Fey, of course.”
Godot remained silent for quite some time. When he finally spoke, he sounded as though his mind was far away.

“When I finally returned to consciousness…there was nothing waiting for me. The woman I loved had been murdered…and the woman I loathed had already been sentenced to death. I wanted to see what kind of man he was…to have let Mia die.”

“Why do you call him ‘Trite,’ anyway?”

“He’s such a pitiful excuse for an attorney he doesn’t deserve the dignity of being addressed by his true name!” Godot spat contemptuously. “Now I want to make him suffer as I have ever since I woke up, to feel true pain. I’m going to destroy him—in court!”

“Is that so?” Edgeworth cocked an eyebrow. “And you feel prepared to do this tomorrow?”

“Without a doubt! I’ll crush him like the pathetic fool he is!”

“If I know Wright,” Edgeworth spoke coolly, “the one who’s more likely to be exposed as a pathetic fool is you.”

“Oh really?”

“Yes. You’re clearly obsessed with your goal, but you’re just chasing an illusion, Mr. Armando,” Edgeworth shook his head.

“An illusion? On the contrary, Mr. Edgeworth, it’s very real and well within my grasp.”

“We will see. Just remember, though, regardless of anything you have up your sleeve, Wright will stop at nothing to uncover the truth, whatever that may be. I don’t think you’ll be the one to break him now.”

“To paraphrase what you yourself just said,” Godot smirked once more, “we’ll see about that.”

He turned and walked out the door, leaving Edgeworth standing there alone.

“You’ll see tomorrow, Mr. Armando,” Edgeworth murmured. “You’ll see. I know Wright will come through and reveal the truth. Perhaps he will manage to ‘come through’ for you as well.”

Having said this, he, too, left the Prosecutor’s Office.

When Godot arrived back at his apartment, he was still snickering over what Edgeworth had told him.

“‘Chasing an illusion.’ Ha!”

As he said these words, a drop of crimson ran down his face and fell to the floor, looking for all the world like a single, bloody tear.

Apollo was feeling a bit nervous. Then again, if you asked anyone who knew him, they’d probably say he was like that a lot of the time. “You’re twitchy as a tick, Polly!” Trucy had told him once. He had protested that the work he did all but presupposed unhealthy levels of stress and maybe even a little bit of nerves, but she had just brushed him off.

“C’mon, that’s no excuse! Daddy was an attorney for years, and look at how cool and calm he is!”

Yeah, “years.” About two, to be exact.

He wondered if it was worth reminding her that Mr. Wright had only become so poised and collected after he had quit practicing law, but decided against it. The man was certainly a master of sang-froid now, even if he hadn’t been before.

Speaking of Mr. Wright, he was precisely the reason Apollo was feeling nervous. The day had started innocently enough: Apollo had come in at the usual time, started working on some papers. Then Trucy had bounded in, beaming and chipper as ever.

“Morning, Polly! Daddy wants to see you in his office!” Apollo had been about to paperclip some files, but his fingers had turned numb at the unexpected tidings.

“Mr. Wright wants to see me…in his office?”

“Yup!”

“Uh… Did he say why?”

“Nope!” And with that, Trucy had been out the door again.

Apollo didn’t like the looks of this. Mr. Wright had never called him to his office before, so the fact that he was doing so now didn’t bode well, as far as he was concerned. What could he do about it, though?

He sighed and walked over to Phoenix’s office door. Taking a little breath to steady himself, he knocked.

“Come in,” his voice came through the door. Apollo’s hand went to the knob and, with more than a little trepidation, he slowly pushed the door open and went inside.

Mr. Wright was sitting behind his desk, watching him as he entered, his chin resting on his interlocked hands and an enigmatic smile playing on his lips. It was the kind of look he often wore, the kind that made Apollo brace for something unpleasant, stupid, or both.

Despite the fact that Mr. Wright now actually came into the office on a regular basis, he had shown no inclination to revert to even semi-professional attire, choosing to stick with his hoodie and beanie instead. Apollo often resented this lack of sartorial parity, but Mr. Wright was the boss, and if he wanted to make it permanent “Casual Day”—or in his case, Apollo privately thought, “Dress Like A Hobo Day”—that was his prerogative.

“Have a seat, Apollo,” Phoenix said cheerfully, gesturing to the chair in front of his desk.

“Thanks, Mr. Wright.” Apollo slowly sat down and faced him, prepared for the worst.

“So, Apollo…” Phoenix intoned, pausing for at least ten seconds, which gave Apollo ample time to imagine any number of horrible things that could come after those two simple words. “…You’re feeling pretty good right now, right?”

“‘Pretty good’? Wh-What do you mean, sir?”

“Well, after all, you did just recently clear the name of the infamous ‘Forgin’ Attorney’ while simultaneously exposing the full corruption of prominent and formerly distinguished defense attorney Kristoph Gavin. That’s a pretty big deal for someone who’s only got four cases under his belt.”

“Ah, well, you know I couldn’t have done it without you,” Apollo stammered, taken aback at the sudden praise.

“So humble,” Phoenix looked him up and down, still smiling. “A good character trait to have. I just wanted to remind you, though, that you can’t rest on your laurels.” His expression turned serious.

“Right,” Apollo agreed, wondering where this was going.

“You see, I’ve got a new case for you,” Phoenix continued, “and the stakes are higher than you could ever imagine.”

“Is it a murder case?”

“Actually, no, it isn’t.”

“It isn’t? Then what’s the big deal? What could possibly be more serious than a murder charge, with the defendant’s own life hanging in the balance?”

Phoenix bowed his head and smiled slightly, the brim of his hat covering his eyes.

“There are some things you’re better off not knowing.”

Apollo stared at him, nonplussed. It really was a shame that getting his name cleared had apparently done nothing to cure Mr. Wright of his cryptic manner.

“Don’t worry, though. I’ll give you the info you need to win the case.”

“Okay…” Apollo eyed him dubiously.

“All right,” Phoenix said with a business-like air. “Your client stands accused of saying some…unfortunate things.”

“So…what? He’s being charged with slander?”

“Not exactly. Let’s just say that if the judge believes the prosecution’s claims regarding your client’s words…the consequences for him will be extremely grave.”

“What kind of speech could warrant such a serious sentence?”

“The kind that endangers lives. Or could, if it were true, that is…” he mumbled the last few words, but Apollo caught them anyway.

What a feat. I think he’s actually making less sense than usual.

“So, uh…what’s my client do for a living?”

“He’s a creative engineer.”

“‘Creative engineer’? What exactly does that mean?”

“Just what it says,” Phoenix grinned.

“…Thanks for the clarification.” I may have to seriously consider following up on that “Help Wanted” sign I saw at the Waffle House the other day.

“If you head down to the Detention Center, you should be able to talk to him and get his story.”

“I definitely plan to. But before I do, can you at least tell me the client’s name?”

“Of course,” Phoenix stood up from his chair and leaned forward over the desk.

“Your client’s name…” he paused for a moment, “…is Shu Takumi.”