Posted originally on the Archive_of_Our_Own at https://archiveofourown.org/
works/4910557.
  Rating:
      Explicit
  Archive Warning:
      Major_Character_Death, Rape/Non-Con, Underage
  Category:
      F/M, Gen, M/M
  Fandom:
      逆転裁判_|_Gyakuten_Saiban_|_Ace_Attorney
  Relationship:
      Amano_Yurie/Kamiya_Kirio_|_Adrian_Andrews/Celeste_Inpax, Amano_Yurie/
      Outorou_Shingo_|_Matt_Engarde/Celeste_Inpax, Amano_Yurie/Fujimino_Isao_|
      Juan_Corrida/Celeste_Inpax
  Character:
      Outorou_Shingo_|_Matt_Engarde, Amano_Yurie_|_Celeste_Inpax, Fujimino_Isao
      |_Juan_Corrida, OCs, Himegami_Sakura_|_Dee_Vasquez, Kamiya_Kirio_|_Adrian
      Andrews
  Additional Tags:
      Backstory, Explanation, Explanation_of_Canon, Childhood, Phoenix_Wright
      Kink_Meme
  Stats:
      Published: 2015-10-01 Updated: 2015-10-02 Chapters: 3/? Words: 13191
****** Climbs to Fall ******
by LadyLuckDoubt
Summary
     Someone on the Kink Meme asked for an explanation of what lead to the
     bad guys in the AAverse becoming what they did, and my first thought
     was one of my favourite bad guys, Matt Engarde.
     I'm going to be blunt: this is not a happy story. I know that's
     probably no surprise given it's one of mine, and the vast majority of
     what I write is a bit messed up, but this is a whole cocktail of
     awfulness. While I have tried to not get too graphic, there ARE
     references to child sexual abuse and prostitution, there is drug
     addiction, non-consensual sex, there is swearing and people use
     homophobic language and there are mental health issues and ultimately
     the viewpoint of an industry, and a character within it, which is
     very very very damaged and unhealthy. Point I'm trying to get at: if
     any of this sounds at all triggering, I'm glad you bothered reading
     this, because if anything I've written deserves a flashing neon sign
     proclaiming "TRIGGER WARNING," it's this.
Notes
     As I said in the summary, I wanted to explain the complication and
     nastiness that is Matt Engarde.
     Matt's charming and manipulative, an actor who can turn on the charm
     at will and keep his demons quiet for most of the time, but who has
     some self-destructive tendencies which are close to terrifying when
     they come out in-game. Beneath the warm exterior, there seems to be
     nothing but bruised, fragile ego and a hollowness that allows him to
     think nothing of the people who get wrapped up in his plans.
     Matt's case interested me so much: what exactly GOT Matt to the point
     he got to, and where the hell did Celeste and Adrian and Juan fit in
     with the whole story? There were a lot of damaged people behind
     everything, and because of the game's focus (Phoenix's point of
     view), we only got glimpses of subtleties surrounding a whole range
     of other characters: Matt, Juan, (and their rivalry!), Celeste,
     Adrian, and even Edgeworth... and ALL of these people clearly had
     issues going on, but none of that was explored.
     I ultimately see Matt as a complicated person, a mess of seemingly
     incompatible contradictions: he doesn't give a shit, but he cares SO
     MUCH that the slightest slight sends him into a rage; he is young and
     successful but lacks any kind of ability to look after himself; he's
     too old for his years but completely childlike; he's made his fame
     and fortune on being pretty and an actor but he's bitter as all hell
     that he's expected to be that character, as much as those he's paid
     to play... yet the only way he really knows how to function is when
     he's playing someone else or feels he has a script. He's full of life
     and energy, if only to stave off the dead inside sense of existence
     that he has.
     To me, that's the "two-facedness" people are seeing in his character-
     - I've seen it interpreted more literally a lot of the time. In the
     same breath I'm calling Matt a cocky little shit, I'm also saying
     he's as fragile as the thinnest of ice.
     Anyway, I hope you enjoy this.
      
     P.S. Title is a play on one of my favourite REM songs, which I seem
     to think suits it.
***** One *****
June 1st, 1997
Another one. Meant to be a girl but not, that final exit before the family deal
was sealed and closed. His mother closed her eyes and sighed; the labour was
over. The baby was alive. But she'd done this before, each time a variation on
the last. There was an uncomfortable realisation of guilt that this no longer
had the drama of the twins or the wonder of Luke's arrival. In the back of her
mind, she could already hear the jeers of neighbours-- "Can you get any
more mick than these guys?" It had been hours after they'd filled out the
paperwork, and she almost regretted it now; she was still in that haze of pain
and adrenaline and the drugs they give you when the former isn't alleviated by
the latter when she signed off on it.

Matthew. A joke really; John and Mark were the twins, named after his father
and hers; Luke was in memory of his brother who'd passed on when he was only
young; the joke was that they should fill out the square and include a Matthew.
It was even and traditional: it wasn't like naming your children after the
Beatles or a sitcom cast. 

