Well, that took a while.
Hello everyone! Knowing that it has been so long since my last story, whoever you are reading this story, you probably have never heard of the Gordon Truth: Ace Attorney series. It is a fanfiction that has reached over 85,000 words and stretches as long as 279 pages on a normal word document. There have been three cases so far, and if you want to read this fourth one (which I must say, is the best of the bunch so far) you absolutely have to, HAVE TO read the first three Gordon Truth cases. If you continue without knowing at the VERY LEAST the amazing plot twist at the end of the thrid case, you will be absolutely bewildered at what the hell is going on below you.

This story is worth the time though, trust me. Each chapter is supposed to be structured like the actual game. Many times ending at find-the-right-evidence cliffhangers akin to those found in the ace attorney series. So please invest your reading time to this series, there may be a ton of content to read, but I'm sure and I hope you enjoy it.

If you have read at least the ending chapter of the third case, then please, go on ahead and enjoy if you can.

IONICLUNCH

--

"Sir?"

Mike Angelo looked up front his desk, leaving an oily stain on the glass surface. Slowly he stood; his wrinkled and smudged suit trying awkwardly to straighten with the space he was giving it. He gave the visitor his best smile, which looked more like a grimace, and motioned for him to sit down.

"It's about the Vian case sir."

Of course it was, the last two weeks of his life had been all about the Vian case. Everywhere he turned the deceased family name followed like a spreading mold on his office wall. He flipped folder after folder, each holding pages of the same names and dates and profiles. He was sick of it, and he was sick of everything to do with it.

He sighed slowly and wound his hands together in front of him, back hunched against his chair. How could he have expected this visit to not have anything to do with that accursed trial? No, it was a foolish hope. That was another word going through his mind recently. Foolish.

This man in a suit, his visitor, knew of his sour mood. His name was Rhett Haply, and the air of depression and hopelessness had grown contagious around the offices of acclaimed prosecutor Michael C. Angelo. For example, Rhett hadn't bothered to shave or comb when he got up today; he knew his employer would not care, for he had yet to shave or comb himself ever since the trial.

"What about the Vian case?" said Mike in a voice that wasn't his own, but one of a more aged, impatient man whose apathy had taken hold of him.

"They've set a trial date for the suspect of the murder." Rhett was unsure how this news would be taken. For the last two weeks, Mr. Angelo had reacted strangely to things. He would blink at the most horrid of news stories and accusations and throw things in rage at the simplest mention of smaller matters. Thankfully, he was not reacting toward the latter. He blinked and reached out to grab whatever papers Rhett had been asked to deliver to him.

"I don't have anything on paper." Rhett said to the open hand. "It's a simple request from the head prosecutor."

"Intriguing," said Mike Angelo, who sounded as if they were two strangers making meaningless small talk. "What is this request?"

Rhett was feeling uncomfortable at the unblinking gaze of his employer, who had hunched lower on his desk, his folded hands hiding his obvious frown. "T-they want you to prosecute."

Mike had not been expecting that. His eyes showed genuine surprise and he sat back, revealing his expression of suspicion. "It should be pretty obvious that I cannot." He said simply. "The last time I was in court the victim of this current event was shot in the head and killed. I also saw the person who did it. And that person has been walking in and out of my nightmares as conveniently as if he were walking in and out of a barber shop." He let his own bizarre words sink in, his mind flashing wildly.

Rhett had been instructed on how to respond to any sign of a refusal, but his memory was starting to wane as his employer stood from his desk and walked to his office window; muttering to himself and staring into the congested streets below.

"The thing is, you're right." Mr. Haply started. "We are all well aware of your involvement, and we have pulled strings to insure that the prosecutor in this case be the finest the city can offer, due to the high profile and unstable conditions of the crime." He checked back on his words. He sounded very official, almost superior to the man pacing in front of him; which he thought might have been a mistake.

"Then why are you coming to me?" Mr. Angelo stated, looking to his ceiling. "I was once a great prosecutor, but I was never the best. And even now in what is to be the defining depression of my career, I'm still being called to prosecute when I want nothing more to do with this whatsoever?"

He was becoming more vicious, his pace quickened and his voice sharpened. He was clenching his arms behind his back and muttering more profusely. Rhett was beginning to doubt the decisions of the head prosecutor himself. This was no longer a brilliant attorney; this was a deranged madman plummeting ever deeper into insanity.

