Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

The gunman was useless, and everyone knew it.

This wasn’t Apollo being his trademark judgy self, or the usual yin to Clay’s passionate yang. Clay wasn’t even here to balance him out, too busy attempting to restart his shitty car that he refuses to part with, so it was definitive that the masked man robbing the bank was pathetic.

When Apollo begrudgingly left his shared apartment with Clay to spend this terrible day running errands and painting the town blue with his depressing presence, he certainly was not expecting to play hero to a poor girl being threatened from behind the counter.

Her nametag claimed ‘Juniper’—he hoped she appreciated his sacrifice. Or, at the very least, gain massive amounts of good karma.

Though, Apollo had to admit he looked pretty spineless a few moments ago, having been face-down on the cold marble floor of the bank that was under siege by the, evidently stupid, robber. When he saw the guy attempt to shove wads of cash into what was clearly a cheap bin bag, he had to roll his eyes. This was planned out terribly. Apollo almost wanted to give the guy advice, solely to hurry him up.

A harsh whisper in the back of his mind reminding him of dragons, yielding, and dead-beat dads made him get off his ass and act. As well as Juniper’s terrified cry—which was followed by a squeaky yelp, a stuttering exclamation, and a frightened shriek. All which came from Apollo, of course. It was never written in his script to be a suave saviour.

“Who’s squeaking?” The gunman exclaimed, somehow robotically, turning his head slightly in the direction of Apollo, who grimaced at the sight. The guy wasn’t intimidating in the slightest, but his gun definitely was.

Curse Apollo’s lack of improv talent—he couldn’t think of a cool fake name in time. “Er-um-it’s Apollo?”

“Well, er-um-Apollo, shut up.” And, as an afterthought, “I’ve got a gun.” The thief informed, as if the weapon was not the main star of this rising shit-show.

It must’ve been his mask muffling his voice, but Apollo couldn’t help but think the guy was speaking through a distorted translator. If anything, the weird machine-man sounded rather reluctant to use his weapon but Apollo’s not about to start psychoanalysing. Judging from the glare behind the goggles, the dude’s probably surprised someone is ballsy enough to talk to him. Or that stupid.

“I can see that quite clearly, thanks. Um. You’re holding me up right now and my car is in a towing area, and I don’t want a parking fee, ha-ha. Relatable, right? Seeing as you so clearly hate finances too. So, mind hurrying this up?” Apollo rambled.

He didn’t know why he was talking. He couldn’t drive, and Clay would likely get in a car chase off a cliff before giving up his junk on wheels.

The atmosphere was a tense fraying rope begging to snap, and the grand foyer felt smaller than before. The four walls were trapping Apollo in. He heard a mocking snort to the right of him and shifted his eyes toward a fellow hostage crouched behind a gaudy maroon couch, with purple hair styled into sharp antennas.

It seemed that experimental cowlick styles weren’t as rare as he thought they were. Good to know.

He frowned in her direction, to which she shrugged with a mean smile, and then pointed towards the front desk with her bony finger.  

Which lead to his current predicament, staring down the barrel of a pistol wielded by an utter moron in camouflage.

Camouflage? Seriously?

The guy’s in a posh bank in LA, not the Amazon Rainforest. Was he expecting a jungle terrain? And the rest of the outfit… Apollo wouldn’t be surprised if his biggest crime was in fashion choices rather than hostage-taking and attempted murder.

Why was everyone around today so eccentric?

Juniper hurriedly returned to giving him money, quicker than before. The goggle-man must’ve threatened something, but Apollo couldn’t make out anything.

Frozen in fear, or panic, or mere mental malfunction, all Apollo could think about was the shameless erotica he was holding in his sheer plastic bag and how embarrassing it would be to die clutching the gay lawyer fantasy Clay dared him to buy.

Phoenix Wright: Ace Attorney Chronicles.

The bullshit fiction romanticising the dullest profession to exist, tricking the gullible youth of the 21^st century that you can find passion and adventure at a 9-5 desk job consumed by paperwork and assholes. Apollo scoffed at the blatant coping mechanisms for virgin corporate slaves.   

He didn’t know why this was what his mind chose to fixate on when in close quarters with death. Apollo’s far-fetched dreams of becoming a lawyer were squandered ages ago, fallen victim to extortionate tuition fees and simple bad luck. Who would place their hope in the aggressive, hopeless orphan whose first language wasn’t even English?

