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In Justice We Trust (1177 words) by thesavagesabretooth
Relationships: The Phantom/Simon Blackquill, Bobby Fulbright/Simon Blackquill
Additional Tags: Pining, the very beginning of a redemption arc, Sharing a Body, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse
Not enough Ace Attorney fics take advantage of the fact that ghosts are real and can hurt you.
–
No-one lay handcuffed to the bed in a windowless medical room the night of his indictment and attempted assassination. No-one had been assured by the chief prosecutor that there was a standing guard outside of his room, more for his own protection than to keep him from escaping in the condition that he was in. But if it were true, they stayed outside the room. No-one was kept company only by the beeping of the medical monitors wired to his body, and the voice in his own head.
“We deserve this,” the voice of Bobby Fulbright said.
“Sure,” No-one replied. Exhausted. If there was anything he felt at all, he was exhausted. Exhausted, and perhaps a little afraid, still. It would have been better if the sniper had finished him off.
“Absolutely not,” Bobby Fulbright told him. “The bullet of a sniper isn’t justice, it’s just another crime.”
“Ah.” No-one stared empty eyed at the ceiling. More questions passed through his mind, but none of them coherent enough to answer.
Bobby Fulbright stared at the ceiling from the same eyes, tracing the rigid lines of the white panels.
“If you hadn’t made us kill that poor astronaut boy, I might expect the judge to show some mercy,” Fulbright mused. No-one could feel the policeman’s bitter regret oozing through them both like a poison. No-one shuddered. He didn’t like it when Fulbright made him feel things, especially things as dangerous as regret.
“If he had just handed over the damned capsule, it wouldn’t have been necessary.”
“Was it necessary?” Fulbright demanded. He sighed. “They trained you hard. You’re really good at making excuses for yourself.”
No-one didn’t answer. He didn’t like when Fulbright brought up the past. He didn’t like someone else knowing what had been done to him. How he had become no-one. Not that Fulbright was anyone. Just an idea. Just a mask. Just a voice.
“Why are you still here?” No-one demanded. “You should be gone.”
He had never had a mask that talked back to him before. He was an excellent method actor, but the role had never taken on a life of its own until damned Bobby Fulbright.
He hadn’t even known the man when he’d killed him. Just some police officer in another state that one one would miss. But from the moment the body had gone cold, something had been different.
At first it had just been easy to be Bobby. Almost natural. He’d felt himself acting without thinking about it, without studying a past, or developing a character. Bobby Fulbright simply was.
No-one had been very surprised when, whenever he went about his true business, the business that wasn’t the business of being Bobby Fulbright– Fulbright had objected. There was this voice of Bobby Fulbright in his head who would argue with him about about it.
And he was still there now.
Perhaps, No-one thought, perhaps he had finally snapped in a way that his handlers had not intended.
“I keep telling you,” Bobby Fulbright said. “I’m real. I think I’m real. Not just an echo you made up.”
No-one almost laughed.
“A ghost.” Fulbright had asserted it several times in the recent few weeks, as No-one’s actions had necessarily become more and more divorced from what Fulbright wanted to do, and Fulbright became louder and more separate in his mind. “A ghost who possessed his own murderer. Don’t you think that’s ridiculous?”
“Ghosts are a matter of legal reality,” Fulbright answered rather smugly. “That case seven years ago made the law’s position very clear. Besides, haven’t ghosts always been those who were denied their justice in life?”
“Your murderer is captured, awaiting trial. You have your justice now, then, Fulbright. Isn’t it time for you to pass on to some glorious afterlife?”
Bobby Fulbright was as silent. And No-one was silent. The room was filled only with the beeping of the medical machines, and the quiet sound of footsteps from outside the hall.
The footsteps sent a low grade sting of apprehension through them– another assassin? But they passed, and the quiet returned.
Finally, Fulbright spoke again.
“Thanks to you I still have more unfinished business.”
“Thanks to me. How?”
“I didn’t have much of a life when you killed me. Certainly no family for you to ‘hold hostage’. But here in L.A. for the last year, that changed. Maybe for you it was only about creating alibis, and looking for information and getting close to target– but I don’t think that’s true. And it definitely wasn’t true for me.”
