Archive of Our Own

Calisto Yew is born on a sweltering summer’s morning reeking of death.

You don extravagant makeup. Perfectly-tailored clothes. An air of grief; faking the tears is the easiest part. She will spread her wings a put-together woman with nothing left to lose.

Byrne Faraday is too trusting of a man. His heart has gone soft after seven years of having a daughter; he lays a hand on your shoulder gentle as anything and says, please, tell me about her. About Cece.

Overall you suppose that Cece Yew did not deserve the fate that was ultimately bestowed unto her, but it is not your concern to deliberate over the ethics of your employment. No; your concern is, rather, to sneak your hand into Byrne Faraday’s bag while his soft eyes stare at you so, doing their best to soothe your tears, and slip the cassette between your shirt sleeve and your skin as you weep.

Two months later you dab water on your cheeks, smear your mascara, smudge your lipstick. Go to the prosecutor’s office and say, I’m ready. Please. Please let me help you avenge her.

And Faraday and Badd give each other a split-second glance of doubt. A shared moment of deliberation, a slight hesitation. Anyone would take that as their cue of defeat; but to you, the look in their eyes is telling enough. You know the words that will leave their mouths long before they’re uttered.

When Faraday says, You’re in, it takes everything in you to suppress the smile that longs to creep onto your lips. Hook, line, and sinker.

You can recall, distantly, an unfortunate infestation of jungle crows that had been briefly present in your neighborhood when you were very small.

It was a simple matter: the trash service was to be canceled for two weeks following some technical complications with its vehicles; please take care to not leave trash out in places wild animals can access, the note slipped under their door had read. People had done their best at first, you suppose, but they ended up forgetting, and the trash had overflowed regardless. And then came the birds.

They were suddenly everywhere, seemingly overnight. Perched on your roof, pecking at bags of waste, crying out into the night. You recall how you’d found it curious that they would be willing to sift through such vile things in pursuit of survival.

It’s because it’s winter, your mother had said, dismissively, when you’d asked. She’d been making dinner; her scallion slicing had always possessed a certain ferocity. Too cold out for them to find much else.

You'd found that sad, at the time. Eventually, though—you come to realize that the world simply works that way. Resources are limited; life itself is one such limited resource, in a way. The weak will die off and the strong will destroy them; it’s how things should be. Though of course a grade-schooler could not comprehend this concept fully.

On your walk to school the next day, you witnessed a jet-black crow with uneven wings picking at the carcass of a rabbit frozen stiff overnight, split open down the middle by hungry teeth, heart half-devoured. Briefly, intrusively, you’d imagined the look of numb terror that would surely have been present in its expression as it slowly lost its senses one by one. You’d walked a little faster after that.

(Fifteen years and a lifetime later, Byrne Faraday looks at you with the exact same expression when you pull out the knife, a slow realization as he pieces things together one by one. Just the way things go. At least you do him the small mercy of making it quick.)

It was just meant to be the one job, actually.

Truth be told Coachen was very concise when telling his instructions: get in, grab the tape, get out. The money will be wired to your bank account following the acquittal. Calisto Yew will die a month after the trial in a car accident presumed to be grief-stricken suicide, solemnly sworn by medical records from the industry’s finest. Everything is prepared. She will serve her purpose and you will barely have to lift a finger.

But then a document goes missing. And another tape. And Coachen looks at you furious, flecks of spit gathering at the corner of his mouth, a vile, disgusting man, paranoid and insecure and everything you have always sworn yourself not to be, and tells you, Fix this, stupid bitch, should’ve realized that Faraday and Badd were serious from the start. He runs a trembling hand over a sweaty top lip and you desire nothing more than to strike him clean across the face. A raw, senseless urge. You don’t feel quite as strongly as this very often.

But you value your life worth something, and so you just bite your tongue and nod. Keep your talons hung loosely at your side.

Shi-Long Lang is ridiculous.

Never mind his boisterous demeanor, the way he behaves around his subordinates, his ridiculous fashion sense; his over-the-top personality on its own is enough to make one’s head develop a splitting migraine. If Shih-na were not here, you surely would have given him a piece of your mind already: straighten out your back, stop flirting with the local investigators. And button up your shirt, for fuck’s sake.

But Shih-na is quiet and demure and blends into the shadows where Calisto Yew took up all the space she could, head held high and proud and unafraid, standing tall. Calisto who loved her sister and would have torn the world in two to get her revenge on the men who killed her, who would have done anything, anything at all.

But, of course, you are not Calisto Yew anymore. If you could feel half of what she had you fear the emotion alone would swallow you whole.

Lang is conceited. Obsessed with his wardrobe, and the sound of his own voice. Most men are like that, really: just a deep-seated sense of self-centrism masked under a superficial guise of doting emotion. That fact was why the Yatagarasu had proved so easy to destroy, after all.

