Chapter Text
Apollo wakes up to the beautiful sunlight; he’s slept in today, and Mikeko is resting so comfortably on his chest, it would really be a shame to get up right away. He’s not immediately hungry, and he isn’t working on a case at the moment, so there’s no rush to get down to the Wright Anything Agency. With no sense of usual morning panic, Apollo smiles to himself, gently pets Mikeko, and pulls his phone off the charger that’s plugged into the wall to see if anything important has happened while he’s been asleep.
There’s nothing out of the ordinary. A few texts from Trucy about how Mr. Wright ruined one of their best pans trying to make scrambled eggs, some calendar reminders about bike repairs and doctor’s appointments, and one notification about how he’s got a new follower on Twitter, all of which can be dealt with without any real sense of urgency, Apollo thinks. Instead, he picks Mikeko up and gives her plenty of soft morning kisses, to which she paws at his face as if to say, Put me down! Jail for Apollo! Jail for one thousand years!
Apollo, however, can’t enjoy being still for too long, and even though he could spend longer in bed, he swings his legs over the side and makes his way through to the bathroom. The water in his shower is hot, and he lets it wash away the last of his dreams; and, of course, when he’s faced with a day as good as today, how can he not sing in the shower?
As he towels himself dry and brushes his teeth, he feels the peaceful calm of a nice Saturday morning sink even deeper into him, warming him right down to the bones, and he decides to go with a more casual outfit today – a red hoodie and worn-down jeans, with his favourite cat-print socks to match. His Spotify playlist flicks over to Bohemian Rhapsody, and he smiles.
Nothing can ruin a day like this.
He remembers that a therapist he had a long time ago, just after he left Khura’in, had told him about the importance of breakfast, so he skips his usual iced coffee and – learning from Mr. Wright’s blunder this morning – starts to cook himself some scrambled eggs on a low heat. He listens to soft jazz music as he eats his breakfast, and then treats himself to a cup of the nice coffee in his cupboard that he usually saves for guests or special occasions.
Around midday, he leaves his apartment and unlocks his bike from the shed outside. The sun is a lot hotter than it was hours ago, and he takes his hoodie off, biking downtown in only his vest and jeans, letting the wind rush past his bare arms. As he pulls up outside the Wright Anything Agency, he locks his bike and keeps his keys in his hand, anticipating their necessity when he opens the door.
Unusually, though, it’s unlocked. Normally, Mr. Wright keeps the door locked even when he’s in the house, something about paranoia and not wanting anyone to break in – which Apollo only half understands, but he supposes that it isn’t out of character for Mr. Wright to be an overprotective father. He makes his way inside and sets his bag down on the counter.
“Good Morning,” Apollo says to Mr. Wright, who turns around to greet him.
“Mornin’, Apollo. Isn’t it your day off?”
“Yes, but I didn’t exactly have anything to do. I thought that maybe I’d pick up some of our upcoming case files to go over, if that would be alright with you?”
“Sure, sure. The less work for me at the moment, the better. What with Trucy’s upcoming shows and Miles’ situation, I’m snowed under as it is.”
“Chief Prosecutor Edgeworth’s… situation?”
“I’ll let him tell you himself,” Mr. Wright says.
Apollo turns around to see Chief Prosecutor Edgeworth, dressed in a slightly more casual outfit than his usual ensemble – which is to say, he’s wearing just a suit without accessorising it with a cravat. “Ah,” Apollo says. “Good morning.”
“Apollo.” Edgeworth greets him.
“Are you having issues in the Prosecutor’s Office?”
“We are. You might be able to help, actually.”
“I might?”
“Yes. The problem that we are having lies with Prosecutor Gavin.”
“Prosecutor Gavin? What? He seems really… hard working.”
“Oh, usually, he is,” Edgeworth says, pushing his glasses up his face. “Except he hasn’t turned into work in three days. He had a big concert three days ago, and I’m starting to suspect that he’s nursing a particularly rough hangover. Still, though, his case files are building up, and with my responsibilities, I can’t exactly continue bearing the burden of prosecuting the cases he isn’t turning up for.”
