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“Kiddo, why don’t you sit down here,” says her father. “I know you’ve had a rough time of it.”
Trucy stands in the middle of Mr. Edgeworth’s hyper-expensive chartered plane, staring at her father. She has not slept since boarding the plane to Khura’in. It is more difficult than one might expect to fall asleep inside someone’s luggage. Fortunate enough to be small but not fortunate enough to be simply allowed to travel alongside her father and her friends and her assistant and his father and –
She thinks,
You didn’t even want me to see his home.
–
In the moments leading up to her latest magic trick, Trucy had taken her father’s words in stride. She had plans. Mr. Edgeworth had already packed his luggage, prepared for something that once again her father hadn’t told her about. Her father had been gone for weeks, missed her premiere, missed her trial, missed the final night of her performance even, and he came back for this and not – she used a long wire through Mr. Edgeworth’s car window until she could hit the latch to open the trunk. The suitcase had too many clothes and other bits of paperwork. Trucy pulled out the spare from under the flat board of the trunk and rolled it away. It would make a reasonable space for Mr. Edgeworth’s clothes and she could avoid the guilt. The tire was probably cheaper than the designer suits anyway.
The rest of them would take a rideshare of some kind to a private airport and Mr. Edgeworth would take his own car. She pulled the trunk shut and contorted herself into a shape that could reasonably fit into the tight suitcase. It was good that she was so small. Apollo was small as well. But she was beginning to realize why that might be. No mother and no father – how different from her could that have been, how similar to her it truly was.
Outside, the echo of footsteps in the car garage echoed. Trucy settled in for what she knew would be a bumpy ride. One door opened. Then –
Another.
Two closed.
“I’m doing this as a favor. Keep in mind you will not be able to avoid them on the plane.”
A laugh. “Thanks, Edgeworth. I get it, I get it … but hey, I’m sure Apollo wants some time with his dad without me around.”
The snort that responded was barely audible. Not that Trucy could hear well through how hard her pulse rang in her ears. The case slid as Edgeworth drove the car out of the garage. Nausea rolled up her throat, but she kept it down. It would have been pretty embarrassing to throw up at this point. Probably would be more noticeable to whoever loaded the plane as well. It occurred to her that she didn’t know whether the luggage would be a carry-on or if it would be checked at the gate. She wasn’t particularly well-versed in planes. Her father had never taken her along when he had gone overseas. Weeks and months without him, but at least she’d had Apollo. But she did know there was a special area for anything checked and that it would be, at minimum, very cold. Would there be enough oxygen for her to stay conscious? Probably, right? It wouldn’t make sense if there was an area of the plane with a different pressure, right? She wouldn’t get smushed under heavier luggage, right? Dizziness beset her despite the darkness.
All she could do was focus on her father and Edgeworth’s voices.
“The man is rather intense,” said Edgeworth. “Considering the demeanor of your employee, I would not have expected his father to be so … boisterous.”
“You can say what you mean.” Her father laughed. It made Trucy’s guts twist up in frustration. That was her employee. Not her dad’s. “He’s loud. That matches up. I always wondered where Apollo got that voice from and it looks like he adopted it from that guy.”
“Not the kindest way to say it, but not necessarily incorrect, I will admit.”
“Still just as wound up after all these years, huh.”
“... we are traveling to a foreign country to help a woman who is a mutual friend. And further a woman who is meant to be the head of a diaspora village whose culture is dying out. Yes, Wright, I am wound up.”
“Sorry!” She imagined her father’s hands going up in something approximating an apology, but frustratingly, Retinz’s face came with it. Why wasn’t her father there? “You’re right, I get it. I’m just trying to blow off some steam. That trial was pretty exhausting. Not to mention the plane ride back here.”
“I can imagine. The plane I’ve chartered is likely of a better quality than that which you returned on, so perhaps you can rest then.”
“You’re the best.”
For a moment, the two of them fell silent. Trucy wished fervently for them to go back to talking. Anything to get her mind off the awful way she slid inside the trunk.
“Did you know Dhurke Sahdmadhi was his father?”
Trucy held her breath.
“Oh, uh … well, not until recently. That guy, Datz? It came up when I was investigating Maya's trial and he showed me the picture.”
“... you’re telling me it never came up?”
“Apollo isn’t the type to pour out his guts. You should have seen how he got after his friend was murdered. If he’d just talked to us, we really could have sorted it out better.”
No, Daddy, you would have tried to control the situation again and just made him more mad! It was about more than just that!! Why would you phrase it like that ... he was in a lot of pain, right?
