Chapter Text
"This way, prosecutor Blackquill," said the guard, opening the door in front of him. "Please wait for a minute, we're still escorting the prisoner."
Simon nodded briskly, walking towards the visitor chair. He seated himself over on the uncomfortable steel stool, listening to the door close behind him.
Complete silence blanketed the room, save for Simon's own breath. Over his years in the clink, Simon learned that stillness equates to peace, yet he still couldn't help but feel his skin crawl. Though, he isn't sure if he should attribute it to silence, or to what will soon follow after.
It was odd to be on the other side of the visitation room, even after several trips to Aura. Prison did little to lessen her temper, so most of their time together was still spent bickering. Simon wondered what would she say about this visit of his. Probably bark with her laughter at his insistence to waste his own time, and then ask to kill the bastard while she can't.
This train of thought reminded Simon of the unpleasant absence on his belt. Unsurprisingly, he had to surrender his katana before proceeding to the prison, a decision he finds begrudgingly reasonable. Still, just because he understands does not mean he agrees. He is not mad enough to dull his blade with plexiglass, however many "twisted" rumors about him there may be.
Simon saw the door on the other side open, the action immediately tensing every muscle of his body. His hand instinctively flew to his waist, only to be met with disappointing emptiness. Sometimes, he wishes for Athena's hearing — perhaps he wouldn't be caught off-guard so badly, were he to have it.
A different officer escorted the ill-familiar figure inside, making sure he is seated properly before stepping away into a corner, there to carefully observe both of them. Simon would prefer privacy when meeting with the demon that ruined his life, but just like his katana it's something he has to forfeit.
As Simon looked at the large gash gracing the rubber forehead, left by his own sword, bile rose in his throat.
"Good day, prosecutor Blackquill," said the Phantom evenly, "What is the purpose of your visit?"
"I would've thought they long since forbade you to wear the face of a dead man," Simon growled, the hatred in his stare enough to burn holes in the plexiglass. "Or did you glue it to your own scalp?"
"Don't worry, the Interpol has excruciatingly documented how I really look." The Phantom replied, his voice still as passive and disinterested as ever. "It is simply a preference I am allowed to exercise."
"I find it obscene to allow anything less than a rope of a gallow for the likes of you."
"I assume you still remember how cooperation with the law can be rewarded."
"So is that what they had you doing all those weeks?" Simon asked begrudgingly, finding the thought of the Phantom willingly collaborating with the police nauseating for a reason he cannot place.
"Quite. I was questioned intensely on everything regarding myself, my missions, and my employer." The Phantom confirmed, his complete lack of movement beyond blinking slowly driving Simon mad.
"You must truly be a derelict to not even protect your own flock."
"Espionage is not a profession that fosters camaraderie. Any of my fellow colleagues would likely do the same."
Simon sighed, massaging his temples. He fears he may get a migraine simply from talking to the grotesque creature in front of him. There is a precise reason why he asked for this visit, but the longer the Phantom runs his mouth the harder it gets to remember.
Still, Simon supposed he can allow himself a temporary swerve, if anything to soften up the crook before striking with hard-hitting questions. Though looking into the empty, glassy eyes that do not belong to their owner, Simon wondered if concepts like these are even applicable to the Phantom seated on the other side.
"And what did you tell them, pray tell?"
"Truthfully, little." The Phantom answered, his eyebrows furrowing briefly, possibly recalling previous interrogations. "I've already told you during the trial. I do not recall my own face, name, or self. When I had all my masks removed, I did not recognize the person I saw."
The very notion of something like this being possible still made Simon sick to his stomach. It has to be a lie, another one in the arsenal of Phantom's vile tricks. And so he told himself, letting it fuel the flame of hatred burning inside, hoping it to be enough to drown out the voice suspiciously sounding like Metis.
He would never have thought before that his degree in analytical psychology can turn against him.
"You must realize, that a statement like this is absurd. I would roar in laughter if the Interpol believed it."
"It's not the question of you believing me or not, prosecutor Blackquill," The Phantom said calmly, "You may not believe the sun to be real, but that will not stop it from showing up in the sky every morning. Facts cannot be changed by opinions."