“Really? Prosecutor Gavin? We are talking about the same person, right?”
“Unfortunately so. This is rather out of character for him.”
“Have you tried calling him?”
“Yes,” Edgeworth says, sounding a little frustrated. “His work phone is off.”
“And what about going round to his apartment?”
“The place is flooded with paparazzi, given the recent concert. I can’t get even close to his door. You will tell me if you hear anything, won’t you?”
“Of course. Have you checked his Twitter? He might still be posting.”
“What a wonderful idea,” Edgeworth replies. “Wright, you’re doing well to keep your offices employed with the latest generation. You could use a walkthrough in technology.”
“Miles, I…! Uh…” Mr. Wright stammers, but Apollo doesn’t need his bracelet to see that protesting would be fighting a losing battle.
Edgeworth pulls up his phone and taps it; Apollo looks over his shoulder to see that he’s pulling up Klavier Gavin’s Twitter account.
Klavier Gavin @gavinnersklav • LA, YOU ROCK!! See you back on stage in 20 minutes for the encore.
Klavier Gavin @gavinnersklav • Tonight was the BEST!! Daryan tripping over his wire was a personal highlight. Thank you all for coming! :D
“Hmm,” Apollo says. “He hasn’t tweeted since the concert three days ago. That’s weird. He normally at least tweets out a good morning selfie.”
“And why would you know that, Polly?” Trucy chimes in. Apollo hadn’t even seen her enter the room. “Do you secretly run a Gavinners’ fanblog?”
“N-No! I just follow him, that's all.”
“Ugh, don’t make me jealous. I can’t believe the Klavier Gavin followed you back.”
“Not just that, Trucy, but he followed me first.”
“That’s besides the point,” Edgeworth says. “Apollo is right. If you look back through his account, he does tweet at least once per day.”
“Must be one hell of a hangover,” Mr. Wright says.
“Look at the trending topics, though,” Apollo pulls out his own phone and opens Twitter, scrolling through a few tweets and articles. “He was supposed to have a post-concert interview yesterday, but he didn’t show.”
“Well, if he didn’t show up to court, I can’t imagine he’d show up to some tabloid interview,” Edgeworth says. Mr. Wright pours him another coffee and hands it to him, planting a gentle kiss on his cheek and rubbing his shoulders.
“He’ll turn up. It’s probably just classic rockstar behaviour,” Mr. Wright soothes.
– Three Days Earlier –
The post-concert high is something that Klavier thinks he’ll be chasing for the rest of his life. Barrelling his way off stage, arm around Daryan, his guitar hanging from its strap around his neck… it all feels so freeing. Sure, the courtroom is where he shines the brightest, but he can’t imagine ever being able to resist the adrenaline rush of pouring his heart out on stage for hours, being cheered for constantly by adoring fans who have paid upwards of $100 to see him perform.
Especially since Kristoph’s arrest, he needs an outlet like this.
Everything is so perfect, he can even turn a blind eye when Daryan tells him that he’ll meet him at the tour bus in ten minutes, he just has some business to attend to. By business, Klavier knows, he means that he’s smoking his ritual post-concert spliff, and maybe flirting with some of their fans. Not that Klavier approves of either of those things. Sure, he himself is naturally sociable and a little suggestive, but he’d never stoop as low as to flirt with anyone who paid money to be able to talk to him, it feels far too weird to him. And drugs? For a detective? That’s a dangerous game to play. What can he say, though? Daryan has been his best friend for eight years, and he’s not about to spoil a good night by taking the moral high ground and alienating quite possibly the last person in the world who cares about him.
So, he sits in the tour bus alone. The rest of his band are presumably hanging around Daryan, which he’s fine with, because he’s had quite enough attention for one night; the little battery in his chest labelled ‘coping mechanism’ is suitably full, and Klavier is happy to be by himself for a bit.
Someone knocks on the door of the tour bus, and Klavier sits up from the sofa he was lying down on. They’re parked in a restricted area, but it’s possible that some dedicated fans have managed to sneak in and are hoping for an autograph and a photo; which, truly, he isn’t that bothered about. He remembers being young and idolising musicians, too. Naoko Yamano had been the whole reason he learned electric guitar, after all.
