T Ace Attorney / Gyakuten Saiban, its characters
and settings, are property of Capcom, and are being
used here without permission. This fic is rated PG and contains spoilers for JFA case 4.
This fic
also deals with issues of mental health, which some may find uncomfortable.
Sustenance
Part 3
One of the first lessons Matt
Engarde had learned was never to be surprised.
Despite popular belief, most
humans preferred not being surprised.
They preferred order, predictability, and comfort. But most of all they preferred control, and
to be caught off one's guard indicated a lack thereof. It was, consequently, one of the many
unforgivable weaknesses a man should never show.
So when Juan Corrida's twisted and enraged countenance appeared in the
dressing room mirror, Matt betrayed no sign of shock. He only raised an eyebrow as he turned to
face him. "Can I help you?"
They were going to make a
scene. Already everyone in the dressing room
had grown silent, glancing in the direction of the two men: Matt,
seated peacefully at the make-up counter, and Juan, breathing hard from the
doorway. It was the sort of thing that
Matt tried to avoid, at least in public.
"You," Juan hissed,
his fists shaking at his sides as he glared his rival down. "This is all your
fault." His eyes were strangely red
and swollen, as if he'd been…crying?
Ugh. How gross. Matt shrugged
his shoulders innocently.
"I'm…sorry? Dude, I'm
totally about to go to shooting. I'm a
raccoon today." He pointed to the
half-finished black make-up around his eye.
"Can we talk later?"
"It's your fault!"
Juan hollered, spit flying from his mouth.
"What the hell did you say to her!?"
That got his attention. But still, Matt's face indicated nothing but
calm confusion. "Totally don't know
who you mean, Corrida."
"You…you
son of a bitch!"
The room was small to begin
with, so Juan only had to take two long steps to reach Matt at the
counter. With a scream the make-up girl
scampered out of the way, just as Juan's fist came
flying. Matt was ready for that. He didn't even stand out of his chair as he
batted Juan's punch aside with his forearm, diverting the attack into the
mirror behind him. The shattering glass raised
a gasp from the handful of spectators, but it didn't halt Juan. Even with his hand bloodied, he reached for
Matt again.
What a pain. Matt snatched him by the wrist, finally
pushing to his feet as he spun the enraged man around. With only slight effort he forced Juan down
against the counter, pinning his arm behind his back.
"I do all my own
stunts," he reminded Juan brightly.
Juan growled furiously,
struggling against his hold. "Let
go! I swear I'll kill you this time, Engarde!"
Matt cast a quick glance
around them: the make-up girl seemed to have fled, but two of the other extras were
still at one end of the dressing room, watching the fight with wide eyes. "Look, I dunno
what's got you so hyper, man," he said evenly. "But, seriously, can it wait? This isn't a good time--"
"God, will you just shut up!?"
Juan pushed with his foot and
free hand against the counter, throwing all his weight back. The one advantage he had over Matt was pure
body mass--glutton that he was--and he managed to knock them both away from the
wall and onto the floor.
This was not turning out to be
the best of days.
Matt recovered from the fall relatively
well. He'd been in his fair share of
fights, and the irritation he felt at this unprovoked attack gave him the burst
of strength he needed to wrestle Juan down once more. This time he sat himself heavily on Juan's
chest, pinning his wrists by his ears.
"Dude!" Damn gawkers. If they
would just clear out, he could tell Juan Corrida what
he really thought of this disruption.
"Chill out, okay? Don't make
me call security."
"Damn it!" Juan ground his teeth as he gave up his
struggles a moment. His eyes really were
watering, making him even more pitiful than usual. "Damn it, Engarde,
Celeste--"
Matt snapped a hand around
Juan's throat, cutting off his breath along with whatever he had been about to
say. The last thing he needed was a pair
of loose-lipped nobodies overhearing something…distasteful. He leaned down, the tilt of his head allowing
his bangs to droop, hiding his cruel smirk from everyone but Juan. "Shouldn't you be home mowing my lawn or
something?" he taunted.
Juan spat, catching him full
across the face. It was a ridiculous
gesture, but it caused a crack in Matt's usually impeccable composure. In a moment of thoughtless anger he added his
other hand to the one already at Juan's neck, and squeezed. "Fuck with me, will you?" he hissed under his breath, watching with great
satisfaction as Juan pawed weakly at his arms and wrists. "This is the last time, Corrida!"
