The doorway led Phoenix through a cramped turn of corridor, to face a wall cluttered with computer panels and tiny, blazing coloured lights.

"Mr. Wright?"

He hadn't noticed the room stretching away to his left until the voice pulled his eyes that way -- another red-costumed Agent, moving a tangle of wiring from her lap to rise. The revealing costumes obviously were a trend with female Agents, an odd one compared to smart black suits but Phoenix wasn't about to complain.

"Hello, Agent Foxx here." She flashed gold Agent badge and smiled apologetically, brushing snowy hair out of her face. "Sorry about the mess, I've been on hertz tweaking all day. Have a seat, anywhere at all."

He had no idea what hertz tweaking meant but -- judging by the tools and wiring heaped in Foxx's chair, forcing her to perch on her desk's edge -- it was a very serious undertaking. Phoenix lifted a stack of electronic repair textbooks aside and borrowed their chair.

"So." Foxx leaned on her sliver of open desk space, and searched the rattling piles of wire beside her. "Scenario's up on the whiteboard. As near as we can tell, that's what happened. J's the yellow dot, and the victim's in blue."

It took a moment of examining the wall he faced, gaze magnetically opposed to all the algebraic notations, for Phoenix to spot the diagram: J's marks surrounded by wide yellow circles, and the victim's mark fenced by unsure black lines, and the doodled green equivalents of forest and buildings and streets.

"J was patrolling this morning at approximately eleven-eighteen AM, down that path of Foster Park. The victim was attacked and J assisted. That part was successful."

If the scribbled numbers and arrows spoke true, Agent J never saw Morna Beasley -- Foster forest visibility was good, but not that good.

"He could do it from that far away?"

Foxx glanced up from her work: a screwdriver the size of her pinky finger and a spider of impossibly fine wire. "I don't know how far you've been briefed. Think of music sense like a radio signal. Everyone's different but J's pretty good, he gets a clear sense at six hundred feet depending on the field and intensity of the rhythm disturbance, that's without visuals or triangulation."

And Foxx, Phoenix suspected, could slip into jabbering technospeak as easily as she breathed. He rubbed his neck. "So, he knew the victim was in trouble, but never actually saw what happened?"

She murmured negative. "Didn't need to. So whoever attacked the victim left--" Foxx paused. "Yes? ...Really? Try twenty-six twelve." Her gaze refocused on Phoenix, and she pointed to her ear. "Sorry, we're working on a channel for you."

Too much of her long hair hung in the way for Phoenix to be sure, but the wiring Foxx worked on suddenly made more sense -- the beginning of an earpiece communicator.

"As I was saying, someone attacked the victim and then fled the scene. It seems the police found footprints but we can't get close enough for confirmation. And approximately five minutes later, another target caught J's attention from the bistro across the street."

J's whiteboard marks stretched across the street and into an alleyway dead end -- Phoenix imagined a suited hero charging to the rescue, a professional now disguised as his scruffy client. But the scrawled numbers--

"Six hundred eighty feet?" he asked.

"Give or take." Foxx stood, circled the desk and tapped at a pearly-white laptop, glancing to Phoenix. "The target was lost, and J was taken into police custody immediately afterward. But yes, that's maxing out J's range. Whoever it was was not happy -- panicking, maybe in pain. He should have checked in with HQ and requested visual confirmation or backup but that's J for you. Tactics never were his strong point." Fondness warmed her voice -- she studied the glowing laptop screen. "Now, most of what we know here is what J's tapped to us--"

"Tapped?"

"Infrasound transmitters in his shoes for Morse communication, standard Agency mod. We've disabled his communicator as long as he's under close police watch, the last thing we need is our signals traced." Hiking her tinted glasses higher on her head, Foxx paused, and relocated her train of thought. "We know what J's tapped to us, so we're working to fill in the blanks, and we're not ruling anything out yet. Multiple attackers, even deliberate sabotage against the Agency."

"But, how would anyone ...?" Phoenix dug fingers into his hair and scratched -- if someone as benevolent as an Elite Beat Agent was framed, plucked out of intricate webs of stealth and skill, what sort of mind could they be up against?

"Unfortunately," and Foxx's voice cooled, turned as metal-clinical as her circuitry, "Not every mission goes as intended, Mr. Wright. A fraction of the public has natural music sense and can tell when rhythm is being manipulated around them, never mind when Agents are outright seen. And even if the target is unaware that they're being helped, some missions fail, whether due to Agent error or the victim's reaction to music power. Or simply because the situation wasn't meant to turn out -- who can tell?" She came to the desk's front, and retrieved the delicate earpiece, adjusting wires with a careful thumbnail. She frowned, thoughtful. "The Commander keeps tabs on missions and their results, to better figure out how the Agency can improve. Anything you find out, the slightest hint that a person was involved with this incident, let us know -- we might have a record of them in our database. All right, let's try this out."