Opening the door, he sees that there isn’t anyone on the doorstep. Maybe they got shy and ran off? The last thing he wants is to seem aloof and unapproachable, so he shouts out.
“Hallo? Is anyone there?”
No response.
“I don’t bite,” he jokes. “You can come and say hello if you want to!”
He peers his head out of the tour bus, and then, committing to it, walks down the steps to look for whoever is around. There’s nobody in the entire car park, at least not in his line of sight, and Klavier is almost about to turn back and walk inside before a harsh hand jerks his face to one side.
There are people all around him, now. They must have jumped out from some kind of hiding place. One of them pins his arms to the side, while another holds his face roughly, sharp fingernails digging into his cheeks and keeping him in place. He panics, eyes darting wildly around, but he can’t see the third man who hovers at his side, palm against Klavier’s chin, and shoves something sharp and unexpected into his neck.
Klavier struggles, but he could never win a three-against-one fight. Slowly, whatever drug he was injected with makes its way through his body, and he can’t stop his eyes from closing, his body from drooping and becoming deadweight. He’s barely conscious as he’s thrown into the trunk of a car, and then… quiet.
Apollo is getting slightly worried now. He’s refreshing Klavier’s Twitter, but there are no new tweets; his name is trending though, alongside lots of over-the-top tweets from his fans who are worrying themselves into a frenzy over the possibility that their beloved guitarist is, god forbid, taking a break from the Internet. It’s not like any of them know him enough in real life to know that he isn’t just lying in bed sick, or too busy to update his social media.
Then again, where is the evidence proving that Apollo knows him any better than that, either? The very few lunch-dates (not dates) they’ve been on? The occasional afternoons spent hanging out, going over cases together? The hands-brushing-hands in the elevator, the obnoxious flirting on Klavier’s part, the way Klavier makes him feel…
Never mind. Not now.
He does have Klavier’s personal phone number, though. That should prove that they’re… well, what does it prove? That they’re friends? Colleagues? He doesn’t know, but dialling it is worth a try, anyway.
It rings for a while before Klavier’s voicemail message begins to play.
“Hey, it’s Klavier. Or Prosecutor Gavin, depending on who’s calling.”
Apollo could put the phone down. He knows that it’s gone to voicemail; why does he keep listening?
“I can’t get to the phone right now, either I’m busy writing my next big hit, or I’m tearing up the courtroom. Leave a message!”
“Hey, Klavi– Prosecutor Gavin. It’s Apollo. Uh, Mr. Edgeworth is looking for you, something about not showing up to court? Nobody can really get a hold of you so I thought I’d try your mobile. Give him a ring when you get the chance.”
He ends the call and spends the next twenty minutes overthinking the brief answering machine message he left.
There’s still no sign of Klavier as the day becomes evening, and Edgeworth seems to be getting more and more annoyed. He’s spent all day pacing around the Wright Anything Agency, flitting between working on outstanding cases, checking his voicemail, and complaining – quite loudly – to Mr. Wright. When 7pm rolls around, having made zero progress on any of the Wright Anything Agency’s own cases, Mr. Wright hands Apollo his wallet and tells him to go and pick up some food from Edgeworth’s favourite place just down the street, hoping that it will calm him down.
Mentally, Apollo speed-runs through his usual complaints, which are usually phrased in the form of, “Damn it, Mr. Wright, I’m a lawyer, not a toilet cleaner/food delivery service/babysitter!”, but he decides to bite his tongue since, no matter what he says, he’s going to be sent out to get food anyway. He may as well save his pettiness for whenever Klavier decides to show up with another remark about his forehead or his height.
