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i.
Apollo never expected his bracelet -- his ability -- whatever it is -- to give him so much insight. Probably because, at first, it doesn’t. He has to work hard and concentrate like crazy to spot tells and understand them, and it mostly only occurs to him to do it while he’s in court. But then, slowly, it becomes easier.
The first thing he notices: smiling retail workers and baristas and servers at restaurants hate everyone. This is not exactly a surprise. Apollo worked at a grocery store in high school and then at the dining hall in college; he knows full well that the plastic smile is always fake. But it’s still startling to have it reinforced constantly, to see how the guy welcoming him to his favorite restaurant is anything but excited, how the woman explaining what great value a store loyalty credit card will provide actually thinks it’s a total scam.
He gets flashes of perception as he down the street: how miserable people try to put on a happy face, how couples on first dates bend the truth as they try to impress each other, how the jackass who cuts in line and claims he didn’t see it when he gets called out did, in fact, see everyone and just didn’t care. Everyone wears a persona, everyone fakes expressions and emotions, everyone tries to be seen a certain way.
His ability finally cracks open wide the day Clay mentions in passing that yeah, he broke up with that girl he’d been dating for a few months, but it wasn’t working anyway. No big deal. He’s fine. Plenty of fish in the sea, plenty of stars in the sky, and he’s too young to settle down anyway.
Maybe it’s because Apollo knows him so well that he doesn’t only know that Clay is lying, he can see the exact truth hidden behind every gesture and off-hand phrase. Clay’s voice strains on I broke up with her -- she dumped him, and he’s devastated. It wasn’t working, but he thought it was, and he was blindsided. Plenty of fish in the sea, but he was falling in love with her in particular. Too young to settle down. He was wondering if moon rock would look good on an engagement ring.
I’m fine.
Apollo would know that’s a lie even if he didn’t have this strange new perception, because he’s known Clay forever and loves him like a brother, and he knows Clay hates to be sad. Clay turns it all inward, bottles it up. He always has and likely always will, and if Apollo tries to nudge him to talk about what he’s really going through, he’ll pull away.
So Apollo doesn’t. He just takes Clay out to a dive bar and buys him drinks and asks questions about astronomy until Clay is too wasted to answer. But he hugs Apollo tight and lets Apollo drag him home and put him to bed and mumbles, thanks man, you’re the best, I love you, and it sounds like so much drunk rambling but Apollo’s bracelet stays steady and he knows it’s entirely sincere.
After that he realizes he can suddenly see through the personas of everyone else in his life, too.
He kind of wishes he couldn’t.
ii.
Trucy Wright is an odd girl. That was obvious from the moment Apollo met her, and it isn’t a put on. She’s got perception just as uncanny as his, and she looks at the world from odd angles all her own. She makes her living with slight-of-hand and illusions; doing that requires her to understand things exactly as they are, so she can convince people to see what she wants them to instead.
In another person, that might be manipulative, but not Trucy. It’s just how she is, how she relates to the world around her. When there’s a sunbeam she knows how to angle a prop to make it burst into rainbows; when there’s a rainbow, she sees the rain and remembers to bring an umbrella. She notices things.
She’s never relaxed, though. Her laughing patter with her father hides an undercurrent of worry -- about him, about getting bills paid, about who’s going to do the grocery shopping. Things most teenagers would never even think of, but Trucy can’t help but see. They weigh on her and it isn’t fair, but she covers for it with a giggle and a card trick, distracting anyone who might worry about her.
When she senses a fight brewing between strangers on the street, she stops it before it starts by pulling a rabbit out of a hat, turning the tension into applause. She laughs and makes off-the-wall comments when she helps Apollo with investigations, but the blood stains and the chalk outlines bother her. She gets enthusiastic when she mentions how great her friends at school are, but when Apollo spots her with them one afternoon she’s clearly biting her tongue, trying to fit in even though she just doesn’t. Her friends laugh at her silly tricks, and when her back is turned, they laugh at her. She hears them but pretends she doesn’t.
She’s weird and she knows it. She likes herself the way she is, but she knows not everyone will, and that has to hurt. She’s always just a little bit braced for it. Apollo worries as he wonders how many times she’s been sneered at by people who don't get her, how many times she’s been written off by people who think she’s too young.
The only place she seems truly at ease is on stage. It doesn’t escape Apollo that that’s where she’s fully in control. She can set up her tricks ahead of time, she has a script and props and she’s always prepared. When she’s putting on a show she’s really herself, and when she takes her bows she’s really satisfied.