And it wasn't until Foxx was at his side, winding something tiny and cool around his ear with deft fingers, that Phoenix realized it -- not the beginning of a communicator, but the entirety of it.

"Yours is a little different, less visible, mostly. Don't pause to listen -- act normal -- and you shouldn't have to answer any difficult questions."

He nearly nodded, and focused instead on keeping still. "Uhh, all right." The foreign presence clinging to his ear would soon be normal too, he supposed.

Foxx stood back a step, ran a critical eye over him, and murmured approval. "And I'll need somewhere to plant a mike -- that badge of yours?"

"It's an attorney's badge," Phoenix said, plying the pin loose, "No one would believe I'm a lawyer without it."

She took it with barely a glance. Why was Phoenix the only person in the world who found the badge interesting?

"Should work," Foxx muttered to herself. She bent over the desk momentarily, hair spilling over her bare curve of lower back, and turned back to return the badge to Phoenix's collar. Hurrying to the laptop to strike keys, she said, "Now for a field check -- Chieftain, say hello."

A voice like thunder rumbled in Phoenix's ear -- "Agent Chieftain, here. Good to have you on the team, Mr. Wright."

"Err," Phoenix sputtered, and looked to his badge -- no different to his eye, still just chipped gold finish. "Hello."

"Loud and clear," Chieftain replied, presumably not to Phoenix. "Defendant Lobbies One through Five are clear of interference, on the move to Six now."

Foxx watched the screen, brows drawing with annoyance. "Still getting low-band resonance. Did you recal?"

"Did I what?"

"Recal."

A pause spread out thick.

"...I don't speak tech," Chieftain grumbled.

With a roll of her eyes -- like tech was the standard spoken language of business and commerce -- Foxx tried, "Recalibrate. Set the channel to zero-zero, sweep for interference and reset to twenty-six twelve."

The words clumped uselessly in Phoenix's mind -- irrelevant, as long as they made sense to someone. Static crackled brief in his ear, followed by a swell of mumbling hallway noise, and both faded to silky quiet.

"There." Foxx put thoughtful fingers to her communicator ear. "That's better."

"In Lobby Six now. All clear?"

"Everything's a go, Chief, thank you." She straightened, smiling. "Good luck on Project Christmas."

An acknowledging mutter -- Phoenix imagined a nod to go with it -- and Chieftain said, "Over and out."

Foxx typed a clattering sequence, paused, and commented, "Bless him, he couldn't program a VCR."

Hardly a fair judgement -- VCRs were evil old beasts.

"I can patch other lines through but you'll mostly be in contact with me, Mr. Wright. If you want my attention without speaking aloud, touch the center node of the earpiece, it's pressure-sensitive -- whenever a situation comes up, any time of the day or night, I'll track down the info on it." She meaningfully patted the laptop's edge. "My mission is to back up your mission, essentially. Whatever you need."

Not just his backup in the shadows -- the Agency would be in Phoenix's ear, there beside him whenever he summoned. Not unlike a channelled friend, and the formal feel of Mr. Wright itched harder than ever. "Call me Phoenix, then."

Her purple eyes lit with intrigue. "Oh?"

"If we're going to be in contact a lot." He ran palms onto his knees, and tried a smile. "'Mister' just doesn't sound right if I'm not calling you 'Ms'. Nick's fine too, if you want."

"Fair enough." And she looked at him differently for a moment -- considering, maybe trying out the name in her head -- before putting hand to hip and wondering, "All right, Phoenix, what haven't I covered..."

The details had just begun, it seemed; Phoenix retrieved pen and paper from his briefcase, and hoped he hadn't forgotten how to take lecture notes.

Incredible, how much technology lay woven in an Agent's uniform: sensors and transmitters, tracking chips, delicate metaphysical amplifiers. J's careful guard over the shoes made more sense when they held precious -- and probably very expensive -- secrets.

"So," Phoenix wondered, sketching a microphone and wondering what exactly a metatreble resistor looked like, "Have the police found any of this? They took J's suit for testing and probably have his microphone."

"Our designers are mad geniuses, they planned for the worst." Foxx idly erased street lines from the whiteboard, and redrew them straighter, more meticulous. "Regular store-bought clothing and karaoke mikes, just tailored to our needs. The suits don't have anything detectable in them, the shoes' insoles are locked up tight enough to be repairwoman's nightmare, and the microphones are perfectly ordinary unless you break them down to nuts and bolts." She paused, and rubbed away green smudges with her thumb. "The police are looking for fingerprints, DNA, residue, obvious traces on the outsides of objects, I'd guess. Draw attention away from Agent equipment if you can, but we might just be all right."

Quite a gamble; Phoenix looked up to say just that.