Edgeworth’s favourite food place is not, as Mr. Wright described, ‘just down the street’ at all. It actually takes Apollo fifteen minutes to bike to the address he was given, and a further five to find somewhere to park because of course Edgeworth’s favourite restaurant is in the middle of the bustling city centre. He feels out of place when he gives his order and sits on the little windowsill by the back of the restaurant, waiting for his name to be called; everyone else in this place seems to be here to eat-in, and it seems like most of them are couples who are dressed quite nicely and formally. In contrast, Apollo is in his comfy clothes, arms folded, with cat hair all over his hoodie.
It’s a blessing when the woman at the counter hands him the food and he can leave.
As he exits the restaurant, Apollo notices instantly that everyone outside has just… stopped. Nobody is walking around, entering or leaving the shops, and even the cars are humming with life, but none of them move an inch across the ground; it’s eerie, like the whole world has been put on pause and Apollo has to navigate through it like time itself is thick honey, but he realises that this is no sci-fi TV show the moment he realises what everybody is looking at.
Every single advertisement on the large screens is showing the same picture. The whole city centre is lit up with the image of one face.
Klavier Gavin’s face.
It has to be some sick promotion for a new album. It has to be, because the alternative – that this is real, makes Apollo want to throw up. If this is real, if Klavier Gavin is sitting in some cold room somewhere, dark circles under his eyes and bruises littering his jaw, then Apollo wishes the world had stopped a few seconds ago.
A voice comes from every speaker in the city centre.
“This is an announcement to every member of the LA public. The footage you are watching is live. Three days ago, our team took a hostage – the man you now see before you, and whom we are sure you are all familiar with as Klavier Gavin. At the same time, a ransom demand was sent. We have been very simple in our demand for ten million dollars, and had no desire to make this a public spectacle, however the lack of response from Daryan Crescend has forced our hands to apply this kind of publicised pressure. You know what you have to do, Mr. Crescend.”
From the darkness behind Klavier, a hand reaches out and pushes his head forward, colliding with the camera. A small, pained “ach!” reverberates through the speakers, and the feed cuts out to static.
Apollo’s hands have been balled into his sides the entire time, and he vaguely recognises that he’s dropped the bag of food all over the floor. Not that that matters at all right now. He can barely pull himself together enough to unlock his bike chain – it takes him at least six tries with shaking hands – and he almost crashes no less than three times on the way back to the Wright Anything Agency.
Inside, the atmosphere is warm; Trucy is laughing over a game of Trivial Pursuit with her father, and though Edgeworth’s brow is still furrowed, he’s sat in a comfortable position on the sofa.
“Ah, Apollo, just the guy we were looking for!” Mr. Wright says, cheerfully. “We’re starving!”
“The news,” Apollo stutters out, grabbing onto the door frame to keep himself upright. “T-Turn on the news.”
Trucy immediately crosses the room and takes Apollo’s hand; he walks with her as best he can, and then collapses onto the sofa. Edgeworth turns the television on and flicks to the first news station he can find.
“–of Klavier Gavin, frontman of chart-topping band the Gavinners, and renowned Prosecutor in the state of California.”
“What’s going on?” Mr. Wright asks. Apollo can’t respond, he just points at the television as if to tell him to keep watching.
“This footage shows what police are investigating as a kidnapping for ransom. We advise now that our viewers remove any children from the room before the footage is replayed.”
“Go on, Trucy,” Mr. Wright says.
“I’m not a child!”
“Trucy, please.”
Trucy leaves the room, and Edgeworth waits for a moment before clicking the door shut. The three of them sit in silence as the same footage Apollo just saw blaring across LA’s city centre screens plays again. It doesn’t get easier viewing it for a second time on a small screen; if anything, it feels worse – more intimate and voyeuristic, like Apollo could almost reach through the screen and pull Klavier back to safety if only he were strong enough.
The footage ends, and nobody speaks a word for a minute.
And then, Edgeworth’s voice. “Ten million dollars. Even I don’t have that kind of money.”
“His bandmates will pay, though, right?” Mr. Wright says.
“It doesn’t look that way,” Edgeworth responds. “It seems the ransom demand was made three days ago, on the night of the concert.”
“So Klavier has been… wherever the hell he is… for three days?”
“It seems so. I’m afraid there isn’t much we can do.”