A thick hand came down on his
shoulder, trying to tug him back. But
Matt's grip was sound--his hands remained clamped around Juan's throat, lifting
him away from the floor. It took another
set of thick fingers, striking him with careful force across his cheek that
finally woke him. Matt let go, allowing
the older man to pry him away. He
blinked in surprise at the familiar face.
"Mr. Hammer?"
Jack shoved him back into his
original chair, and then moved to bend over the gasping, huddled figure of Juan
Corrida.
"Steady, kid." After
several long moments of breathless sputtering, Juan was finally able to be
helped into a sitting position.
That…that bastard. Matt trembled
angrily as he combed his hair over the right side of his face once more. Making me break like that.
He fought to keep his expression a careful mix of remaining irritation
and false guilt. "Is…he all
right?"
Jack glanced between the two
young men with a sigh. "I don't
know what the hell is going on here, but it's
over. Unless you want me to call
security…?"
"No," Matt said
quickly. There were too many people that
had witnessed the event already, he didn't need the
director getting wind of the details, let alone from security. "I'm sorry, Mr. Hammer. It won't happen again."
"Good." He touched Juan's shoulder. "And you?"
Juan shoved his hand away,
scrubbing his sleeve across his face.
His glare darted only briefly to Matt before falling once more. "Celeste is dead!" he blurted
out. "She killed herself."
Matt Engarde
didn't get surprised; he had trained that emotion out of himself. But his eyes did open a little wider, and for
a moment he was genuinely speechless.
*****
It was a long ride home. Matt would have preferred to stay on set and
just go through the shooting as planned, but as it turned out, Jack Hammer
remembered Celeste--and, more importantly, that she and Matt had at one time
been a couple. Faced with that, Matt had
no choice but to act upset by the news.
The director had then postponed shooting until the next day out of
sympathy.
It was a lot of trouble to go
through for the sake of a kickboxing raccoon, but at least it meant they
thought he was worth waiting for.
Matt tugged off his helmet as
he stopped his motorcycle in a curbside parking space. It was still fairly early in the afternoon,
and he had the rest of the day to himself…to grieve, or whatever. So he bought himself a club sandwich and a
diet soda. Rather than eat at the place
he took it back to the bike, and sat there as he gradually diminished his
lunch.
Stupid bitch. He watched the cars speed by
with little actual attention. Didn't think she'd go that far. Would she really rather die than not have
that greasy little poser? What a
lunatic.
Celeste hadn't been a total
waste of a human being. She had been a
decent enough manager, a passable girlfriend.
At least she'd always been willing to put out. But unfortunately, she'd also been an
insufferable bore--it was only in dumping her that Matt recalled feeling any
interest for her at all. If not for her
running right off into Juan's bed, he might have gotten back together with her
just to dump her again.
And now she's dead. Matt's eyes thinned as he
sucked down the rest of his soda. Weird. Been a while since someone died.
It was strange to think that sometimes people simply
stopped existing in the world. He hadn't
seen Celeste for several months, and would not care to even if she were still
living and breathing, but that didn't change the fact that there was one less
person walking around. It wasn't that he
felt remorse. In fact, he felt a very distinct
lack of it.
Matt tossed his trash out in
a nearby receptacle, and was preparing to finish his journey home when he
caught a glance of a familiar woman across the street: a slender blonde, moving
purposefully down the sidewalk with a paper bag clutched in her hand. Strange
coincidence, he thought, watching as she turned down a side road. The shops lining that side of the street were
topped with small apartments, reminding him that he'd been there once before,
to drop Celeste off one afternoon so she could meet with a friend.
Oh, yeah. Alex, or Adrian, or Amanda or something. Matt crossed
his arms against the handles of his motorcycle as he watched her disappear from
view. Now that is a little
hard-body. His fingers curled and
stretched faintly, scraping against his rolled up sleeves. Celeste
talked about her a lot. I wonder
if…she's heard the news.
A sudden thought struck him: Maybe she doesn't know. I could
be the one to tell her. He ran the
tip of his tongue along his teeth.
That might be…interesting.
Matt climbed off the
motorcycle once more, and hummed to himself as he crossed the road. Halfway down the street the blonde had
disappeared down he came across the door that led up into the second story
apartments. Fortunately for him, a long
parade of key-forgetting tenants through the years had kicked the door in
enough times that it wasn't hard to jiggle open. What
apartment was it anyway? he tried to recall as he
casually ascended. 21 A or something?