"Yes, it's taking a chance," Foxx continued -- was he really that predictable? -- "But uncertain situations are our specialty. Just go with it, Phoenix."

He swallowed, and nodded. It would be another mess of a case to win on a wing and a prayer. He should have been used to it by now.

Phoenix heard Maya's excited chatter long before she burst in, a purple-robed typhoon, Missy and Starr at her side.

"-and you forget the steps, do you just make it up as you go along? Hi, Nick!"

"Sure do," Missy chirped, and bounced excited, "That's half the fun! How's it going in here?"

"I think we're finished." Foxx gave the whiteboard a last cursory glance, and noticed Phoenix's sprawl of scribbled notes across his makeshift briefcase-desk. "Just be careful with those, all right?"

He gathered the papers, tapping them together into a sheaf -- it hardly looked orderly when they were so bent and disposable-pen-smudged, but the thought counted. "Of course, they won't leave my sight."

"Nobody can read Nick's handwriting anyway," Maya offered, "Not even Nick!"

Not true: he could make out at least half of it. On a good day. With a rosetta stone.

"Anyway," Missy said, twirling silver keys around an index finger and flashing a disturbing grin, "It's been a long day and you guys probably need your rest for tomorrow, how 'bout a ride home?"

Maya clapped her hands together. "I call shotgun!"

The nightmare visions of borrowed Agent equipment returned, this time with more than one giggling girl prancing through smouldering rubble. Phoenix shot a look anxious between the other two Agents -- Starr shrugged, and Foxx rolled her eyes.

"You'll probably live," Starr smirked.

"Remember, Phoenix," Foxx offered, and waved a pointing finger by her ear, "Anything you need. Emergency response vehicles included."

"Great," he muttered, juggling pages to rise. And that was when realization struck, a bat to the head -- Phoenix jogged briefcase against his hip to check his watch. "Time to-- Can we stop by the detention center?"

If anyone could get them there before the last moments ticked away, Agents could.

And sure enough, Missy drove like a Formula One racer, and the chrome-gleaming Agency car squealed in behind the detention center at precisely five-fifty-eight PM.

"You should get a cool car like that, Nick," Maya decided, waving to their waiting chauffeur. "Maybe even get your licence!"

Phoenix boggled at her -- it went unnoticed, as usual. "And do what with it?" Other than shorten his lifespan. "Lawyer business!"

He definitely didn't want to know.

But once his heart rate returned to normal and Maya calmed, once the guards had been talked into a brief and very important consultation, it was the detention center as usual. Cold concrete and the glare of fluorescent light, and stiff plastic chairs, and stern officers ushering Agent J in.

"We meet again," he quipped, and perched the Agent shoes in his lap, "Lot to learn, huh Mr. Wright?"

Huffing something like a chuckle, Phoenix dug in his briefcase. "That's one way to put it."

"Nothing we can't handle!" Maya swung her crossed ankles. "You don't have a thing to worry about with us on the mission!"

Lifting two fingers and flicking them in salute, J smiled at her -- easy, but not enough to cover the tightness in his motions. The day had taken its toll.

"So," and Phoenix paused, chose carefully, "Mr. Lowe."

"That's right."

This client, according to any and all records, belonged to no agency. Phoenix nodded. "All right. So, you've pleaded the fifth when your lawyer isn't present and as far as anyone knows, you're a regular civilian." If Foxx implied what Phoenix thought she did, a cover story would be arranged by morning. "But I still need to know anything you can tell me, so ... is Stewart Julian Lowe your real name?"

The same unfaltering smile as before. "Maybe."

"I think that's a yes," Maya said, elbow digging between Phoenix's ribs.

Raking a hand through his hair, grinning sheepish, Stewart tried, "That bad a liar, huh? Awright, fine, that's me. I never thought I'd use that name again, t'be honest."

Maya's fingers rose thoughtful to her mouth, and she murmured, "Being an Agent really is your whole life, isn't it?"

"Yeah, it is." No hesitation in Stewart -- he had quick pride and a lion's gaze. "You can't be half an Agent. I made my choice, an' ... the music sense, s'like breathing, I could never just sit when I know somebody's in trouble. I can feel how scared an' lost they are, an' how all they want in the whole world is a friend to help 'em out. How could anybody turn their back on another human being like that?"

How, indeed? It was no different from seeing an innocent person held prisoner and remembering how loneliness tasted. The fire stirred in Phoenix.

And Maya nodded -- determination set into her jaw, shone in her eyes. "Absolutely! We won't let you down, Mr. Lowe! We'll figure out what really happened!"

By cobbling the answer together in court, no doubt, under Edgeworth's relentless attack. Steeling at the thought, Phoenix poised with pen and paper. "What else can you tell us about this morning?"