“There has to be!” Apollo interrupts. He’s standing up, although he has no recollection of doing so, and his voice carries far beyond the thin walls of the Wright Anything Agency. “You’re just going to give up on him?!”
“Nobody is saying that, Mr. Justice,” Edgeworth says. His voice is calm. Apollo hates it. “This is a shock to all of us. But ten million dollars is far beyond me and even further beyond this agency.”
“Then ask the Prosecutor’s Office, up your fees, I don’t care! We can’t just leave him.”
“I’ll do all that I can.”
“I’m going to talk to that Daryan asshole. The moment I find out where he lives, he’s fucking done.”
“Apollo, calm down,” Mr. Wright says.
“No! I won’t calm down! You would move heaven and earth to stop your friends from coming to harm, and so would you, Mr. Edgeworth, and so would Trucy, and so would I, and so would any decent person in the world! And I bet Daryan has more than ten million sitting away in a bank somewhere and he’s just ignoring this? Absolutely not! Absolutely not.”
“His hands could be tied,” Edgeworth says. “The business of fame isn’t a simple one.”
“Oh really?” Apollo bites back. “Because I think choosing between money and the life of an innocent person is a pretty fucking simple decision.”
Edgeworth turns to Mr. Wright as Apollo grabs his keys and starts to leave. “You pick your employees well, Phoenix,” Apollo hears him mutter.
Apollo’s first port of call is to turn up at Detective Ema Skye’s house. He knocks on the door repeatedly until she answers; her hair is tied messily in a bun on her head, and her Steel Samurai pyjamas have some kind of pizza sauce stain on them.
“I’m assuming you’re about to kick my door down because of… recent events.”
“Ema, please… you need to help me,” Apollo says, his voice cracking.
“I would if I knew what to do. I’ve been trying to do some forensic voice analysis of the person speaking on that video, but it’ll take days for me to get any kind of result, and even then, that’s just a voice. It’s not a name, or a location.”
“You have access to the police databases, don’t you?”
“Of course. But I don’t like where this is going.”
Apollo holds up a large bag of Snackoos that he picked up on the way, and a bottle of fingerprint powder that he took from the Wright Anything Agency. “Please?”
“Ugh, you know the way to a woman’s heart. Fine. What do you need?”
“I need you to pull up Klavier’s documents.”
“Documents? What documents? He doesn’t have a criminal record, there’ll be nothing in his file apart from the basic stuff.”
“That’s all I need. The basics.”
Ema opens her laptop and clicks through the names of everyone in the Prosecutor’s Office until she pulls up Klavier Gavin’s file. She was right – there’s barely anything in there.
KLAVIER GAVIN (Prosecutor 2019 –)
Apollo scans through the information detailing Klavier’s hair colour, eye colour, birthday, address, et cetera, until he gets to the line he needs.
Next of Kin:
Kristoph Gavin (removed, April 20th 2026)
Daryan Crescend (updated, April 20th 2026)
Beneath this, Apollo finds exactly what he needed – the phone number and address of Daryan Crescend.
He wastes no time getting to Daryan’s apartment. It’s only when he’s standing at the door to the huge apartment block, about to buzz up to the apartment just below the penthouse – where he knows now that Daryan lives – that he wonders what he’s going to say. He’ll have to think of something on the spot.
Daryan’s voice comes through the speaker. “Who is it?”
“It’s uh… I’m a lawyer. Apollo Justice. It’s about… it’s about Klavier.”
“Man, I don’t have any shit to say about that. Don’t you need a client or something to give you permission to ask questions of strangers?”
“Well, I… look, can I just come up?”
“Not until you tell me why.”
“I think I’ve figured out how we can get Klavier home safe. But please, I need your help.”
“Hmph. Fine.”
Apollo hears the door click open and, not wanting to waste his chance, pushes through and makes his way up to Daryan’s apartment. Once there, he sees that Daryan has left the door open for him, and he goes right inside.
Daryan is lying on the couch, an open bottle of red wine on the table, next to some sleazy magazines that he obviously isn’t embarrassed enough about to clear away when he’s expecting a guest.