"We weren't going to put you on this case. Believe me, it was the farthest thing from our minds." He was sounding too official again; he bit his tongue before continuing, "We originally were going to put another prosecutor on the case, a rather famous one. But he refused."

"Refused?" This was a very high profile case. Any prosecutor in his right mind (which Mike Angelo wasn't) would kill to have authority over it. "Why would he?"

"Because he knows of you, and made specific mention of your name. He said he would only be involved if you were."

Mike sat down, suppressing an urge to throw something. This conversation was becoming more and more mentally exhausting. "Who is this person," he clenched his hands together until they almost became white. "Who would make such a condition?"

"Your old mentor," said small, unimportant Rhett Haply, "Mr. Miles Edgeworth."

--

Gordon Truth shivered in the warmth of his small, stuffy apartment. The bed of the prestigious defender was covered in all manners of sheets and comforters of conflicting patterns, tightly wound against the frail body squeezing his eyes shut under the pressure of two pillows stacked above his head. The room was dark and the blinds had been covered with fabric, blocking all sunlight. His alarm clock had long since been disconnected hours before when Gordon yanked it out of the wall and threw it into his closet, desperate for no amount of light to touch him. His door showed attempts of being boarded before someone had given up and decided that locking and bolting the door had been good enough. He was half-tempted to call Judy Ryut, who had suffered because of a similar situation before. But he decided against it. Judy, it seemed, had grown unimportant. She was not his, she was never his, and the only relevance she ever had was in his past. He had forced himself to forget about her.

Forgetting his sister, Clara Truth, had been impossible, for she was directly relevant and most at risk for attack. Before he had retreated into his room, he called the taxi service, instructing them to take her back home to her parents at once. It might have been the most painful thing in his life to watch his sister literally being dragged out of the doorway, desperately trying to stay with her brother. But her tears and screams failed to register with him. He could only sit on the couch and watch, half-heartedly with drooping eyelids as Clara kicked several men and broke several of his things in rejection of his sending her away.

He had turned off his phone, unplugging it and destroying it. He had permanently gotten rid of his cellular by disassembling it and flushing the parts down the toilet. His computer lay forgotten with a shattered monitor and frayed wiring in the corner of his room, where it sat quietly beyond all repair.

At last he had accomplished the goal of being completely and totally alone. And it was killing him.

He was not alone in his thoughts, however. In his mind he was a bartender at what looked like a small, old west saloon in Nevada. He gazed around the wooden building, it felt very real. He knocked on the wooden counter, feeling the slight pain, feeling the texture of the wood. He nodded, he must have fallen asleep. He was dreaming.

He had once looked forward to the day when he realized he was dreaming. Lucid Dreaming, he had researched, was when one could control everything in the dream when they became aware that they were dreaming. He had thought about what would happen if one night he finally found out his night-time stories were unreal and completely up to him to refine and shape. But he did not call into being a roller-coaster ascending into space, a cape or a city to protect for a few hours, or even a beautiful woman whose face and features were limited only by his imagination. He desired none of those things. He desired to be alone, but his heart desired something else. He turned to his right to find his heart standing next to him in the saloon; arms folded over the counter-top, wearing a ball cap with no team's name on it. His heart nodded to him and said. "You need closure."

Gordon nodded, suddenly realizing that he had a very nice handlebar mustache and brown leather vest to compliment his new western setting. "I guess you're right." He said, his voice filtered through what seemed to be a mandatory 19th century old western drawl.

At those words his heart nodded and vanished, leaving behind a bottle. Gordon looked at the label on the bottle, which read "the past". He left it there, for he feared what was inside it.

The doors to the saloon flew open as a rather tall, muscular figure in an overblown cowpoke sombrero dramatically stepped inside. He had wavy blond hair and twinkling blue eyes, complimenting his slightly dirty jeans. He sauntered to the counter where Gordon was standing and took off his hat so Gordon could recognize him. It appeared the first step to closure, the thing his heart wanted so badly, was to talk to his old friend and colleague, Mike Angelo.

Angelo rested his boots under the counter and spun the spurs on his left. He smiled at Gordon and said. "I'd like some 'the past' please."