Apollo doesn’t know how to help her so he tries to just accept her for who she is. She’s a little out there but she’s sweet, and she deserves to be able to let her guard down every once in awhile.
iii.
Ema Skye and Klavier Gavin are a study in contrasts, opposite in every way.
Apollo really likes Ema, because she’s so genuine. Not that she doesn’t occasionally have prickly-cat moments where he’s pretty sure she’d arch her back and hiss if she could. She’s got some trauma -- he doesn’t ask but he’s pretty sure Mr. Wright knows about it -- so of course she wants to protect herself sometimes. Everyone does, though, and Ema does it less than most people.
The thing is, she’s always clear about what mood she’s in. When she’s talking science it’s because she loves science and doesn't care who finds it boring or nerdy. When she gives a friendly nod it’s because she’s feeling friendly. When she throws a chocolate snack at someone’s head and tells them to fuck off, it’s because she wants them to fuck off. When she fails a test or gets passed over for a promotion she gets disappointed and angry, but she doesn’t pretend she isn’t.
It’s not that she wears her heart on her sleeve or anything. Apollo’s seen people like that, too, and he worries about them, about how the world will break them. It’s not even that she’s jaded, though she is a bit. It’s that she doesn’t see any reason to pretend to be anyone other than who she is, and that’s just really refreshing.
What’s even more refreshing is that she’s especially willing to tell Klavier Gavin, of all people, when she wants him to shut the hell up. She’s probably the only person in the world who’ll call him out and shut him down. He looks so wounded every time, and it’s a delight to watch.
Everything about Gavin is artifice. Everything. The way he dresses and does his hair -- he wants people to look at him, to gasp, to do doubletakes and giggle to themselves when he smiles. His accent is fake at least half the time. His air guitar, his wall-pounding, the mildly demeaning nicknames he hands out -- none of that is natural, he just wants reactions.
Apollo tries not to react. He really does. But he’s only human.
Gavin is annoying. When he leaves a hundred-dollar tip for a five dollar coffee, it’s not because he’s generous, it’s because he knows someone will tweet about it and the whole internet will fawn on him. When he winks or blows kisses at crowds, it’s not because he feels flirty, it’s because the swooning fans feed his ego. He loves attention, can’t get enough of it, and will go as far over the top as he can just to get it.
The thing is, it would be easy to write him off if he really was just a shallow idiot. But Apollo knows he’s not.
Apollo first sees his focused, uptight, perfectionist side at the Sunshine Colosseum, demanding to know who missed a cue because he can’t stand anything sloppy, anything that might look bad and shatter his illusion of perfection. After that, Apollo catches glimpses of it behind his stupid affectations constantly, but especially in court.
For all Klavier likes to swagger through trials, to tease and taunt and make fun of Apollo’s desperate defense, underneath it all he’s deadly serious. He comes prepared, his arguments are damn near flawless, and the fact that he flirts as he makes them doesn’t mean he’s messing around.
He isn’t ruthless, though. He believes in his cases -- that one small thing is sincere -- and he wants the truth. The ridiculous way he throws an arm around Apollo after he loses, laughs and whispers congratulations, you beat me again, damn near drives Apollo crazy. Because Klavier’s posing and whispering is all just playing to the people watching from the gallery, but his congratulations are sincere.
Gavin’s an intense man who pretends he’s easy going. He’s really smart but would rather people think of him as really hot. He’s a good musician who only plays what he thinks people will like, not the songs he’s passionate about. He’s a bundle of contradictions, a walking mess of insecurity and neuroses. He’s desperate to be seen but hides every real aspect of himself, and Apollo can’t stand it.
Sometimes he thinks, if he could just get Gavin to be sincere for a few minutes, to drop the act and be a real person, they could be -- something. Friends. Or something. Maybe. But unless Gavin can learn to say hello without turning it into a full studio production, it just can’t happen.
iv.
Athena takes Apollo a little bit to get a bead on. Some days, her perky can-do attitude is completely genuine and some days it’s completely false. He picks up the pattern eventually -- she’s happy when she’s investigating, and she’s not when she’s in court.
She’s afraid. That becomes obvious pretty quickly. But she makes herself smile through it, doesn’t want anyone to know. Sometimes it’s obvious, though. When she has a panic attack and can’t put on a brave face. But that’s when something else shines through.