“So, what do you want, lawyer-boy?” Daryan drawls.
“I came to ask you why you haven’t paid the ransom.”
“Oh, that. Well, I can’t.”
“Sure you can. This apartment hardly comes cheap, I’d bet you have way more than ten million in some bank somewhere!”
“You don’t know a thing about rock and roll, do you, kid? My manager told me I shouldn’t pay up. Who knows if they’ll even let him go if I transfer them the ten million? They’ll probably just keep upping the amount until I can’t pay.”
“But you have to try! He’s your best friend!”
“Look, man, if I could bring him home tomorrow I would. But there’s nothing I can do. That’s showbiz for ya.”
“I’d do it. If I had the money, I’d give up everything.”
“And that, my dear Apollo, is why I’m famous and you’re not.”
He’s about to bite back some sarcastic remark, when Daryan’s laptop flashes on and the screen shows a sickeningly familiar picture.
“Ugh,” Daryan says, sounding bored. “They’ve been doing this for days.”
“You mean you’ve had communication with the kidnappers? Why haven’t you told the police?!”
“I am the police. Trust me, I’m not just sitting on my ass, I am actually doing my own investigation into this. If we’re gonna get Klav back, we’re doing it legally, I’m not bowing down to the demands of some pathetic kidnapper.”
Apollo just stares at Klavier’s face on the video. He looks even worse than he did a few hours ago; his hair has been pulled out of its hair tie and now hangs limp and loose around his face, the bruises that were purple the last time Apollo saw him are now tinged with yellow, and his eyes can barely stay open.
“Daryan Crescend, if you are there, click your screen.”
“Yeah, yeah, whatever,” Daryan mumbles, clicking the trackpad of his laptop.
“Don’t talk like that! What if they hear you?” Apollo hisses.
“It’s a one way video, idiot. They can’t see or hear me, that’s why they want me to communicate through clicking.”
“Do you have the money to send immediately?” The kidnapper says in a distorted voice. A prompt flashes on the screen: two text boxes, one labelled ‘yes’ and the other ‘no’. Apollo reaches over to push the cursor towards the ‘yes’ box, thinking only of saving Klavier’s life, but Daryan slaps his hand away harshly.
“Are you fucking stupid? If you click that, they’ll ask me to transfer it straight away, and when I don’t, that’s lights out for Klav. I’m buying time, trust me, I know what I’m doing. I’ve been doing this shit for days.”
“Are you sure…?” Apollo says.
In response, Daryan clicks the ‘no’ box.
The video is silent for a moment, before the voice comes through once more. “How unfortunate. I believe we discussed yesterday what the consequences would be if you refused us again.”
Apollo’s heart stops. Consequences? This early in the game? Don’t kidnappers usually give people time to find money before they act on their threats?
He’s screaming at the screen before he knows it, begging them to please, stop! The kidnapper presses a gun to Klavier’s head, and Apollo’s voice is hoarse from shouting, and then – click.
There’s no bullet in the chamber.
What surprises Apollo the most, though, is that Klavier doesn’t beg for his life, doesn’t cry or scream or plead, he just stares straight ahead, like his mind has long-since left his body and he’s just a shell of the beautiful, bright man Apollo is used to facing off against in the courtroom.
Apollo thinks it’s over. Oh, god, he’s so stupid, he thinks it’s over. It feels like he’s been punched in the gut when the kidnapper jerks Klavier’s hand towards the screen and, with no hesitation, pushes on his index finger with a pair of pliers until the sound of the break hits every wall in Daryan’s apartment.
Now, Klavier screams.
It’s not a scream of pain, it’s far more than that. It’s absolute, complete anguish, and Apollo can just about catch words like ‘guitar’ and ‘ruined’, and then he pieces it together. They could have hurt Klavier in any other way, but they chose to get rid of the one thing that makes him who he is – this isn’t just physical torture, it’s psychological.
And Daryan Crescend knew that it was going to happen.