“So you spent a year making friends and living the good life, and now you’re too mad about losing that to leave.”
“Aren’t you?” Bobby Fulbright demanded. “I know you had the poisons on us to take us out during the trial. But you didn’t. And I know this last year you’ve had more freedom and autonomy from your handlers than you ever had before, with the need to create such an elaborate identity for so long. I remember all your memories. Probably better than you do. I remember the dark rooms. And the beatings. And the electric shocks when you stepped out of line or showed and emotion–”
“STOP!”
There was still no sound in the room, aside from the beeping of the machine which registered their heart rate increasing sharply.
They were quiet for a moment.
“I don’t want to remember those things,” No-one said.
“I know. That was the whole point of doing them to you, wasn’t it?”
He didn’t answer. Maybe he couldn’t.
“Fine. So you had a nice year. But why stick around now? The next year isn’t going to be nearly as nice, if we even survive it.”
“I was an accomplice to the murder of Clay Terran,” Fulbright said. “I couldn’t stop you, and I’ll face justice for that. Besides, I have to make amends with…”
Fulbright trailed off but No-one already knew his mind.
“With Simon.”
“And the others,” Fulbright was quick to point out. “I have to make amends with all the people who we got close to, and then betrayed.”
“But it’s Simon you’re in love with. Don’t try to deny it, the emotion oozes out of your pores. It’s disgusting.”
Fulbright was silent for a moment.
“It’s Simon we’re in love with,” he corrected.
“Don’t be ridiculous. I don’t have emotions. That was just proven in court. Your precious justice says I have no emotions.”
“… maybe justice is a little broken sometimes. Like your emotions. Beaten until they’re dull, but still there.”
They stared at the ceiling.
“He isn’t going to forgive us.”
“Forgiveness isn’t the point of atonement.”
“Then what is?”
“It’s hard to explain. You’ll just have to trust me.”
“First you tell me to trust in justice, now you tell me to trust in you. I don’t even trust myself.”
“That’s the whole point.”
Bobby Fulbright– whatever else he was, he was Bobby Fulbright– closed his eyes.Tonight he would rest. And if he lived until tomorrow, perhaps he would try to make amends.
In Justice We Trust (1177 words) by thesavagesabretooth
Relationships: The Phantom/Simon Blackquill, Bobby Fulbright/Simon Blackquill
Additional Tags: Pining, the very beginning of a redemption arc, Sharing a Body, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse
Not enough Ace Attorney fics take advantage of the fact that ghosts are real and can hurt you.
–
No-one lay handcuffed to the bed in a windowless medical room the night of his indictment and attempted assassination. No-one had been assured by the chief prosecutor that there was a standing guard outside of his room, more for his own protection than to keep him from escaping in the condition that he was in. But if it were true, they stayed outside the room. No-one was kept company only by the beeping of the medical monitors wired to his body, and the voice in his own head.
“We deserve this,” the voice of Bobby Fulbright said.
“Sure,” No-one replied. Exhausted. If there was anything he felt at all, he was exhausted. Exhausted, and perhaps a little afraid, still. It would have been better if the sniper had finished him off.
“Absolutely not,” Bobby Fulbright told him. “The bullet of a sniper isn’t justice, it’s just another crime.”
“Ah.” No-one stared empty eyed at the ceiling. More questions passed through his mind, but none of them coherent enough to answer.
Bobby Fulbright stared at the ceiling from the same eyes, tracing the rigid lines of the white panels.
“If you hadn’t made us kill that poor astronaut boy, I might expect the judge to show some mercy,” Fulbright mused. No-one could feel the policeman’s bitter regret oozing through them both like a poison. No-one shuddered. He didn’t like it when Fulbright made him feel things, especially things as dangerous as regret.
“If he had just handed over the damned capsule, it wouldn’t have been necessary.”
“Was it necessary?” Fulbright demanded. He sighed. “They trained you hard. You’re really good at making excuses for yourself.”
No-one didn’t answer. He didn’t like when Fulbright brought up the past. He didn’t like someone else knowing what had been done to him. How he had become no-one. Not that Fulbright was anyone. Just an idea. Just a mask. Just a voice.
“Why are you still here?” No-one demanded. “You should be gone.”