Under her cheer she’s afraid, and under her fear she’s determined. No matter how scared she gets, she’s always willing to march back into court.
He watches for it and catches more glimpses. She’s afraid of being weak, so she goes for runs and lifts weight at the gym. She’s afraid of not being understood so she studies languages and can greet strangers in all of them. She’s afraid of being alone so she clings to friends, cheers them up and cheers them on.
Apollo admires it, really.
He doesn’t know where she came from, what makes her tick, why she’s forcing herself through so many things she’s afraid of. She’s fighting for something but she never says what, just smiles and pretends everything is okay and going according to plan.
Someday, when she finds whatever it is she’s looking for, the whole world had better watch out.
v.
Back when Mr. Wright wore a hoodie and ugly sandals and never said anything useful, he was… well, not genuine. He always had an angle and was happy to lie to protect it or draw out information. But he also never really pretended he wasn’t doing that. He was sly and cynical and supremely unhelpful, but that was clear enough at a glance. Apollo had gotten used to it.
Now, of course, Mr. Wright is a lawyer again. Respectable. He wears a very beautiful, very very expensive bespoke suit that someone definitely bought for him. And that’s when he starts lying.
Well, not lying exactly. He rarely says anything that isn’t true. But his whole persona is a facade, a wild bluff. He acts like the last seven years never happened. Like he’s still young and naive, like he’s never been betrayed, like truth and justice are easy to find and no one would ever try to cover them up. None of that is true.
Under the pristine tailoring and shiny shoes, Mr. Wright is still a poker player. Still jaded. Still has a hard time trusting anyone, though to his credit, he does believe in his clients. But at least half the time he appears flustered he’s actually perfectly under control. People just like him more when he seems out of his depth. They let information slip. They underestimate him.
At first Apollo thinks that’s all it is -- leveraging his old reputation into a new persona to gain an edge. But it goes deeper. He’s like that even in the office, when there are no clients and no prosecutors and no one else who doesn’t know him. He’s like that with Trucy, even, who knows him better than anyone in the world. He’s not trying to take an angle with her.
That’s what makes it finally sink in: Mr. Wright isn’t trying to fool the rest of the world. He’s trying to fool himself. He’s hoping desperately that if he acts like he’s optimistic and trustworthy and ridiculous, he can be that again. Be the Phoenix Wright he was before Kristoph Gavin, before he was disbarred, before he spent seven years in disgrace.
Mr. Wright isn’t that man anymore, the one from the old trial tapes Apollo watched obsessively as a teenager. But he wants to be. So Apollo plays along for his sake, and if nothing else, this version of Mr. Wright is a lot easier to deal with on a daily basis.
vi.
Simon Blackquill is not as scary as he likes to pretend.
Not that he’s not scary. Apollo certainly wouldn’t want to run into him in a dark alley or anything, and the first time he sees Simon freaking break his iron shackles in the middle of court he’s genuinely terrified. The man is enormous and unhinged. A ruthless killer through and through.
Except not really. Not once Apollo starts paying attention.
The moments where Blackquill is genuine are the moments when he laughs at his own jokes, the moments he scratches his hawk’s neck with real affection. Plus when he’s righteous about criminals -- he wants to see evil-doers punished by the full force of the law.
But everything else? Everything else is a put-on. Even the shackle-breaking, intimidating though that is. He’s doing it to make everyone scared. His cutting remarks, his snarled impatience, the way he laughs at his own impending execution, it’s all fake.
Apollo’s first theory: it helps him survive in prison. His posturing and pretending to be a monster could get even the most hardened inmate to back down. No one is going to pick a fight with him, especially now that he’s only got months -- weeks -- days left to live, which means he has nothing to lose.
And then there’s the fear hanging over him, all the time. Blackquill is terrified, every day. He’s counting down the days to his execution, and at the end of every trial he goes back to the living hell that is death row. He gets shocked like cattle being prodded, he’s chained up and his wings are clipped, he has no future and no escape. He’s a desperate man, clinging to dignity, snarling at everyone so no one will see how scared he is.
But he’s not scared for himself. Whatever it is that really drives him remains hidden, but whatever it is Blackquill is afraid to lose, it isn’t just his own life. There’s something else to it, something more--
Before Apollo can figure out what, Clay dies. He’s murdered. When that happens, Apollo stops caring about anything else.
vii.