The hallway smelled of new
carpet and old paint. Matt wrinkled his
nose as he moved down the line of plain brown doors. How do
people live like this? I guess if I was
getting married to Corrida so I could live in a dump
like this, I'd kill myself, too. The
thought made him smirk, and he plucked idly at the peeling wallpaper as he
tried to remember the number. It was a Saturday. Celeste was gonna
take the blonde to meet some other agents for lunch. Help her into the industry, or something. Crap, I
didn't give a shit then. How am I
supposed to remember now?
Another stroke of luck ended
Matt's search--the door at the end of the hall was open. He crept forward, and paused just beyond the
opening to listen. At least spying was
better entertainment than going home.
He could hear someone moving
about the apartment: footsteps, a cabinet being opened and closed, a faucet
running. When he listened carefully
enough he could hear a woman's quiet sob.
Hm. Matt pursed
his lips distastefully. Sounds like maybe she's
already heard. Well what fun is that, then? He had been hoping to see the first look of
shock, the first welling of tears as she learned her world was one person
smaller. It wasn't any fun if she was
already puffy and gross.
All sound ceased in the
apartment. Matt had just been preparing
to leave, but something about the abrupt silence caught his attention, as if
there were something unnatural about it.
It was a well kept secret that Matt Engarde
was as curious as he was tenacious; once the idea that something had happened
got into his brain he couldn't remove it.
I'll just take a peek. Matt tugged
the collar of his jacket up as he crept on his toes to the doorway. And
then I'll get the hell out of this dump.
The apartment, what little he
could see of it, was only sparsely furnished.
Despite the drab, baby-puke-beige paint on the walls, the placement of a
few small, potted plants was tastefully done.
It was neat, if not dreadfully boring.
Again Matt almost gave up his chosen excursion right then.
The keys were on the
floor. That in itself
signified some greater interest to be had--what kind of unpardonable simpleton
entered an apartment and not only left keys in plain sight, but the entire door
halfway open as well? He had to meet
this woman if only to mock her.
"Hello…?" Matt nudged the door open and took a glance
around the empty living room. I'll tell her I came to offer my sympathy,
he plotted. And I saw the door open. Very
dangerous, leaving your home exposed like that.
Ugh, even a dump like this.
His opinion of the apartment
didn't change much even after he was granted a full view of it. There were only a few items that seemed out
of place, and he followed them like breadcrumbs through the unfamiliar layout:
the keys on the floor, a crumpled paper bag, a pair of glasses on the
counter. But most noticeable was the
empty glass next to the kitchen sink, among a small collection of little orange
pill bottles.
Aha. Matt circled the counter, humming to himself as he
checked the labels. Maybe she's got something I can sell. But the ones he recognized were
disappointingly empty, and he sighed. Nothing's more depressing than an empty
bottle of Valium.
…Wait a minute....
Matt straightened up, his
gaze shifting back and forth between the empty bottles and the drops of
moisture still clinging to the inside of the drinking glass. He was an actor, not a brain surgeon or
rocket scientist, but it wasn't a difficult equation to figure out.
Holy shit. This, I have to see.
"
The blonde was stretched out
in bed, the blankets tugged up around her ears so that only her eyes and nose
were visible--both red from crying. From
the doorway he couldn't tell if she was breathing. Everything in the room was so quiet and
still…and cold, as if it were already playing its part as tomb.
Matt laughed.
It was only a short sound,
cut off quickly by his hand clapping over his mouth. His eyes, already wide, were stretched further
when he saw her stir, just faintly, with the noise. He feared for a moment that she would awake
completely and demand an explanation from him, but this proved not to be the
case. Slowly, the hand covering his
mouth slid up his face to push his hair out of the way for a better view. As he watched closely, the woman shifted
again and let out a quiet sigh.
Not quite dead yet. Matt's shoulders convulsed with
an involuntary snort. Holy crap, Corrida.
You're turning into a serial killer.
His hand curled stiffly around the door frame, using it as leverage to
urge himself into the room.
What is it with you people? Matt crept
forward with a sick fascination, careful to make no further disturbance as he
approached the woman's bedside. I didn't really mean it, you know--that I'd
rather die than live in his heap.
Once he was close enough he reached out, his fingertips brushing faintly
over a strand of dull blonde. It's not that bad, you crazy bitch.
"Who…." The blonde shivered, her eyelids battling to
open. "Who's there…?"