He had never had a mask that talked back to him before. He was an excellent method actor, but the role had never taken on a life of its own until damned Bobby Fulbright.
He hadn’t even known the man when he’d killed him. Just some police officer in another state that one one would miss. But from the moment the body had gone cold, something had been different.
At first it had just been easy to be Bobby. Almost natural. He’d felt himself acting without thinking about it, without studying a past, or developing a character. Bobby Fulbright simply was.
No-one had been very surprised when, whenever he went about his true business, the business that wasn’t the business of being Bobby Fulbright– Fulbright had objected. There was this voice of Bobby Fulbright in his head who would argue with him about about it.
And he was still there now.
Perhaps, No-one thought, perhaps he had finally snapped in a way that his handlers had not intended.
“I keep telling you,” Bobby Fulbright said. “I’m real. I think I’m real. Not just an echo you made up.”
No-one almost laughed.
“A ghost.” Fulbright had asserted it several times in the recent few weeks, as No-one’s actions had necessarily become more and more divorced from what Fulbright wanted to do, and Fulbright became louder and more separate in his mind. “A ghost who possessed his own murderer. Don’t you think that’s ridiculous?”
“Ghosts are a matter of legal reality,” Fulbright answered rather smugly. “That case seven years ago made the law’s position very clear. Besides, haven’t ghosts always been those who were denied their justice in life?”
“Your murderer is captured, awaiting trial. You have your justice now, then, Fulbright. Isn’t it time for you to pass on to some glorious afterlife?”
Bobby Fulbright was as silent. And No-one was silent. The room was filled only with the beeping of the medical machines, and the quiet sound of footsteps from outside the hall.
The footsteps sent a low grade sting of apprehension through them– another assassin? But they passed, and the quiet returned.
Finally, Fulbright spoke again.
“Thanks to you I still have more unfinished business.”
“Thanks to me. How?”
“I didn’t have much of a life when you killed me. Certainly no family for you to ‘hold hostage’. But here in L.A. for the last year, that changed. Maybe for you it was only about creating alibis, and looking for information and getting close to target– but I don’t think that’s true. And it definitely wasn’t true for me.”
“So you spent a year making friends and living the good life, and now you’re too mad about losing that to leave.”
“Aren’t you?” Bobby Fulbright demanded. “I know you had the poisons on us to take us out during the trial. But you didn’t. And I know this last year you’ve had more freedom and autonomy from your handlers than you ever had before, with the need to create such an elaborate identity for so long. I remember all your memories. Probably better than you do. I remember the dark rooms. And the beatings. And the electric shocks when you stepped out of line or showed and emotion–”
“STOP!”
There was still no sound in the room, aside from the beeping of the machine which registered their heart rate increasing sharply.
They were quiet for a moment.
“I don’t want to remember those things,” No-one said.
“I know. That was the whole point of doing them to you, wasn’t it?”
He didn’t answer. Maybe he couldn’t.
“Fine. So you had a nice year. But why stick around now? The next year isn’t going to be nearly as nice, if we even survive it.”
“I was an accomplice to the murder of Clay Terran,” Fulbright said. “I couldn’t stop you, and I’ll face justice for that. Besides, I have to make amends with…”
Fulbright trailed off but No-one already knew his mind.
“With Simon.”
“And the others,” Fulbright was quick to point out. “I have to make amends with all the people who we got close to, and then betrayed.”
“But it’s Simon you’re in love with. Don’t try to deny it, the emotion oozes out of your pores. It’s disgusting.”
Fulbright was silent for a moment.
“It’s Simon we’re in love with,” he corrected.
“Don’t be ridiculous. I don’t have emotions. That was just proven in court. Your precious justice says I have no emotions.”
“… maybe justice is a little broken sometimes. Like your emotions. Beaten until they’re dull, but still there.”
They stared at the ceiling.
“He isn’t going to forgive us.”
“Forgiveness isn’t the point of atonement.”
“Then what is?”
“It’s hard to explain. You’ll just have to trust me.”
“First you tell me to trust in justice, now you tell me to trust in you. I don’t even trust myself.”
“That’s the whole point.”
Bobby Fulbright– whatever else he was, he was Bobby Fulbright– closed his eyes.Tonight he would rest. And if he lived until tomorrow, perhaps he would try to make amends.
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