Not even that, but the Phoenix Wright series was, in the nicest words possible, utter dogshit.

From what Apollo knows from social media and Clay (which are not the most reliable sources, but still), the writing leaves a lot to be desired, though the fans loved it anyway. Plot holes were common craters that the main character would frequently fall through and somehow survive. The author must be allergic to killing off characters. Ironic, since there seemed to be only one crime that existed in the series—murder. And horrid but sexy prosecutors that couldn’t help falling in love with the MC. How original.

Off in the distance, lights of blue and red flashed alongside sirens but Apollo couldn’t look away from the gun. 

Someone must’ve alerted the police. Great. More authoritarian enforcement.

Why did Apollo’s life have to revolve around this? Not even an astronaut-in-training best friend could untether his red string of fate with law.

Stupid law and stupid lawyers. And stupid Phoenix Wright.

These thoughts turned out to be his last. What a loser way to go.

Apollo would’ve preferred to enter the Twilight Realm in guns and blazing glory. Returning to Khur’ain with a militia, rescuing Dhurke and Yuty from the evil queen’s clutches, and restoring peace with his 6ft tall body and rippling pairs of abs.

But fate was never kind to tiny Justice.

In only a few shallow moments, the gunman snatched his derelict bin bag and raced to the exit, clumsily hitting Apollo along the way. The two collided in an ugly heap on the floor, just as the windows were smashed rather carelessly.

Apollo thought bank robberies were treated with more caution, but the police being incompetent was not a shock to him.

Slipping out from the robber’s pocket was a comically big red button that screamed ‘DO NOT PRESS’ but Apollo wasn’t focused on that. He was busy trying to avoid being squashed to focus on that. Or where the gun was.

Apollo’s heartbeat quickened in panic.

Where’s the gun? Holy Mother, have I been shot—and I just don’t know it? Is this adrenaline, like what happens in action movies? Fuck, am I a Marvel cliché?

Just as the machine-man got off him, Apollo’s hurriedly scanned for the gun or any injury on his person. His eyes, that were usually so perceptive, were not helpful in the slightest—they were fogged by tears that Apollo refused to shed. The overstimulating presence of the police’s yelling and a familiar feminine laugh and drumming footsteps running away did not help.

So, he had to resort to the next best sense—touch.

Which resulted in him accidentally pressing the comical big red button that screamed ‘DO NOT PRESS’. Because Apollo Justice had zero luck in the cruel poker game of life.

The quaint click was barely audible, but the implications of what Apollo did were confirmed by the loud, almost excited scream from Google Translate himself, exclaiming from the arms of the police force.

“He did it! This place is gonna—!”

And then Apollo Justice died. From a massive bomb threat that he triggered. A tragedy of his own doing.

It was a quick death, at least. The last thing he saw were books falling out of his flimsy plastic bag. Phoenix Wright’s dumb face on the cover was shouting at him, his finger pointing in Apollo’s direction. It felt as if he and his goofy face and his spiky hair were laughing at him, despite the clear ‘Objection!’ speech bubble. And then it all went black.

Apollo Justice’s last minutes were felt confused and lonely. His last sense to leave was sound. He heard chaos from all corners. Dogs howling and car honks, people screaming and glass shattering, orders from police commanders, helpless cries from… Clay? Apollo couldn’t even recognise anguish from his only friend.

This end was pretty par for the course. An awful conclusion to an awful start, so much so that Apollo was almost relieved. The irony of his death occurring on April 20^th was the icing on his crumbled cookie. All he had to do was let go, and he’d be at peace…

------------------------

…If only his annoying alarm would shut up.

Apollo groaned in agitation. He was being bombarded with the carnage of waking up. The quiet hum of a ceiling fan and the subtle rustling of his bed covers was all he could hear now. He opened his eyes and moved his hand to reach for his phone and—

Quickly shot up. His head throbbed like anything—not from being bombed—but from waking up so suddenly.

Was he not dead? He didn’t expect to open his eyes, let alone see his bedroom so vividly.

Was this the Twilight Realm? Apollo wasn’t sceptical about its existence, mostly pessimistic, but this couldn’t be it. It would be twisted for the Holy Mother to conjure his heaven in the form of his cheap rented apartment.

What the fuck?

