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.
"Adrian?" Matt left the kitchen, a slight tension in his limbs overpowering his half-hearted curiosity of earlier. "Whatever your name was?" It was only a small, one bedroom apartment, which made the woman easy to find. A door on the left, which had also been left carelessly open, led him to another modestly-decorated room and the object of his search.
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.