Apollo punches him square in the chest. He’d be lying if he said it wasn’t a little satisfying to see Daryan’s face scrunch up in shock and pain, but then his eyes flick to the screen, where the live feed has ended, paused eternally on the image of Klavier’s eyes, and oh, god, they look so broken.
“What the fuck, man?” Daryan shouts. “I’ll have you arrested!”
“Oh yeah? Do it then. And I’ll tell them everything.”
“I haven’t done anything wrong! Last I heard, not giving into ransom demands isn’t a crime.”
“Fuck you.”
“Yeah, you too, kid.”
Apollo storms out of the apartment. He can barely see through the rain that lashes down onto the streets outside, and he’s crying, and cycling is hard when it feels like his whole body is about to shut down from sheer grief. His bike runs over a kerb, and he falls onto the ground, the clatter of metal hitting the pavement next to him.
And he sobs.
It takes him all of ten minutes to pull himself together enough to call Mr. Wright, and he can barely choke out an address when he does. Soon, though, Edgeworth’s car pulls up next to him, and Mr. Wright hauls him into the backseat.
“I… I-I went to see… Daryan…” Apollo chokes out.
“It didn’t go well, huh?” Mr. Wright says.
“He doesn’t even c-care!”
It’s times like this that Apollo wishes he had a father figure in his life. It’s close enough for him, though, when Mr. Wright hands him his jacket and puts an arm around him, and the hum of Edgeworth’s car, combined with his own exhaustion, makes his eyes close.
He’s woken up when the car stops, and they’re parked outside the Wright Anything Agency. Right now, all he wants is to be home with Mikeko and his warm bed, but he follows them inside.
It’s midnight. The streets outside are quiet, and Apollo is thankful for the cup of warm tea that’s thrust into his hands; he’s less thankful, however, for the expectant stare of Prosecutor Edgeworth as he sits across from him.
“I doubt I need to tell you that what you did was highly irresponsible.”
“I don’t… I don’t care,” Apollo replies. “I just needed to know if he had any intention of paying that ransom. And… and… and he doesn’t! It’s like he doesn’t give a shit about Klavier’s life!”
“You can’t make him pay ten million dollars any more than the kidnappers can. If that’s his decision, then you can’t force his hand.”
“But what will happen to Klavier otherwise?”
“There are other options. Daryan Crescend isn’t the only man in the world who can drum up ten million dollars.”
“So you’re saying… we could do it?”
“Not alone, no. But if it’s a necessity, I’d be more than happy to give what I can and liquidate some assets to raise funds. I could ask around the Prosecutor’s Office, too, and see what Klavier’s other friends can do.”
“Do you think we can do it?” Apollo asks.
“We can certainly try.”
The door opens, and Apollo sees Trucy standing in her pyjamas, holding her phone with a huge smile on her face. “Polly, look!” She says.
Apollo looks at the page she’s showing him on her phone; it’s a GoFundMe titled ‘KLAVIER GAVIN’S RANSOM MONEY’, and it’s raised $50,000 already.
“The fans are really chipping in whatever they can!” Trucy says, with bright, hopeful optimism in her voice. “And it’s trending on Twitter, too! Look,” she refreshes the page. “We’re at $50,750 now!”
“Thanks, Trucy,” Apollo says.
The little voice in the back of his head, the one he’s never been able to quiet, tells him that $50,000 is only a fraction of what they actually need.
Klavier is so, so cold. He’s shaking with it, like every atom within him, right down to the marrow of his bones, is absolutely freezing. It’s almost enough to numb the pain in his hand, but ‘almost’ has never been good enough for him.
He takes a moment of clarity to listen and make sure that he’s truly alone. Once he’s sure that it’s just him in this pitch black room, he lets the sobs that he’s been trying so hard to hold back rack through his body, pushing their way up out of his gut and choking him on their way out of his throat; he feels so alone, so scared, so abandoned. Putting on his rockstar front didn’t help much, they hit him either way, but now more than ever he feels the same way he did when he was a child: like nobody in the whole world cares about him.
Klavier Gavin, world famous rockstar and talented prosecutor, brings his knees up to his chest and, in the lonely darkness, cries his heart out.