Turning his head slowly, Apollo acknowledged that it was almost exactly as he left it this morning—tidy apart from random scraps of paper surrounding his bin from failed attempts of throwing them in. His door was ajar, which was odd since he slept with his door shut at all times, and hooked onto his doorknob was a loud red suit and obnoxious teal tie, but that was all he deemed suspicious.

…What the fuck?

Apollo finally silenced his phone alarm and shuffled to sit on the edge of his bed. The heels of his palm dug into his eyeballs as he winced due to his throbbing headache. Even the simple act of moving felt uncanny. He moved to slap himself instead. It usually worked when he was in minor crisis.

The sound of palm hitting cheek did nothing to help him. Only gave him an embarrassingly red mark on sensitive skin.

Apollo tapped his cracked phone screen to find more answers, only to find more questions as he gaped at the date.

April 20^th, 2026!? Five years from now—what sort of disfigured Groundhog Day is this? I hate that movie. Wow, I’m 23… and still here. Yikes.

Apollo was no neuroscientist, but he knew this couldn’t be some weird fever dream or a pain-induced coma. And the date of 4/20 will never release its tight grip on him, for better or for worse.

His eyes darted around nervously, but Apollo had no choice but to stand up and walk towards his bathroom mirror, dreading another horrible surprise. Maybe his older self grew a third nipple or experienced early male pattern balding.

But reality was a sledgehammer that was shoved unkindly up his naïve ass, for the true surprise was worse.

Somehow, he grew shorter. Of course, genetics would make a cruel exception for him.

… I give up.

Apollo grumbled out of the bathroom to peek into the narrow hallway, confirming there was no one at home. He assumed Clay must’ve left for the Space Centre and scowled at the reminder that Clay had his shit together in this bizarre universe whilst he was, most likely, unemployed. Why else would someone be home in their pyjamas at 9:30 AM on a Monday?

Eventually unlocking his phone after cursing himself for 5 minutes, he was bombarded with missed call notifications. From a ‘Mr Gavin’.

Apollo flinched. That didn’t sound good.

Apollo didn’t recognise the name, but he also didn’t recognise anything else. It seemed only his signature cowlicks stayed with him so, out of pure desperation, he called the number back, his hands visibly shaking. It only took 3 rhythmic tones for the call to be picked up.

“Apollo Justice?” A suave, elegant voice was heard from the opposite end. He sounded disappointed in Apollo already. Already off to a great start.  

Apollo heaved a deep sigh, afraid that he would speak and only moans of despair would tumble out. This was his first interaction with a human being since whatever happened. His voice was raspy but not exactly Chords of Steel. “Mr Gavin?”

“Oh, so it is you. I was surprised that you had the gall to call me back and not instantly apologise for your lateness. How unlike you. Well, I will only ask you once, Mr Justice. Where are you?”

Apollo shivered. He could hear the latent aggression in the passive tone. It was clear to Apollo that this ‘Mr Gavin’ was pissed off, disappointed, most likely his boss, and a snarky bitch.

A bad combo for angsty teenage Apollo. But Apollo had too many questions, and too little answers, so he swallowed his pride and acted coy, hoping his bad acting skills couldn’t be communicated audibly. Apollo had to stay calm for once, instead of flying off the handle, as Clay would phrase it.

“I’m unsure, Mr Gavin. It appears I’m… lost. Yes, I’m lost. Can you send me the address of where I need to be?” Apollo replied, maintaining peak professionalism. He only hoped that this was in character for himself, but he could already tell that his boss probably knew very little about him—and only because he was too insignificant to demand respect.

“You are lost? I find that hard to believe. Not once have you ever found yourself unfamiliar with the courthouse.”

Apollo’s face fell.

Courthouse? Fuck, please tell me I’m a janitor, or a lunch lady…

Mr Gavin carried on, oblivious to Apollo’s crisis, “I understand if you are nervous, but this is worrisome. Let’s hope that this absent-mindedness isn’t reflected when defending today—my faith isn’t one so easily earned. I’ll send you the location, but if I don’t see you in front of me in 20 minutes… well, that won’t happen. See you soon, Apollo.”

Bitch-boss hung up. Okay, so Apollo clearly didn’t make the cut of Heaven. Defending? Apollo as a defence attorney was a scary thought. He knew nothing about the law except for how corrupt it was, no qualifications except for first aid training and random retail experience, and no knowledge of anything that occurred within 5 years. Weird time travelling aside, who even was his client?