Matt flinched, and
instinctively covered her eyes. Not that
it would matter if she recognized him--she must have been pretty well doped up
by then anyway. But the thought of being
spotted here in the presence of this failing little creature made his stomach
churn with ill ease. "No one,"
he whispered. "Go back to sleep,
Alex."
He felt her brow wrinkle
against his palm. "What…?"
"Er,
Adrian." Matt glanced around the
room in paranoia of being watched. He
suddenly couldn't remember what he was even doing here, and why it had
interested him. Since she was still
partially conscious, at least he could ask.
He licked his lips. "So
why'd you do it?" he asked carelessly.
She shivered. Her hand slipped out from under the blankets
to tug at his wrist, but she was too weak to pull it away. She quickly gave up and sighed deeply. "I can't do it," she murmured
hopelessly. "I need her."
Matt frowned down at her with
disgust. "You mean,
Celeste?" I threw her away. Why would
anyone die for that boring loser?
His insides gave another disgruntled quiver.
"I need her," the
woman repeated. Warm tears soaked into
Matt's biking glove.
He stood still for a moment
longer, expecting a deeper explanation, or at least one that made more
sense. But the blonde didn't speak
again, and if not for the shallow breath moving over his thumb Matt would have
assumed her dead. He slowly withdrew his
hand.
She was disgusting. Matt's face twisted into a scowl as he
watched her take in each careful breath.
He knew that gradually they would become even weaker. Her face would grow pale beneath the tracts
of tears. Everything that made up the
hard-body blonde in the crappy apartment would cease to exist. If he waited long enough, he would be able to
see it. He could sit and watch until her
last, wretched moment of living, when human became decaying pile of meat.
Not that there was any reason
to. Matt remembered too well how simple
and uninspiring the transition was.
Nothing surprised him anyway.
"Go back to sleep,"
he muttered, pulling off the glove she'd been crying against. "World's probably better off without you
in it anyway."
Matt turned, and strode
easily out of the bedroom. He wasn't
sure what he planned to do next until he found himself in the kitchen, plucking
a cordless phone out of its caddy. He
dialed 911 and faked a little strain in his voice as he gave out the situation
and apartment number. I came to offer my sympathy, he told
himself as set the phone aside. He
didn't really want to hear any of the instructions of the technician on the
other end of the line. I saw the door open. I found her in the bedroom and called for
help. That's what I did. His eyes thinned. That's
what a person would do. She'll never
know it was me in here.
So she was going to live a
while longer. It would have been
quicker, and easier, just to leave and let her die. So easy, in fact, that the thought no longer
amused Matt. Given that her death would
be just as pointless as her continued existence, there was no reason not to
save her.
"How disgusting,"
Matt grumbled, rubbing his eyes. He
couldn't get the blonde's puffed up face out of his head. "What did she see in that bitch
anyway? She was such a clingy, obnoxious
little thing." He rolled his eyes
with the memory of all the times Celeste had tugged his hand, all those stupid,
cute faces she'd made to beg for kisses.
"Are all women this weak?" he reflected bitterly. "They can't even live without leeching off of someone else. It's pathetic." His shoulders ached with a sudden tension
between them. "It makes me
sick."
I could never be that weak…
His stomach twisted; he
gagged, but managed to hold back just long enough to twist towards the
sink. His throat burned with bile as he
vomited up his mourning lunch of sandwich and diet soda. There was a sudden, cold sweat on his brow
that made him shiver within his leather racing jacket. But despite the sudden nausea, which
continued even after his stomach was thoroughly empty,
he could only look at the mess he'd made and laugh.
"Like I said," he
said, his smile twisted. "It makes
me sick."
A few minutes later the
paramedics arrived. They moved quickly
to the back of the apartment, and short minutes later emerged with the blonde
on a stretcher. As they headed for the
door one of the technicians paused at Matt, noting him and the vomit he hadn't
bothered to wash out of the sink.
"Are you all right, sir?"
"Fine," Matt said,
leaning his back against the counter.
Thankfully, he had remembered to restyle his hair before they arrived,
and was able to offer a thin smile. "Just a little shaken up."
"What happened to your
hand?"
Matt blinked, and glanced
down to his ungloved right hand. It was
stained with fresh blood from four shallow scratches down the back of his palm--blood
that also decorated the manicured nails on his left. Now that his attention had been drawn to
them, they kind of stung a little.
"Oh." Matt shrugged--nothing surprised him
anymore. "I guess I did it to
myself."
Ignoring the looks from the paramedics, he chuckled to himself and walked out.