Gordon somehow knew what that meant. But as he reached for the bottle his heart had left Mike waved him off. "Not that damned bottle you dad-gummed eejot. It's been opened, I don't wanna be drinkin' some other folk's backwash."

Gordon smirked at the corny dialogue. He instinctively reached under the counter and found another bottle of "the past". He casually handed it to his friend and watched him open it and take a long swig.

Mike made a satisfied, pleasing sound as he finished the bottle in one gulp. "Friend, you have no idea how much I needed that." He smiled and flipped him a nickel. "Why don't you have one on me?"

"Naw, you know I caint be drinkin that bottle there Mink. Blasted stuff's too strong for this cowboy." He smiled wider at his own dialogue. It was a wonder this was all coming from his imagination.

"Well, one day you'll realize you need this stuff," said Mike, who apparently was called Mink in this dream. He slid his bottle aside and asked for another, which Gordon supplied.

"Lookie here Gord'n." said a slightly tipsy Mink. "What happened wasn't your fault."

For a second Gordon didn't know what to make of that. The truth hit him like a bullet. He had almost forgotten this was a dream, and the problem outside of it that was causing him to shut himself in.

"Mink, you know as well as aye do that I shore 'nuff killed that girl wit my own two hands." At a loss of what to do, Gordon picked up a small glass and started wiping the inside with a wet rag. "I'm the one who told her to testify. It's my own dad-gummed fault she's dead."

"Sumin' tells me that girl woulda ended up dead whether you told her to testify 'r not Gordon." Mink took another swig of his third bottle of "the past" and swallowed with some difficulty.

"Well, maybe yer right," said Gordon, although he didn't believe it. He looked at the bottle of "the past" his heart had left. For some reason it pained him to even look at it. He turned away, thinking about the musty taste of it. "This has happened before you know."

"Course I know. I was there weren't I?" Mink shook his blond mustache uncomfortably on his lips, as if he wasn't used to it. "I helped you find the truth, you were a hero you know."

"Yeah, for how long." The taste in his mouth was bitter and strong, as if he were drinking something foul. He glanced at the bottle again with a sneer of hatred. "I ended up hurting everyone close to me."

"Wudn't your fault, pardner." Said Mink, tipping his hat. "It was that black-haired varmint with them fancy clothes."

Before Gordon could inquire what he meant by that, Mink flipped him two more nickels and left his stool. "I'm gonna go rest over there at that table. Wake me if you need me."

A small poker table with a maroon fabric ring on the edges materialized in the back corner of the saloon. Over it was a tin sign on the wall bearing the words, "the present". As Mink entered the light radiating by a primitive light hanging by a wire above the table, his old west clothes melted away, replaced with an orange jacket and a white t-shirt. And as he sat, a very strange and un-Mikeish sour expression intruded on his face. He quickly put his face down and covered it with his arms. Gordon continued wiping his glass.

Mike Angelo didn't seem to have a lot to say. He understood it though, despite him being the prosecutor of the Vian case and his small involvement with the past (something that he seemed to think he really needed), he didn't have much of anything to do with his present problem. He couldn't deny it was comforting to be reassured by an old friend, however. He turned to his right, and found that his heart had returned.

"Is that enough?" he asked his heart.

"Maybe. No. It could be," said his heart without moving his lips, "you have another customer."

Gordon hadn't realized it, but another person had found his way into the saloon. He was wearing an old-timely business suit, complete with black bow-tie and bowler hat. His mustache was curled at the ends, like an old gentleman in a silent movie. His grey eyes met Gordon's and he sighed. "How ya doin' boy?"

It was the voice of his old mentor, Benjamin Bell, his face almost unrecognizable under a large monocle over his right eye. Gordon gasped and almost bowed before catching himself.

"Back from the dead, Billy Bell?" he heard himself say.

"Not quite yet, son. Not quite yet." He hunched over the counter, something was definitely on his mind. "Can I have a bottle of 'the past' please?"

Gordon handed him one, but as soon as the bottle was in Bell's hands, he hoisted it by the neck and smashed it on the edge of the counter top. Glass flew everywhere and the bitter liquid splashed and sprayed all over the two men. Gordon jumped back, "What the hell is wrong with you!?"