Apollo’s mattress, sunken and messy, had never looked so tempting. What he wouldn’t give to return to the floor of the bank. But Mr Gavin scared him to no end. And so did unemployment. And the harsh reminder that he had 20 minutes to get to the courthouse.

He left his boss’ message unread and ran to the shower, grabbing his suit on the way, now understanding its purpose. He thanked his (future? Past?) self and began getting ready, still disoriented, but at least he had a purpose. And maybe this was his purgatory mission that would lead to the sweet release of permanent death.

He was also not fully convinced this was real. He was taking this surprisingly well, but Apollo knew he would freak out later. Now, he had dinner plans with court.

Whatever happens, happens, as Clay would phrase it. He was doing this, and Apollo Justice was going to do it mediocre at best.

Chapter Text

Turns out, 23-year-old Apollo doesn’t have a car.

If current Apollo was being honest, he wasn’t expecting to. It would’ve been a nice surprise, but he wouldn’t be able to drive it anyway in his current predicament. His bike rarely failed him, and the courthouse wasn’t far enough to get sweaty.

He still put heinous amounts of deodorant on, just to be safe.

His journey toward the courthouse on the slow yet steady pace of his feet pushing pedals meant that he had a chance to observe this weird city he found himself panting in.

At first glance, this bootleg LA had the charm of an American metropolis as well as its fakeness. The roads were busy enough to look as through people lived here, but the traffic was perfect for so-called peak rush hours. People on the sidewalk would grin and laugh, holding their overpriced coffees from companies Apollo did not recognise—what the hell was BuckStars—and cars would flip him off semi-regularly. Overall, pretty normal. 

But Apollo was never surrounded by sunshine and rainbows. So, red flag numero uno. He would’ve been better convinced that this was reality if he woke up in Gotham.

In Apollo’s case, the worst thing by far was the number of billboards he stopped next to at red lights of the same blond in a shade of deep purple doing air guitar riffs with an overly saturated smile and wink. As if his massive necklace wasn’t enough of a hint, the rock band was named after this ‘Klavier’. Apollo was here for ten minutes and already knew this guy’s whole deal. His face was so sweet that Apollo felt the urge to vomit.

Apollo’s own face was reflecting horror at what was to come. That, and patchy redness from an unexpected workout. Since when did this city have so many hills? On top of Apollo’s extending problems, a leg cramp would not be highly appreciated.

Finally, he reached his destination, or at least that’s what his phone was telling him. At least technology was on his side.

Hastily chaining his bike, Apollo checked the time. 9:50 AM. Internally patting himself on the back, he spun towards the stairs leading to the courthouse entrance.

And almost tackled a teenager.  

“Oh shit! Sorry—”

“You’re weird.”

Apollo was taken aback. His first face to face communication in this alternate dimension and he was being judged by a strange girl in a cape. “Excuse me?”

The girl hummed as if she was some all-knowing wise man, leaning too much into his personal space, “Your eyes. They have light.”

“Yeah, that’s how vision works, dumbass. Now, can you move? I don’t have time for this.”

“Of course you have time for this! And the name is Trucy Wright.” So called ‘Trucy’ smiled, arms folded behind her back. Apollo’s apparently weird eyes narrowed. He would’ve assumed she was an innocent member of society if not for her awful introduction.

“Great for you, but I do not have the time.” Apollo attempted to sprint past her, but his stubby little legs didn’t get him far.

“Wait!” She grabbed his arm, drawing attention. “You—why aren’t you talking to me?”

“Girl, I don’t know you.” Apollo informed, “And I have a busy schedule. Places to be, things to do. Don’t you have school?”

She paused. “You’re actually right. And I’m usually Wright!” She winked as if proud of the awful pun, “I knew I was forgetting something today…”

“Glad to be of service.” Apollo lied. She seemed distracted enough at the revelation of being in high school, so he slipped by her, jogging up the stairs. He quickly approached the large doors and pulled on the bronze handle until—

“Mr Justice.” A large hand clutched his shoulder. The sound that came out of Apollo was too embarrassing to describe.

The first thing Apollo noticed was the man’s height. Apollo wasn’t exactly blessed with his genetics, but this guy loomed over him a bit too much for normality. He had to crane his head high to see his face—which looked pleased and constipated at the same time. Apollo counted at least three eye twitches in the span of five seconds.