“I see.” Edgeworth fell silent. Then – “Is his mother American?”
“Why are you asking.”
Her father’s voice was sharp. Far sharper than it should have been.
“Wright, if his father is Khura’inese, I found it curious that no discussion of a mother had come into the matter. I do not mean to insinuate anything, but I am curious about the matter of Mr. Justice’s legal situation.”
“... From what I hear, he didn’t have a mom. Apparently came up as an orphan.” There was a sulky tone as her father said, “I guess.”
“That wasn’t what I asked, Wright. We both know each other well enough that you should know not to avoid questions with me.”
“Then what did you want from me?”
Trucy imagined the frustration on Mr. Edgeworth’s face, the childish annoyance on her father’s. Mr. Edgeworth asked, “Did you hire an undocumented immigrant?”
“What? No!”
“Mhm. But you do not know who his mother is and you only now discovered he had a father from a foreign country.”
“Listen, his documents were in order. You don’t think I’m stupid, do you?”
Trucy snorted. He couldn’t hear her anyway. There weren’t any documents in the first place. She’d never asked questions and Apollo had never supplied answers. It had always been her job to keep the agency afloat. And so she did, by any means required.
“I do not think you’re stupid. However, I know you do foolhardy things. Then to my understanding, you did no further research into his background. I find that extraordinarily unlikely, considering how blatantly fantastical this situation has become.”
“Fine.” Her father forced a pointedly heavy sigh. “Yeah, I know the situation with his mother already. I didn’t know about the Sahdmadhi thing until recently, but uh … yeah.”
This was the first Trucy had heard such a thing. She’d managed to hold back her curiosity rather than pushing Apollo into telling her about his life, but her father knowing despite Apollo’s frustration with him … it made her feel the slightest bit hollow.
“Thank you. Would you care to elucidate?”
“... She’s American. Yeah.”
“And you know that how?”
“Because I’ve met her.”
“... has Mr. Justice met her or introduced the two of you?”
“In a way of speaking.”
“... Wright. I realize you are talented at bluffing, but I am being sincere. I would like to know before I board a plane with a young man who may or may not be allowed back into the country if he leaves.”
“Fine. She -”
The car turned and came to a stop. The suitcase banged into the back of the trunk. Trucy’s head rang. She could still hear her father, though. His response. She could have already been on the plane. She could have already been in the air, low oxygen making her vision swim, making her mind go blank. The sound of the trunk opening made her wince, but no light made its way in. Hidden as she was, they had no way to know. It was always like this.
Thankfully, the suitcase was a carryon – as far as she could understand. Trucy kept herself quiet as she was placed into an overhead bin. When she heard it click close, she fiddled from the inside for some small freedom. The space was still rather small, but now she could stretch out her legs. The same plane. The same space. Her father, her friends, Apollo – Apollo’s father, Apollo’s family . She closed her eyes.
And did not sleep for an instant.
When she had the chance, Trucy escaped. Khura’in was pretty. And it was where Apollo grew up. Loud and full of people, roads expertly worn and used, people in Western attire, people in local attire, people who mixed it together in casual manners. People waved at her, but when she smiled back, they took that as a chance to ask her – in what she could tell was deeply practiced English – if she needed any help getting around, a hotel, a cab, some food, some clothes. The kids who sold their tourist services and the adults who ran shops and stands had rehearsed as well as any performer she’d met in LA. They didn’t know how good she was at slipping away, however, and after accepting the guidance of a young teen, Trucy slipped away down an alleyway to a less crowded area of the city.
What would have been nice was to run into Apollo. But he was with his father. His family. Trying to fix things with his elder sibling. Trying to fix a government. It made her dizzy. Only three days ago, she’d been giving the last performance of her show run, Apollo on stage as her lovely assistant. Not the son of a revolutionary. Just … Apollo.
Her b̷̼̭̣͙͔̼̘̃̅͐ ̵̡̛̖͓̹͔̺͛̊̾͒̽͑̚͜r̴͖̈ ̵̺̊o̸͎͍̭͊̓̐͑͗̋͋͝ ̵̧̗̲̋̑̓̕͝ţ̵̗̱̝̈́̑̎͑̐͋̕͜ ̵̢̺̈́̑̀̔h̶̛͍̭̤͎͍͎͔̓̄̿̃̎͜ ̵̲͂̑́̏e̸͈̦̺̋̈́̅̉ ̴̡̥͔́̂̅r̵̨̯̩͒͐͐̈́.