"Why don't you just calm yerself down there," said Billy Bell. He took out a glass and poured himself a bit from Gordon's heart's bottle of the past. As he set the bottle back down, he brought out a gun with his other hand and took another swig, pointing the gun nonchalantly at Gordon.

"W-what…" but Gordon was at a loss for words.

"Calm down, I said," he took another swig. "Don't you know I've been appointed as this town's new sherrif? This gun ain't fer you, son. Just keeping it out so's not to be bothered by any rascally types."

Gordon found himself breathing too hard. He relaxed to slow his heart rate and continued wiping his glass. "What the hell are you doing coming into muh saloon and breakin' my here bottles? Lot's o' people really want this stuff and I caint have anyone, even 'Sherrif's' doing anything crazy like."

"I just can't stand the stuff Gordon," said Benjamin, "at least not my own. Yours seems to be doing me alright though." He took another sip from his glass and rubbed his mustache.

Gordon felt suddenly defensive of his own past. He took the bottle, still about half full, and placed it on the shelf behind him, even though it burned when he grasped it. "Judgin' by yer current behavior, I'd say you had 'nuff, sir."

Billy Bell leaned back. "It's not easy being where I am right now. Sherrif? Damn it son, the last thing this place here needs is someone like me in charge. Didn't they know I'd screw it up?"

A note of desperation hit his voice and he grasped Gordon by the collar of his shirt. "Didn't they know I would? I hate 'em, every last one of 'em! And they appoint me as sherrif! It's a god-damned insult! I caint even do anything about my brother! He's dead, and I know they were the ones who did 'im in! And I have to ANSWER TO THEM!"

He slumped back into his stool, obviously groggy, eyes beginning to droop. For the first time in his life Gordon felt pity at his once great mentor. The one who could never lose a case, the incorruptible defense attorney Benjamin Bell, his partner and friend, reduced to this. But that was the question, wasn't it? What was this? What exactly had his colleague been reduced into?

"You lost that case on purpose," said Gordon. He put his glass and rag down and stood both his arms upright on the counter, leaning forward slightly. "The one where you had to defend someone suspected of being a member of NYM. You threw the case."

"I know, I know… it was stupid of me. Stupid." Benjamin almost toppled off of his stool, he held himself up by gripping the counter top with his palms and wrapping his legs around the stool pole.

Gordon looked at his missing friend. "I bet NYM didn't like that, huh? That's why you went missing after that case."

"Yer getting there." Billy Bell winced his eyes and raised his left brow. "You better stop though, if you keep going this way you might find a certain truth you would be better off not knowing…"

But before he could say another word, Billy Bell toppled off his chair and made a loud noise as his shambling body hit the hard wooden floor. Gordon's eyes flew open and he hopped over the counter to tend to his customer.

"Partner! Are you okay? Are you feeling alright?" He slapped his cheek, trying to get up to come to. "Hello! Wake up!"

The man underneath him coughed and bubbled at the mouth. "Table…" he said. "Table." He pointed at the lit-up area where Mike Angelo was sitting and coughed again. Gordon nodded and picked Benjamin up by the shoulders. He noticed while he was dragging the limp body of his partner toward the present that he could smell the hideous stench of his own past on his breath. He threw him down on the floor next to the table under the light, where his old-timely business suit melted away. It was replaced by a more modern grey suit, bunched around his armpits and stained with blood. His fancy mustache became a much dirtier and unkempt one. The kind of mustache formed when one doesn't shave for weeks. Gordon left him there and returned to his counter-top, picking up his glass and rag once more. He glanced up at the limp body of his mentor and noticed that rusty shackles had former around his legs and wrists. He discounted it and continued cleaning.

Benjamin Bell had been his new best friend. He had found Gordon as soon as he graduated law school and passed the bar, almost immediately inviting him to partner. Gordon had seen it as his big break, his one shred of god-given luck that would catapult him away from his horrible past life and friends and conflicts. But apparently, it was not to last. After his second case Benjamin Bell had vanished, becoming a topic of gossip and suspicion among the rumors of his throwing his first and only NYM case… He had become just another one of those affected by Gordon's curse, the curse that affected anyone close to him. The same curse affecting him since he had stepped into high school. He stole another glance at his bottle of the past on the shelf behind him and almost understood why Benjamin had ordered one, if only to destroy it. Apparently Benjamin wasn't his deliverance from his past at all. In fact, from what Gordon could tell from his scent, he was covered with it.