His blond plait looked too good to be real. No split ends or wisps untied. His suit was in pristine condition, no crinkles that needed ironing. An uncanny tidiness that made Apollo wonder if it was overcompensation for something. But this man was still picture-perfect, with unblemished skin and straight white teeth. He looked like a Ken doll if Ken was evil. And knew Apollo’s name. There was no need for Herlock Sholmes’ great deduction skills to discover who this was.

“Mr Gavin?”

Gavin adjusted his glasses, failing to cover his next eye twitch. “Apollo. You will give me many grey hairs today. I’m glad to see you are as chipper as usual.”

Apollo Justice described as chipper. That was confirmation this was a different reality. Said man grimaced, “Sorry. I’m here now.”

“I can see that. I can also see that you’ve acquainted yourself with Miss Wright.” Bitch-boss hummed condescendingly, peering into the distance behind Apollo.

“Huh?”

“It doesn’t matter now. I don’t have enough time to brief you, so I hope you remember the details well. I’ll be your assistant for your court debut, and this defendant is important. Court will begin in a few minutes. Do try hard for me, okay?”

Okay, information overload. He didn’t know any detail at all, didn’t know the defendant either and apparently his boss knows the guy. And he was ‘important’. And this was his first day. Apollo was already overstimulated.

Why the fuck am I doing this then?

Mr Gavin looked shocked, his polished demeanour finally displayed emotion, “You tell me, Justice.”

Shit. Apollo must’ve said that out loud.

“Can’t say that I disagree with you.” He continued, disaffected, “However, a defence attorney must always adhere to his client. And your client is particularly stubborn.”

“Great.” Apollo deadpanned, feeling his cowlicks droop. He wasn’t going to survive. Apollo watched as the blond’s perfectly shaped eyebrows knitted slightly at his retort. Yikes—his nerves bubbled up as he realised his behaviour. He didn’t want Bitch-boss to discover his predicament. As he opened his mouth to assure his boss that he is definitely Apollo Justice of 2026 and he is fine, the door he was holding opened suddenly, throwing him into the arms of another stranger. Apollo had never felt more like a ragdoll in his life.

“Woah!” A raspy chuckle, “Someone’s eager for me to be free. You okay?”

Apollo cringed in deep humiliation. He desperately needed to build muscle. He wasn’t this weak usually. “I’m Apollo Justice and I’m fine!” That was too on the nose. Apollo winced.

“I know who you are. ‘Fine’ is a synonym for ‘okay’ so I guess I’ll accept it.” The stranger said, his arms still clutched around the Apollo's frame and seemed to grip tighter as Mr Gavin attempted to pull Apollo aside, gently yet firmly. Apollo quickly detached himself from the embrace.

“I apologize, Phoenix. My subordinate is a bit more prickly than usual today.”

Phoenix? What an unfortunate name.

Apollo ignored the hypocrisy of his remark.

“Yeah, I understand that, Kristoph. He matches his hair now, at least.” Phoenix teased.

“Well, Apollo?” Kristoph prompted, as if gentle parenting a misbehaving child, “What do you have to say to Mr Wright?” But his order was ignored as Apollo was busy connecting impossible dots.

Phoenix… Mr Wright… Who knows who I am… A courthouse… A weirdo boss and an even weirder girl…

“Phoenix Wright?” Apollo whispered in growing horror. 

“The one and only.” The man himself grinned brightly. As brightly someone who was on trial for murder could.

…

No fucking way this is a transmigration trope.

Luckily for Apollo, whose mouth was gaping like a fish, the strange girl from before appeared before the trio, “Hi Daddy! Hello Mr Gavin. What a fine morn it appears to be!”

Phoenix eyes softened, head inclined towards his… daughter? “Hi Truce. Where have you been?”

“Oh, just terrorising the peaceful streets of Japanifornia. Nothing new.”

Japanifornia? You’ve got to be kidding me.

It seemed that Apollo was easily fooled—this place looked like your average LA. Nothing that indicated he was in a lawyer porno.

And I’m defending the resident Gary Stu…

The three disguised demons of Apollo’s hell began small talk, completely ignoring his existence, which he would be offended by if he was functioning properly, but this revelation made his mouth go dry.

