phoenix wright. matt engarde and various others. MAJOR spoilers for case 2-4. PG-13. characters belong to capcom.
walking with the ghost
-
-
The ground is dry and dusty; nothing can go smoothly for Juan Corrida. Even digging down the six feet had to be difficult.
Cameras are everywhere, as usual, and footage of this moment will be all over the news tonight. Matt's sure of this as he stands beside the fresh grave, surrounded by a mixture of Corrida's fans and his own, paparazzi and professional photographers. Corrida's parents must be somewhere, but they're of no concern whatsoever. The woman with the large hairstyle and the ex-security guard are arguing behind him -- he would recognize that hag's irritating voice anywhere. He knows she never liked him.
A rather liberal pastor addresses the crowd, carefully-scripted heartfelt words read perfectly from a thin, leatherbound book, booming from the speaker system. This funeral is wonderfully irreverent, and though he mourns in front of the cameras, Matt couldn't be happier. Holding a bouquet of flowers to his chest, he lowers his head, bangs covering a teary eye. This is nothing new; he's an actor, and doing this convincingly is his forte.
The casket is lowered into the ground, and the crew motions Matt forward as an acoustic elegy sounds around him. It's probably something that Corrida wrote, not that he cares. Everyone goes silent and watches, waiting... He's completely captured their attention.
Kneeling, he wipes his eyes and lets the petunias fall.
He spat on them in advance.
------
The five o'clock news makes his day even better.
Curled up on his couch with Shoe, he watches as Adrian Andrews is interviewed, a harsh group of critics heckling her every time she tries to speak. The woman is clearly being pushed to the breaking point, and starts crying, cracking under the hateful, accusatory shouting of anyone, everyone within earshot. They're furious for the scandal, furious for the framing, furious for everything that she absolutely did not do.
Matt pokes Shoe's nose affectionately.
------
He hurries into a gas station, wearing nondescript clothing, hair down on both sides and hooded jacket obscuring his face further. The last thing he needs is a bunch of jackass fans stalking him into a convenience store. The thing he does need is a case of Samurai Soda, since the fucking studio hasn't restocked its machine in a month.
In his attempt to both carry the soda and remain unnoticed, he accidentally stumbles into a shelf. Cursing, he kicks a fallen can of V8 out of his way, reddish-orange juice spilling everywhere. He didn't want to cause a scene.
Matt slams a twenty-dollar bill onto the countertop and hurries back out.
------
The next morning, he crunches some cereal thoughtfully and listens as his kitchen television informs him of Ms. Adrian Andrews' "sudden, shocking suicide!" Awaiting her own execution, she decided to string herself up with her prison-issued shoelaces.
If she'd had her own shoes, she could've knifed herself with the heels, he thinks. The idea is amusing, but not as much as the actual outcome. Dumb bitch finally followed Celeste. A copycat to the end, even with her suicide method.
Matt laughs and pours himself another bowl of cornflakes.
------
The parking lot at Global Studios has seen its share of demented fans, rabid photographers, and the like, but it's the first time he's seen a beggar hanging around. It's not a bad idea -- the workplace of celebrities is definitely a good site for handouts. It's just that most people don't have the balls to try it.
Matt reaches into his pocket, hoping for a paperclip or something similar, but stops and sharply inhales when he notices the man is strumming on a red guitar.
He calls security.
------
He idly sorts through fanmail, sliding a Steel Samurai letter opener through envelope after envelope and skimming each note with mild to intense disinterest. Drawings of his character, promises of undying love, email addresses and phone numbers; all sorts of boring bullshit.
Yet another envelope opens, and a piece of glossy paper slides out as he turns it upside down. Someone with a good printer sent this one, to be sure. He rotates it until it's facing the correct direction. It's a diagram of Ursa Major, and is labelled as such.
Matt glares at it and inspects the envelope. No return address, postmarked from Los Angeles -- could be anyone -- and nothing else included with it.
Furious and more than slightly shaken, he tears it apart and dumps it into a trash can.
------
Cable networks start showing commercials advertising the high-definition biography of Juan Corrida, the Enigma Behind the Jammin' Ninja. The goddamn show is available everywhere, marketing displays and posters proclaiming the injustice of it all to the world. Stores build monuments of books detailing his life, interviews with his parents, photo collections of anything he's ever acted in. Tabloids wonder aloud about the scandals, the suspicion, the sneaky getaways that most deny as simple gossip.
Matt buys all of it, searching every second of film, every line of text for any mention of his own name. There are those who've devoted themselves to outing him, or so they claim. He did it, they insist. There's no way he didn't do it. They've studied the industry, they know the inner workings, they have cousins who are friends of those in the know--
Without even putting it into any sort of box, Matt flings all of it into the wine cellar. The cracking of plastic thrown roughly against concrete makes him jump.
Shoe mews and rubs against his leg.
Matt picks him up and doesn't look back at the cellar door.
------
Another fan letter contains a drawing of the Nickel Samurai driving the Samurai Trident into the Jammin' Ninja's chest.
Without thinking, he starts to call his manager.
------
He tosses and turns on the most comfortable bed in the world, tugging the sheets tighter around himself. His back feels exposed; his neck feels tense. It's an uneasy, unsettling feeling, and he can't help but think that it's getting harder and harder to breathe.
His back feels very exposed.