"Fine. What can you tell me, you blackguard?" Simon asked, crossing his arms.
"I've been a spy for as long as I can remember. As far as I am aware, all my assignments came from the same organization. I am not allowed to share more with you, but I'm sure if you ask the Interpol they will gladly tell you."
"Didn't realize your kennel taught their mutts sarcasm." Simon sneered in faux amusement. "I've had enough of this pointless babble. I could not care less to know who you are, for I can see through that foul mask of yours straight to your very rotten core."
"Alright then, prosecutor Blackquill." The Phantom conceded, nodding his head. It's the closest Simon has seen to a mannerism from him so far. "Why did you really ask for this meeting?"
"I have three questions for you, Phantom." Simon spat the last word, loathing to refer to the spy even with his moniker. "Since you've been such a good, obedient boy to the Interpol, shall I give you the fortune of getting to choose from which to start?"
"Please, prosecutor Blackquill, you do not have to keep taunting me. I promise I have no reason to do anything but cooperate."
Simon made himself pause, biting a caustic remark bubbling on his tongue. It's embarrassing to be loosing his temper talking to a man who expresses himself mostly through blinks.
"In this case, I shall approach my questions chronologically. Tell me everything about the murder of Metis Cykes." Simon said through his teeth.
"Hm. That's an unfortunate question to choose." The Phantom replied flatly. "I struggle remembering my previous missions, especially the older they are. My occupation demands me to wipe myself into clean slate, each and every time. Too many memories interfere with my work."
"Give it to the Phantom to weasel his way out of answers like a cowardly worm."
"I'm not refusing your question, prosecutor Blackquill. I'm simply warning you that my memory will be poor."
The Phantom stayed silent for a minute, eyes closed. Simon was ready to assume the crook is fast asleep, before he finally opened them again, his gaze the most focused and purposeful it's been thus far.
"Alongside the sabotage of HAT-1, I was instructed to retrieve the psychological profile Dr. Cykes has made on me," he begun.
"What do you mean, instructed ? Are you trying to tell me, it was not a decision made from your own consciousness?"
"Not really. I don't make decisions. I execute actions." Phantom said, thick fog clouding his eyes once more. "It is in direct interest of my employer to protect its agents, because the moment one of them is at risk of being found, so are the rest. I'm sure you could conclude that from Interpol's current manhunt."
"Was retrieving the bloodied moon rock an order too?"
"Yes. HAT-2 was still a priority, but explosives weren't a necessary requirement from my employer."
"What?"
"If you remember, Mr. Cosmos received a threat by the phone, from me. If HAT-2 was cancelled, the bombing wouldn't have happened. Cosmos was ready to comply, yet your government did not let him to. The launch mattered to them more than human lives did."
Simon's blood ran cold.
"You're lying, surely."
"If you want to think so." The Phantom graced Simon with the impossible sight of a whole shrug. "Would it surprise you, though?"
Simon squeezed his fists to the point of his nails digging into skin.
"You didn't tell me enough about Metis Cykes."
"Can I tell you anything that you aren't aware of? Do you want to know what it was like, killing Dr. Cykes? Do you think I laughed like a villain, taking delight in my actions, or if the guilty consciousness weighted on me so heavily I could not stop myself from crying?" The Phantom sighed, almost expressing exasperation. "It was neither. Nor is anything else you can think of. I already told you, I do not experience feelings. They are an inconvenience to my job."
"You sound inane."
"Sanity is an attribute to a human being. I am not human, prosecutor Blackquill."
"Yes, I've seen enough for myself already how much of a monster you are."
"No, you misunderstand. A monster is defined by malice. I do not posses it, the same way I also do not possess joy, or sorrow. I think it is apt to say I am alive only by definition." Phantom locked his eyes with Simon's, the golden brown reflecting none of the joy he got used to seeing in them. "I have more in common with your katana than I do with you."
"Are you calling yourself an object?"
"Yes."
A horrible, awful realization sank to the very bottom of Simon's stomach. It almost made him retch, a notion so foul it hurt his soul, the one he's been trying to ran away from all this time, the whispers in the voice of Metis at the far back of his mind.
That something is deeply, deeply wrong with the Phantom, and not in the way he wanted to think it is.