He couldn’t call himself an anti-fan of this series because that required him to be interested. Apollo Justice couldn’t care less about the attorney drama. Each case was the same thing, with awful puns for names, and each prosecutor, defendant, and teenage girl assistant fell in deep love with the dreamy Phoenix Wright.

If there was anyone more annoyingly perfect than Ken-doll bitch-boss, it was the man in the curry-stained grey hoodie, who was now staring intently at Apollo. Apollo ignored him. He had more important things to worry about than murder trials.

Why was he here? Clay dared him to buy the stupid novels for some twisted exposure therapy for his hatred of lawyers but that was the only correlation Apollo could come up with. Wasn’t there usually a system that helps guide the transmigrator along their journey?

From Apollo’s minimal knowledge of this cliché, it was usually readers who had some knowledge of the main source that were chosen. Maybe this was the up and coming fourth instalment? Or the beginning of the next trilogy. Either way, Apollo didn’t recognise any character apart from Phoenix Wright and sure as hell didn’t recognise the man’s daughter. Did the awful author somehow give Phoenix a solid love interest that didn’t betray, whip, or abuse him? No, that can’t be right. That would insinuate decent writing.

Apollo’s only other option was adoption or m-preg. Honestly, the latter seemed more likely.

Before Apollo could examine Phoenix’s body for any telling signs of labour, Mr Gavin addressed him with an overdramatic glance of his gold watch, “Well, now’s the time. I will set the court record for you now. Meet me soon, Apollo. Ask any questions you need with Mr Wright here and don’t make me wait. Again.”  He left without a second thought. Apollo must’ve been paid an obscene wage to deal with that dismissive crap.

“Hey, hey, Polly!”

But still. What was his objective here? Get a non-guilty verdict for the MC and then what—fade into non-existence as a useless background character. Apollo was never the centre of attention but hopefully the omniscient author found some interest in his personality. If Clay ever found out that he was rejected from the Ace Attorney series, he’d never let him live it down. Not that Apollo was living in the first place. Or that Clay was here. Was Clay technically here?

“Ahem, Mr Justice.”

Where the fuck was Clay? Apollo had shoved a vine of grapes down his throat for a makeshift breakfast and found GYAXA magnets scattered on the fridge, which is a clear flag for the budding astronaut. Was he different here? Apollo couldn’t imagine his oldest friend in any other way, but if he was a defence attorney, then Clay could be a serial killer for all he knew.

Apollo didn’t think about Khur’ain. He wanted to retch at the thought.

“Apollo!”

“Huh...? What?”

“Stay with us now. Wouldn’t want you to lose focus on a day like this.” Phoenix assured.

“Yeah! Don’t let my precious Daddy go to scary jail—the Wonderbar would be down a pianist!” echoed Trucy. Apollo was instantly grounded back to Earth, or whatever this planet was.

He settled his expression in an attempt to hide his grimace. “Don’t worry, Trucy. I’ll try my best.” That’s all Apollo could promise for now, “Let me not keep Mr Gavin waiting. Um, good luck? I mean—I hope I have good luck. And you too, by proxy…”

Phoenix Wright was weird. Well, he wasn’t real, Apollo knew that. He was this odd caricature come to life in the oddest way imaginable. But he looked so… unimportant. Of course, only Apollo knew that this whole setting revolved around the guy but, to be frank, he didn’t fit the MC model. He looked flawed, unkempt, and clearly hadn’t shaved. And the look in his eyes when he glanced at Apollo, as if he knew Apollo intimately… it was cultivated.

Apollo internally blanched. If he was being eyed as a new addition to the harem, he would have to shut that down immediately.

There was also a sad tint in his gaze. For a character dubbed as the ‘Turnabout Terror’, he looked more like a wet dog. He almost looked human.

Apollo awkwardly smiled and walked away from the duo. He couldn’t afford to be around the protagonists any longer. Who knows what might happen to mousy, unimportant side characters like himself in their vicinity. He might just be stabbed by some loser in a superhero suit for an inch of character development. Truly the worst way to go, considering he now had experience with unruly death.

Apollo spun around at the sound of Mr Wright yelling his name. “I have my full faith in you, kid. And, let Gavin know how much I enjoyed our dinner. It was a night I’ll never forget.”

Okay, weird. And a bit too much information. Apollo inwardly groaned. If he had to hear anything about Phoenix Wright’s escapades with his blossoming harem, he’d crochet himself a noose. Though, he sounded quite miserable instead of fondly nostalgic, so maybe Kristoph Gavin was awful in bed.