Gordon's heart returned, this time wearing strange makeup resembling a member of some forgotten glam rock band from the 80's. It looked at him and said "sup".

"I don't know," answered Gordon. "I don't understand this dream at all. I think I might like a rollercoaster or pirate ship instead. This has gotten too painful."

"I understand, this seems like enough," said his heart thoughtfully. It looked at the ceiling in deep concentration. "I think I've got enough closure."

But before Gordon could change his surrounding into something more pleasant, the doors of his saloon were flung open again, and this time it wasn't a friendly visitor. He was gripping a desert eagle in each hand and wore a red bandana over his mouth, which wasn't hiding the fact that he was smiling. His black hair laid untidy without a hat upon it and his vest held the title of 'governor' stitched onto the chest. He was, compared to the others, the most fancily dressed. His neat shirt was finely tucked into his belted church pants, the buckle carrying three letters neatly threaded into it, 'NYM'.

"Hands up, Gordon Truth."

Gordon let the glass slip and shatter beneath him as his arms shot upward, the familiar stranger coming closer and closer. "Your dream has just become my greatest nightmare."

"Hold it."

Both men at the table stood up, the light had gone out and they both returned to their old western wardrobe. Mike Angelo stepped forward, his mustache whistling left and right under his sombrero. "This here is my friend, and if I must say y'all have ta go through me if you wanna get ta him."

"Do-able," said the black-haired varmint with the fancy clothes as he shot the man with his left gun. Mink obviously had not respected such a sudden attack and his eyes flew open. He dropped to his knees slowly, bending backwards until his balance was lost and his body careened to the floor, his knees snapping sickeningly. Billy Bell gasped and jumped in horror at the newly deceased body next to him, turning wildly to face the attacker.

"You, but the governor…"

"I'm the governor now," said the stranger with the heaviest accent yet. "The old one stepped down after I did some 'persuadin'."

Billy Bell drew his gun, but Gordon could not have ever guessed that Benjamin would point the gun not at the enemy in front of them, but directly at Gordon himself. Sweat poured off his friend's face and his hand shook with franticness but his grip remained steady. Gordon's mouth hung open, all other parts of his body becoming numb with fear and shock.

"Wha-, but… Ben…"

"I can't do anything about it. Sorry Gordon, but I answer to the governor and the governor only…"

"What are you doing!? I'm your friend, your partner! We've been working together for years!"

"You think I can do anything about it! He has my brother!"

Gordon's bewildered expression flipped from one stranger to the other. "But, you said your brother was dead!"

"He's as much as dead, the state he's in now!" said the darkly dressed governor with a burst of laughter. "And he'll be dead within minutes if Billy Bell here don't do as aye say! So now, why don't you prove your loyalty to me and shoot your best friend here so he don't be meddling in my affairs no more!"

"No, Ben, don't."

Gordon didn't have time to blink. The bullet plunged directly into his heart, piercing his lungs and shattering his rib cage. He watched helplessly as his heart withered and died, it hadn't disappeared like it was supposed to, and now it had been killed. He kneeled down beside it and saw its last breath.

"Gordon!"

All three men jumped. The doors flew open again and another person walked inside. He was a figure gleaming in light and beautiful in all ways imaginable. The brightness cast by it reflected on all three men and they all melted away until they were replaced. Gordon looked down and saw his brown suit sticking to his body drenched in sweat, Benjamin was kneeling on the floor, hands shaking, biting his knuckles and squeezing his eyes shut, and the villain, whose bandana had long fell away, began to scream in pain.

"Gordon! Drink the bottle! Save yourself, save Mike, for god's sake, save Ben!" yelled the angle. Gordon flung himself around to face his past, the bottle becoming wider and wider until he could fit an entire house in it. He glanced once more at the figure behind him, his savior, his last hope…

The face of Theodore Bell gleamed at him, the long crusty hair browned and withered. The same face plaguing his dreams for all these years. Gordon nodded and, with some difficulty, plunged himself into the giant bottle, drowning his lungs with bitterness until his vision went blank.