Apollo doesn’t register anything the first time he meets Miles Edgeworth. He’s too deep in grief, lost in anger, and he’s shut his perception off. He just can’t stand it.
He doesn’t see Edgeworth for awhile after that. It’s not like the chief prosecutor stands in court, so why would he?
But they do cross paths eventually, Edgeworth with a look of snooty disdain as he scoffs at Mr. Wright and their entire agency. Probably their entire existence.
Except Mr. Wright is smiling, Trucy is rolling her eyes fondly, and Athena has her chin in her hand, watching raptly. None of them are fooled and neither is Apollo, and he doesn’t even need his bracelet to know that when Edgeworth invites Mr. Wright out to discuss a case he’s trying to ask something else.
For just a second Mr. Wright gets that sly, poker-player look. But he bites back whatever comment he was going to make and instead says, It’s a date.
Edgeworth scoffs again and looks away, but it doesn’t come close to hiding his smile.
viii.
Apollo never planned to see Kristoph Gavin again, but when he gets a call from the prison he goes. Not because Mr. Gavin asked him to be because he wants a chance to see him, to pin him down with his improved perception, to figure out what the hell that man is underneath it all.
He expects it to be hard, but it’s not. Maybe because Apollo is so attuned to Klavier now, and he and Mr. Gavin are so similar. They have the same core: a need to be in control, to be perfect. But where Klavier hides it with air guitar and flirting, Mr. Gavin only cares about looking calm, competent, confident.
Apollo realizes quickly that Mr. Gavin only invited him to twist the knife, make Apollo feel guilty and scared for taking part in his downfall. But now that Apollo can really see what he’s dealing with, it doesn’t work.
He knows Mr. Gavin is lying when he says your new mentor will betray you, just as he betrayed me.
And my brother only flirts with you to feed his ego, he could never really care about someone like you.
And finally, you would be nothing if I hadn’t trained you.
He wants Apollo to feel small and powerless and alone. Instead, Apollo just feels bad for him, that such a brilliant man could be driven to such awfulness by his jealousy and fear. At least Klavier, for all his faults, channels his drive for perfection into making people happy.
Apollo really should give Klavier a call. Maybe he’s not as annoying as Apollo always thinks.
ix.
Apollo hasn’t thought about Lamiroir in awhile, didn’t know she was back in LA or that she’d had corrective surgery for her eyes. But he’s happy to see her, at least until he clues in to how tense she is. She’s terrified of something, and more than that, she feels incredible, crushing guilt.
She’s sitting in Mr. Wright’s office, and Mr. Wright has let his facade drop and is entirely the poker champ, all angles as he watches her. Trucy comes bounding in with Apollo and stops short. She asks what’s going on.
Apollo expects her to present a case. A death. An accusation she’s hiring them to prove false. But that’s not what happens, and Lamiroir does something extraordinary instead: she tells them the truth.
The whole truth.
Nothing but the truth.
Holy shit.
x.
Apollo is surprised, sometimes, when he catches a glimpse of himself in a mirror or reflected in a store window and sees his own tells active and screaming. He’s just like everyone else, though: putting on a persona to get through the day. There’s a reason he and Clay always took turns telling themselves they were fine. They weren’t. They were misfits, anxious and clinging to each other in place of the family they lost.
I’m Apollo Justice and I’m fine.
But he wasn’t. Not for a long time.
He wasn’t fine when he was an overworked student, exhausted and broke. He wasn’t fine when he worked for Mr. Gavin, afraid to make a mistake or even make a noise. He wasn’t fine when Mr. Wright used him and he was out of his depth. He wasn’t fine when the courthouse exploded, he wasn’t fine when Clay died.
But now--
Now he has a mother, who’s still guilt-ridden and doesn’t know what to say to him most of the time, but she’s trying. He has a sister who’s bright-eyed and brilliant. He has -- he has whatever the hell Mr. Wright is to him, some kind of unholy cross between a boss and a weird uncle. He has Athena to back him up in court and Ema to back him up with facts. He has everything he learned from Mr. Gavin, he has Miles Edgeworth’s nod of approval, he has Blackquill pushing him to be his best in court. He has Clay’s memory like an ache in his heart but also a laugh in his ear, and he has Klavier’s hand in his and his smile against his lips when they kiss, the real, genuine smile Apollo finally got to see.
So when he catches a glimpse of himself in the mirror as he says I’m Apollo Justice and I’m fine, yes, he is surprised, because for the first time it’s the truth.