Apollo really didn’t want to think about that, especially considering Trucy was staring at him with strong determination. Like he was worth any confidence and hope. Apollo knew that her and Clay would get along like a house on fire.

“Thanks, Mr Wright. Consider Mr Gavin informed.” Phoenix huffed in amusement, his eyes twinkling in a charming manner, before being escorted by guards to the defendant stand. Trucy gave her dad a quick hug and peck on the cheek before targeting Apollo with a solemn gaze. After moments of uncomfortable eye contact, she left towards the public gallery, her childish cape flowing theatrically in the non-existent breeze.

Wow, what a bunch of drama queens.

Apollo was not foolish. He knew what high stakes a murder charge was, more than anyone. But had perfect, pristine Phoenix Wright ever lost a case? Apollo didn’t even know if he had been a defendant before, but Phoenix’s die hard, annoying fanbase would throw weekly tantrums if their best boy went through pain, so he doubted it.

Apollo fiddled with his cowlick and turned towards the entrance for defence lawyers. Above the door, he stared at the words engraved: “MAY JUSTICE PREVAIL”. He scoffed at the irony. Only winners decided if justice prevailed. Awful, buried memories of true injustice blasted at the forefront of his mind, accompanied with the smell of smoke and the taste of iron on his tongue.  

Please, not right now…

Apollo scrunched his eyes, willing the images out of his mind. It didn’t matter anymore, nothing did. All of this was meaningless. This charade, his acting, Phoenix’s trial, his life, this whole universe. There was nothing that had any purpose, any worth. Why was he even here… Why was he even ali—

“That’s not a pleasant expression!” Eyes a piercing shade of blue greeted his wide eyes.

Apollo jumped with an unattractive yelp. “Who the fuck—”

“Ack—I’m so sorry. Are you alright?” The stranger laughed, “That is not the reaction I usually receive.”

Apollo stared at the man in front of him, who was now leaning down in an eerily familiar way. Though, his blond hair, siren gaze, and demeaning smirk was not hard to pin down.

“Gavin?” Apollo asked in astonishment.

“Ja, though… Apollo Justice,” the stranger said smoothly, flicking Apollo’s nametag, “you must be acquainted with my other me. Don’t worry, I don’t bite like he does.”

…What is happening right now.

Apollo wasn’t used to loathing people within 10 seconds of meeting, but he was willing to start now. “No one wants you to bite them, trust me.” He examined the man’s face for another moment before blanching. “Of course. Of course!”

“Hm? Apollo, you look as if you’ve made a massive discovery. Care to share?”

“You’re Klavier! What are you, Mr Gavin’s brother? Son? Weird clone made from his arch-enemy’s combined DNA?”

For perhaps the first time in his fake existence, Klavier was rendered speechless.

Apollo carried on. “Or what else. Is Mr Wright your groupie? A long-lost love whose fire rekindles in the courtroom, as it always does. Is he your long-lost father now? Or are you connected to Trucy in another way, which is gross and disgusting and nothing I want to think about.” Apollo felt more frustrated at the unreadable look on Klavier’s perfectly sculpted face. “So? Tell me, I don’t need anymore mysteries. Spoiler alert, I ain’t a detective!”

Apollo was out of breath. As he panted, he didn’t realise the attention he drew from his reclaimed Chords of Steel. He glanced at the clock, only two minutes to 10:00. Good, loving Kristoph was going to verbally beat his ass.

Manoeuvring past the wax model Klavier became seemed to break the model-singer-actor whatever out of his stupor. “Wait!” He exclaimed, grabbing Apollo’s arm, “Who are you?”

“Nunya.” Apollo replied, tugging his arm out of his grip. Taking advantage of Klavier’s surprise, he opened the door and stormed towards his attorney’s bench, ignoring his boss’ cold gaze at his unruly arrival.

“Finally taking this seriously, Justice?”

Apollo had enough of being clueless. There was no escaping, but that didn’t mean he had to fail. Since he was younger, Apollo had this awful habit of too much hope in any situation and, skimming the several documents in front of him, he knew he never grew out of it.

His eye's started to water unnaturally as he looked up, meeting his superior’s gaze in silent challenge. “Don’t worry, Mr Gavin. I’ll make this jury my bitch.”

Plot armour would save him. Maybe. Hopefully.