And yet Lang is strangely caring—comforting, even. Who he is on the inside betrays his superficial self. Unnecessarily proud of his appearance, oftentimes aggressive, and yet—the day you make a careless error on a report he takes the fall and is subjected to the screaming fit of his boss’ boss; a bullet grazes your abdomen on a high-stakes job and he doesn’t leave the hospital until you are discharged; he remembers Shih-na’s middle name, the province of Zheng Fa that she was born in, her favorite food. His façade of swagger hides a tender, empathetic heart. One of a deep, deep red. You would even go so far as to call him kind.

Eventually he will know the truth and you are not certain what will become of him then, but you do know that nobody has shown you such love in many, many years. You will have to phone Coachen tonight with a status report, and the very thought makes your teeth ache.

The question of Why is offered to you only once.

It’s Badd who asks you, because naturally luck would have it that your holding cells at the precinct are directly across from the other’s. His face is sunken and hollow, that of a damaged man—and yet, you think, altogether satisfied. You suppose you yourself must look like nothing much at all. That’s certainly what you feel like, at any rate.

You ponder the question. Why indeed. Maybe the money, but that isn’t quite it; you desire very little when it comes to terms of material wealth. You don’t particularly derive any pleasure from the destruction of other people’s lives, either, and you view a hunger for power as a fool’s desperate response to inherent incompetence.

The truth is you feel robotic. Scraped out from the inside. Hollow, empty. You are not Calisto Yew. You are not Shih-na. Deep down, really, you are not anyone at all—and maybe this is the reason Why.

Bored, is what you settle on, voice flat. Said noncommittally. You pretend to examine your cuticles as you utter the word, looking anywhere but Badd’s face. He scoffs and turns his head away, tired eyes half-cast into shadow. A broken shell of a man.

In truth, you know he would not have been satisfied with any answer you gave him, no matter what it would have been. It has been a very long time since he last touched Byrne Faraday, after all.

(The girl had spoken to you for only a brief moment.

Excuse me, miss, she had said, bounding up to you with a certain spring in her step that only the innocence of childhood could bring about. Do you have any change?

You had crossed your arms, peered down at her, arched an eyebrow. You’d never been very fond of children.

Asked crossly, For what?

Swiss rolls.

Her eyes were very round, you noticed idly. An unbecoming feature on an already-unbecoming face. You’d pondered her request for only a moment before shrugging and reaching down into your trousers-pocket.

I guess that’s fine. Fishing around in your wallet provides you with the familiar feeling of metal against your fingertips. Here’s fifty cents, if that helps, and dropped two quarters in a little open palm. By then the bodies were already starting to go cold.

Thank you very much, the girl had said happily, her thankful bow awkwardly formal for a child of her age. In retrospect, you should have realized that Faraday’s egregious politeness would have rubbed off on his daughter.

You’d given her a small wave of farewell as she skipped off into the side hallway, the comprehension of who she was not yet fully realized. Or the one that you would see her again.)

You are found out. Of course you are found out.

Kay’s face as she curls her hands into fists expresses a fury so deep and guttural it is electric. Edgeworth looks nearly too exhausted to continue standing. You have not seen Alba in hours. Lang can’t look you in the eyes.

And you. You have been found out, and everything slips through the cracks in your fingers all at once, uncontrollably, impossibly. You find you can’t bring yourself to care all that much.

Despite everything, crows will find themselves at the mercy of spring’s warmth at the end of an eternal winter. But as cool metal clicks around your wrists, you wonder if the same is really in store for you.

She visits you. Just once. To give back the sticks.

It is a meaningless gesture—purely sentimental. They mean nothing to you and nothing to her—just two hunks of plastic that would be better off in the trash. But the power behind her eyes is so overwhelming that you find yourself taking them anyway, despite yourself. You suppose that you’ll hang on to them for just a little while—if only to snap them and throw them in the bin in a week.

This time Kay tells you outright that you look lonely. Empty and dark and ugly. She doesn’t hate you in quite the same way anymore, you notice; her eyes are just as fierce, yet less spiteful. Kay’s face is not one of a woman full of unending rage; she just looks solemn. Tired, as her eyes pore into yours; such a far cry from her usual expression. You know very well that living all of life with nothing but hate will yield only exhaustion.

And this time. This time, you aren’t sure if she is right or not. You are not Calisto Yew who has her sister. You are not Shih-na who has a foolish, irresponsible man at her side, who she may have cared about more than she would have liked to admit. You are your own self, this time around, laid bare for the world to see, for Kay Faraday to choose to destroy. And you suppose that is the very worst part.

Maybe, you reply. And say no more.