Work Text:
For a memorial service, it felt wrong. Simon stood off to the side, watching as others milled about and interacted with each other, but as the cardboard picture smiled at them beside a closed and empty casket, he felt nothing but the cold air from the air conditioning vent he stood under.
How many of these people had actually known the detective while he was alive? How many had bothered to speak to him more than the requirements of their work? From what little Simon could hear from his spot near the edge of the room, there was barely any mention of the man that brought them together. He was an afterthought at an event bearing his name.
If he hadn't sworn he wouldn't make a scene, he would have done something by that point. Something, anything, whatever it took to remind everyone what they were really there for.
Yet there he stood. Silently watching. Waiting. Not like it would happen.
It took forever for people to actually talk to him about the reason they were supposed to gather, but only one person's voice cut through his silent irritation.
“Hey, Mr. Blackquill, you knew him well,” someone-- another, much more nameless detective-- finally said. “Why don't you say something?”
He shook his head. “I didn't.”
The quiet lasted longer than he anticipated.
“Not a single person here bothered to know him. Every one of us failed to recognize that a man had been killed and replaced. Whoever the real Fulbright was, the man was forgotten long before now, and we all fell for a pale imitation of him.
“I can’t say how long I knew him, or if I even did. But I can assume one thing: The first time we met, it was him. He came to visit me in prison when even Aura had given up on me. Five and a half years had passed…”
It wasn’t like Simon expected visitors. After so many years in Central, he’d grown used to the lack thereof. It wasn't like Aura to waste time, and Athena had left for Europe, so no one else was expected to show up. Most days, he’d spend his time chatting with others, practicing his skills, reading, whatever he felt like on that given day. This time, it was something far less exciting: He stared at the scraps of paper he’d gathered about the phantom and UR-1, once again trying to find any plan to implicate the true culprit.
After all, it couldn’t be Athena. It never could’ve been her. But without any proof… no one would believe it.
A guard stopped by his cell while he was studying, puzzling over images he’d seen a trillion times and burned into his memory the same month he’d been abandoned by the system at Central. The guard’s voice was calm, but quiet.
“Blackquill? You have a visitor.”
Simon closed the book with the scraps pressed inside, tossing it haphazardly onto his bed. “Tell them I’m not interested.”
“This isn’t a request, Blackquill. An officer of the law wants to speak to you.”
“Tell them I’m not interested,” he repeated, glaring.
“It’s alright, don’t worry,” a different voice said. “I’d be happy to meet with him some other time, or to meet him here, if that’d work.”
Despite the confidence in that voice, Simon could still sense the nerves lying underneath. They didn’t sound like most other officers that had confronted him about UR-1, who had tried to break him or ask for how or why he did what he did. No, whoever that was, they sounded more like a fool than any other person he’d dealt with in the past five years.
…Not like he had anything better to do than to mess with the idiot officers who had pestered him all those years ago.
“Fine. If you’re going to twist my arm about it, then I’ll meet you in the visiting room,” he said, rising.
“I’m not?” the other voice said, questioningly. “I’m so confused.”
Simon left, offering only a slight sneer to explain himself as the guard tailed him on the way there. He didn’t look back, or even try to face the new person. No need. He’d be facing them soon enough in the visiting room.
The two took their seats, Simon leaning back and kicking his feet onto the table between them. As much as he wanted to call for Taka, he knew that he couldn’t hear from the visiting room. He finally brought his eyes to the officer’s face.
This one was taller than most, with wide shoulders and a cleft chin. His hazel-green eyes were covered by a pair of orange sunglasses, and his blonde-brown hair was coated in more gel than any supermarket shelf could carry, yet his white suit was clean and pressed. The sort of person who looked like he knew nothing, and rarely changed that opinion with time.
“...Uh, Simon, this is supposed to be a story about how you two met, right?” Athena pointed out. “Maybe you could tone down the insults for a bit?”
“I wasn’t insulting Fool Bright.”
The look on her face said otherwise. Glancing around at the other people, there was an additional very obvious reason to avoid that-- all the officers in the room didn’t seem amused.
“...Fine. I can try.”
It was the detective who spoke first, of course. “So, Mr. Blackquill, um. I wanted to talk to you about the incident.”
“I thought so. What is it, another attempt at a new angle?”
“No. Well, yes, but it’s not an attempt. I was reviewing the tapes and the files on the case, since I finally got clearance to investigate. I saw another figure there, and I wanted to ask if you could recognize them, as none of the other officers I asked knew, and you were a member of the team at Gyaxa. As you’re already aware of most of the things that happened there, I thought I should ask you first.” He reached into his pocket, pulling out a picture. Laminated, much better than Simon had expected. Despite his looks and his goofy smile, the man still had some competency in him, if he looked past the awkwardness.
“I don't know them,” Simon said. “Besides, I already confessed. Why ask about this again? You won't find anything new.”
“I want to find the truth, Mr. Blackquill. As much as you say you did it, I don't feel like that's right. Everyone said you and your mentor got along, so there's no motivation. The only reason the case closed so quickly was because you confessed and there was no one else mentioned to be in that area around the time of the murder. If one or the other is found to be false, it wouldn't be just to let this case remain closed!”
There was a fire about the detective. Not the type that could harm others, but that warmed people when there was snow on the ground. A passion for finding the truth.
Or, as he usually put it, finding justice.
“And what if I tell you that you're wrong, and the only person there was myself?”
“...Then I want to know why. Murder cases are rarely just impulsive. You were an adult, talking with someone people say you admired, and you supposedly killed her. It wouldn't be just to let you die without knowing why. You could have done it out of self-defense, or to protect another. There are many reasons people do things, Mr. Blackquill. I think a lot of things can one day be forgiven, if the circumstances are right.”
“You're speaking to a convicted murderer, officer. I doubt that can be forgiven.”
The detective was quiet for a long moment. “...I think it depends on more than just the term used for it. Is it really justice if we don't try one more time to find the truth, with a new set of ideas and eyes?”
“It would only waste your time.”
“I don't mind if I waste some time, so long as it means that justice is truly served.”
Simon studied the man, finally taking his feet off the table to properly look him over. Though the detective was smiling, it was clear he wouldn't give up on the idea of finding the answers he wanted. “...Fine,” Simon said at last.
The detective immediately brightened, his smile growing far more genuine with that one word. “I'll do my best to help, Mr. Blackquill. I think I could convince the chief prosecutor to allow you to take some cases, if I supervise. That way, you and I can try to investigate UR-1 at the same time.”
The thought of taking an actual case after so long felt… well, it was hard to properly state. The idea was enticing, mostly just because it would allow him to leave the prison and actually use his mind instead of wasting away and wondering for the final year of his life.
“If you ever need me, my name is Detective Fulbright, but you can call me Bobby.”
“If you think that'd be possible, Fool Bright, then I suppose I can go along with it,” Simon dismissively answered, ignoring his suggestion of name.
Simon looked at the rest of the room. “...He left shortly after that. Fool Bright stopped by a few more times with other questions, but by the time I received a case to prosecute, he was dead. If I'd known then… perhaps I would have made more effort to know him. I don't think it would have been enough to change things, but at least then there could be more stories we know are about him, instead of about the phantom’s mimicry.”
The room was quiet. Too many stories that people could tell were in that gray area, too uncertain to truly know. No one could really argue, despite the harshness of his words.
Simon turned on his heel, and walked to the door. Even if he'd met Fulbright once, even if he could talk about how they met, it wasn't enough to know him.
And now, it could never be enough.