Trucy emptied her mind. Focused on what was in front of her. Focused on keeping herself under the radar. She ordered a less conspicuous shawl from a smaller shop on the corner of town, carefully folded down her hat to fit in her pocket – Mr. Edgeworth had Khura’inese currency in his wallet to prepare and it was always easy to swipe just enough to survive. She didn’t dislike the city. But it wasn’t the same without someone to show her around. Her father had spent weeks here, now, and she found herself wondering where he ate, where he slept, where he’d gone. It probably would have been different than what Dhurke did here. It was absolutely different than where Apollo slept or ate.
Trucy wondered what his old home looked like. If it was there. If there was the ghost of a child much like her residing inside.
The trial could have killed her a dozen times over. No one called her. No one messaged her. They just assumed she would be asleep at a time like this, easy and quiet in their empty LA apartment. She slipped in, just obscured enough that no one would recognize her, but wondered if maybe Apollo could tell she was there – wished he would, even. It was her father next to him rather than Athena. Rather than her.
Her nails curved into her palm, cutting deep into the skin. Apollo could have died without ever knowing they were [ ******* ]. When he finally won, when he finally ended it, breath returned to Trucy’s lungs. If not for all the people congratulating him afterward, she would have tackled Apollo into a hug, sobbing into his chest. But people there were, so she withheld herself, donning her hat and adjusting her posture to casually, cheerfully, say hello.
And then Nahyuta Sahdmadhi told Apollo they had a request.
–
Trucy looks at her father blankly.
“Please find a seat,” a flight attendant asks. “We’ll be taking off shortly.”
“Daddy,” says Trucy. “My brother is staying in another country for an indeterminate amount of time. I think I want to be alone right now.”
Her father blinks.
“What? You don’t … I mean, Apollo isn’t –”
“Mom’s alive,” she says.
“Wh-why would you –”
Trucy’s eyes fall on Mr. Edgeworth. No – Edgeworth, she decides, not worth her polite language, not close enough for first names. She can’t hate him, can’t blame him, but she cannot help but hate everyone on this plane at this moment. He sits, awkward, trying not to involve himself. “You and Daddy had a nice conversation in the car, didn’t you?”
When she looks back to her father, the blood has drained from his face.
“Trucy,” says her father, his hand reaching out to touch her, and –
“Don’t.”
In her mind, it is quiet, and aloud, it is close to a scream. Everyone looks.
“He doesn’t even know he’s my brother, Daddy! ”
“I mean, he … he might, I just haven’t told –”
She glares. “And now he’s with his sibling and Rayfa’s probably going to be his younger sister and - and - and great! I’m just … I’m just leftovers. Hm? You didn't think it was important enough to tell me before we came here? Before I had to come back to LA with you? Before I had to say goodbye to him for who knows how long? Before I -” She covers her face. "Before I made all those jokes? Daddy, I don't ... I don't ..."
Did you want to keep me home because you were scared I'd want to stay in Khura'in if I knew the truth?
Her father tries to soothe her, but she slaps his hands away. No one wants to have to acknowledge it – she doesn’t do this. Trucy doesn’t do this. So this isn’t Trucy Wright. This is someone else entirely. She is someone else entirely. She isn’t the daughter of Phoenix Wright or the child of Zak Enigmar. She’s apparently the daughter of a famous singer, abandoned for years. She’s the sister of a young man who just helped depose a fascist ruler.
She’s a sister to someone who doesn’t even know the blood-deep connection they share.
For that alone, she could smash the windows, rip open the door midflight, punch her father in the face. But she doesn’t. She pulls back on the mask of Trucy Wright. This was nothing more than a fantasy.
“Sorry, Daddy, but … I think I don’t want to look at you right now.” She smiles. Broad. Fake. A part of her thinks she’ll never show him her real smile ever again. “So I think I’ll sit next to Mr. Edgeworth. I’m pretty tired.”
Her father steps back in defeat. If he had that stupid green rock, maybe he could tell all the anger she hid within her heart. But just as he did in so many ways, Phoenix Wright abdicates his own responsibility as her father and sits down on the other side of the plane.
Edgeworth doesn’t say anything when she sits down beside him. She closes her eyes. Too exhausted, Trucy’s head falls against the man’s shoulder. She doesn’t know him, either. Some old friend of her father’s who was endlessly abroad. Yet that is better for the moment. No preconceived notions. No reason to intercede on her behalf beyond guilt and pity.
Trucy is so tired. Not Wright, not Enigmar, not Gramarye. In another world, maybe she could have been Justice.
In a better life, maybe she could have become Sahdmadhi as well.