( No Title )
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 AbuseNot enough Ace Attorney fics take advantage of the fact that ghosts are real and can hurt you.
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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.
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