And when all was said and done, Missy relented to driving them to Phoenix's apartment at somewhere near the speed limit, and bade goodnight with a wink. Cool dark crawled in; Phoenix shed his jacket like an old skin, yanked his tie loose and leaned heavy on his arm over spread pages. Somewhere, encrypted in his scribbled notes, was everything he had to know and never repeat.

Maya's chatter floated in from the kitchen -- bright cheer fading to regret, "--sorry, Pearly, it's a really really important client, everything's top secret like in the movies--" -- and the phone cord wobbled taut with her movement. Turning back to the notes, Phoenix forced his drifting attention to the jagged penstrokes; Foxx's techspeak made little enough sense at the time, never mind in his own shorthand. He wished idly for that rosetta stone, and didn't notice coffee rich in the air until a mug clunked beside his wrist.

"Pearly says hi." Maya perched across from him at the dining table -- sleepover mode was in effect, complete with loose hair, the oversized, chili-stained Ronin Rangers T-shirt, and a gaze like she wanted nothing more than to paint Phoenix's toenails.

Nodding thanks, he palmed the mug and downed a searing gulp. Sleeping before a first trial day proved hopeless most of the time, anyway.

A frown swept over Maya's face -- "You're sure we can't tell her? It's Pearly. Maybe she can help!"

"See if you can make out any of this, will you?" Phoenix pressed two sheets across the table and let his brow furrow. "Maya, you heard what Commander Kahn said. This is all strictly confidential."

Picking up a page, pouting ferociously at it, Maya murmured, "I guess so. But you know you can count on us."

He knew that; not a day went by that Phoenix wasn't grateful.

Night dragged on, and the coffee pot drained, and Phoenix still couldn't figure out what on earth a metatreble resistor was for. He shoved the messier pages aside and leaned back in the hard kitchen chair -- he had compiled the standard Agent equipment functions, and Maya's summary of music sence, and all relevant points of Stewart "J" Lowe's account. Phoenix couldn't manage more on his own and had only a few hours to wait -- that didn't stop the nagging thoughts of people to needle for information, places to scour, the earpiece linking him to a far-reaching database.

He turned the empty mug between his palms, and watched Maya. Anyone else would think her deeply asleep -- head pillowed on her arm, probably drooling on the notes considering Phoenix's luck -- but he knew better. He recognized the slow prickle of magic, the presence creeping down his spine and the tune at senses' blurred edges. Maya lay motionless, suspended in trance; the tick of the wall clock across the apartment began to grate in the silence, and Phoenix watched out the window instead. Dark, run-down housing crowded, but the sliver of starry sky proved interesting enough.

And then time twitched forward, a chunk of memory was gone and he was crisply aware of existing -- Phoenix's heart leaped glorious, it did every time she returned. He looked back across the table as she stirred, turning sleep-misted eyes to him.

"Hello," she murmured.

"Mia." He straightened, and offered her a smile. "Good to see you, Chief."

She straightened as well, slower, glancing around for bearings and tugging the T-shirt even on her borrowed body's curves. "Burning the midnight oil, I see. Maya told me about the case."

So much for strict confidentiality -- but if anyone bent secrets to their will, it was Mia, the woman even death couldn't stop.

Phoenix sighed. "Elite Beat Agents are real, the rumours are true. But no one can know that, and I don't even know yet what Stewart and I will have to tell the court. I just hope we can keep the story straight" He ran a palm over his face. How could he fight for truth under false pretenses? It defied everything Phoenix stood for, it made him little better than the schemers he exposed on the stand and he saw Stewart again through plexiglass, tense with the strain of lying.

"Phoenix." Mia's mouth tightened; she lit with fierce justice, it shone in her eyes. "The truth isn't always tidy. Remember what your job is -- your client is innocent, right?"

"Yes." He had never been so sure of anyone's innocence.

"Then defend him -- any way you have to -- and seek the truth. This is serious, you have no room for error."

Like he needed to be told that. But under Mia's hard stare, while he stood an inch tall, Phoenix's problems had a way of falling into place. "Y-yeah, you're right." He would fight because that was all he ever could do. Phoenix looked to the scattered notes -- his penmanship marked passing hours like melting, sagging candle wax. "I just hope Edgeworth's case is missing as many pieces as ours."

She folded her arms under her chest, and smirked. "It's not like Edgeworth to be unprepared for a fight. You know that."

Phoenix rubbed his neck, and tried, "There's a first time for everything."

"Look, Phoenix, you have an entire network of highly skilled operatives at your back, from what I've heard. And I'll be there tomorrow to help." Mia leaned across the table, and laid a cool hand over his. "You'll do fine. Leave the coffee alone and get some sleep."

Easier said than done -- he nodded anyway. The Chief knew best.

And in the haze between dreams and daylight, Phoenix had allies -- he had driving presence at his flanks.