Heart racing, Matt sits up and turns the light on. He untangles himself from the bedsheets and heads for the bathroom. Trying to calm himself, he splashes some cool water onto his face.
It's soothing until he looks into the mirror and notices a raw, red line on his throat.
It's a rash, he thinks. It's a crease from my shirt collar. It's nothing.
He lies down and stares at his bedroom wall until it's daylight again.
------
His phone rings, so he answers it.
"Mister Engarde!" a voice asks. It's distorted, but only slightly; there's something oddly familiar about it that he can't quite place. "Is it true that you killed Juan Corrida?"
Idly flipping his hair over his right eye out of habit, Matt replies. "I can't make a statement about that, dude."
"But Mister Engarde!" the caller repeats. "Isn't it true that you killed Juan Corrida?"
"...I can't say anything about that. Contact the studio."
"But Mister Engarde! Isn't it true--"
"Leave me alone!"
Angry, he hangs up and checks the caller ID. It reads simply "HELLO."
------
Shoe scampers in from outside and drops a fuzzy pile at Matt's feet.
When he moves to pick it up and throw the dead animal away, a tiny teddy bear smiles up at him.
Shuddering, he flings it away.
------
He's somewhere, nowhere; his surroundings are nondescript and forgettable, if not blank entirely.
Juan's there too, suddenly in front of him. Nothing's said. Nothing needs to be said. Stepping closer, Juan reaches out and brushes bangs away from Matt's eyes, softly, lightly tracing fingertips down his cheek. It's disarming, to say the least.
A hand settles gently on his hip, pulling him into an embrace that's warm and inviting. Matt rests his chin against Juan's shoulder, locking his arms loosely around the other man's waist. Something achingly tight releases, and he sighs.
Juan threads fingers through his hair again and turns his head to move their mouths together, slowly, their breath hot. It's not something he would've thought possible, not something he would've, could've ever considered, but he won't resist it now. After all, it's not real. Matt idly notes that his rival's chest is not rising and falling, that there's no other heartbeat to match his own.
The dream becomes lucid.
He's dead he's dead he should be dead why is he--
When Matt begins struggling, Juan's hands move from his face to his neck, and squeeze until his vision's swimming, until everything's going dark.
Gasping for air, he wakes with a start. He's colder than he's ever been in his life; fierce, piercing cold that completely consumes him.
He showers in water that's hot enough to set his skin prickling with pain.
------
The phone calls get worse.
Both his cell and his landline start ringing daily, then every hour, on the hour. It's always from the same number; it's always the same message.
Matt locks himself in his side room, runs the .wav files through audio editing software and adjusts the pitch until The Jammin' Ninja's processed voice is chanting accusatorily at him through his computer speakers.
Without any hesitation, Matt rushes to delete all the files, to erase all the messages, to disconnect all the cords from the walls.
Wincing as he does it, he takes a hammer and smashes his wrist-phone to pieces.
------
His windows rattle incessantly, clacking loudly, angrily; a foul stench pervades his house despite the fans and air conditioning.
Matt sits on his bed with a blanket around his shoulders, with his knees drawn up to his chest. Holding Shoe, he closes his eyes and tries to shut out the noise.
He can't.
------
He wakes up from restless sleep and finds handkerchiefs -- folded over and knotted -- strewn around his house.
Confused, frustrated, and terrified, Matt kicks at them and screams.
------
Panicking, Matt bursts into the wine cellar, stumbling down the steps into the dimly lit room. He trips over the long-forgotten, scattered discs and books and lands hard on the cement, brusing his cheek badly. Grabbing the nearest bottle, he uncorks it and takes a large swig, chugging it down desperately. He coughs, reaches for another, and strains to down that one, too.
His throat hurts from swallowing, eyes watering from the effort. Leaning back against a barrel, he catches his breath, inhaling and exhaling heavily. The taste of bile threatens to send him vomiting; he spits, nauseated, until his tongue hurts, too.
The world is wavering as he returns to the room above, sitting unsteadily down on the couch and tilting his head back to stare at the ceiling. He feels his cheeks flush. Shoe curls against his thigh and mewls; Matt rests his palm on the kitten's back, petting him softly and crying quietly.
It's another ten minutes before he notices he never turned the light on; the bulb is blinding and his head aches tremendously. Sniffing back thin mucus, he lifts Shoe, kisses his forehead, and whispers.
"Love you, baby."
He sets him down and, after glancing back for a long moment, leaves.
------
Los Angeles is bright and busy, even at this time of night. Traffic never ceases, and he does his drunken best to steer the motorcycle as it speeds down the highway.
His best is not anywhere close to good enough.
With a hideous screech of brakes and tires on wet pavement, Matt Engarde careens into an intersection and is hit by two large vehicles. Metal crumples, bones snap with a sickening crack, and blood is everywhere.
The press is on it the instant they recognize him, cameras flashing and reporters fighting back satisfied smiles -- it's quite the story to cover, after all -- as he makes the top news.
Lotta Hart shoves her way through the gathered crowd, snaps several photographs, and muses to herself.
"Can't have one without the other, can ya?"
------
The tombstone is deceptively simple for someone who craved attention all his life.
Matthew Engarde
Nov. 1, 1996
Apr. 15, 2018
Wendy Oldbag sneers at it and spits viciously on the ground.
"Serves him right."
------
omnia mors aequat.
in death, all things are equal.