Matthew: an afterthought. Not unwanted at all, no, definitely not, but when she
admitted it to herself, hard to become excited about. At least the boys would
be happy: they all wanted a little brother, not a sister. 



2003
"Matthew, can't you go play with your brothers?" 

"I wanna watch TV."

The look on his mother's face was one of exasperation. The older boys
entertained themselves outside; the twins were the typical outdoorsy boys, star
athletes-- if it involved activity, they were doing it. Luke was Luke; lacking
their coordination and ability to pick up whatever was the sport of the moment,
but always happy to join in. Their mother didn't know entirely what they were
doing outside, but it involved a ball, running and scoring and screaming, a
somewhat smaller and interesting interpretation of football. It was noisy, but
it was happy noise, contrasted by manufactured happiness from the voice on the
television in the living room.

"What are you watching?"

An old Sunday afternoon movie, the sort of thing run for people who have
nothing better to do than stay inside, accented with frequent commercial
breaks.


Her youngest son shrugged. "TV."


"Why don't you play outside?" His mother tried the encouraging voice. "I'm sure
they could do with another player?"

"Don't wanna."
 


2006
When James Alto won the lead role of the school play, Matthew wanted to kill
him.

James wasn't anyone special: sure, he was tall, but he moved with the kind of
embarrassment and awkwardness of a foal unaccustomed to its body; sure, all the
girls said he was good looking, but in a few years that cherubic face would be
marred with acne and his voice would be just as out of control as his body
was. 

There was a special insult in being made the side kick character, the best
friend, the one who stood in the shadows for comic relief in comparison
to that. Matthew knew he was the better actor: and he often wondered if the
teachers had realised it moments too late as they watched James struggle
through lines during rehearsal. Matthew could recite the entire play with his
eyes closed. He'd been cast as James' understudy, should anything go wrong on
the night; his own part could be... edited, the teachers had said. 

For the entire four weeks leading up to the play, Matthew prayed that James
would break an arm or sprain an ankle. It wasn't fair, and his family would all
be seeing this, his high school brothers embarrassed at being dragged along to
a little kid's play.
 
No one was more embarrassed than himself, on opening night, when not only had
James failed to need an understudy, but Matthew was the sidekick to such a
loser. It was an insult. 


 
2008
They only saw some relatives once a year, and Matthew knew that you were always
polite and charming. 

"How's football?" Uncle George always addressed them by descending age, and
Matthew waited, hair combed, best clothes on, for when he'd receive that moment
of acknowledgement. 

"Great-- we're trying out for the team next--"

He waited. Luke was sitting next to him, fiddling and stupid, awaiting his
question when the football talk died down-- "And Luke? What's happening with
you, buddy?" 

"Not much, Uncle George." Hair ruffled and a knowing smile to their mother.
"They're always like that at this age." 

"And Matthew-- you've grown so much since I last saw you." 

Another insult. Of course he'd grown in the space of a year, but not enough. He
was still short and skinny in comparison to everyone else; he liked to think of
himself as lithe and otherworldly in the depths of his fantasies, but the truth
was, he was just a small, skinny kid with accomplishments that never lived up
to everyone else's.

"You're becoming quite the handsome young man," Aunt Linda commented, but that
was really to his mother and not him. Accordingly, she turned to their mother.
"You need to watch this one; he'll be breaking hearts in a few years." 

He wasn't sure if that was a compliment or an insult, so he took it as a
compliment. 



2010
In the privacy of his fantasies, he was someone special. He wasn't the lanky,
moody, short teenager with the copper hair and the intense (people always used
the word "intense" when they didn't know of a nice way to describe something,
he'd noticed) brown eyes and the older brothers of football fame.
He was a star in his own right: he wasn't a team player like the others were;
he was better. He wasn't going to forge his way into college with a sports
scholarship or work in Dad's factory when he was old enough: this family had
such ordinary ambitions, but he was destined for something greater. He knew it,
he could see it. None of the others did. 

At school, he blended into the mass of hundreds, but he had one thing none of
the others had: ambition.
For him, it wasn't about landing the lead role in a school play; he wanted the
billboard posters and the lights and the glory that came with film promotion,
he wanted the lead role in the top-rating comedy-drama on TV which everyone
talked about. He needed a better name. His was... so common and dull:
acceptable for footballers and factory workers and all-American heroes, but...
he was better. He'd watched other actors, amassed a list of potential names for
himself, but all the good ones had been taken. He had to be special, he had to
be noticeable.
He already knew he was going to leave this, returning to this boring suburb
only when he was recognised by millions and had a leading lady on his arm, when
he could casually talk about his millions and high rolling lifestyle, when his
brothers would be silent and stunned by his limousine, his driver, his
assistant, his family captivated by his stories.

At thirteen, he had started planning for his future.
 
 
2012
"I don't care what you do with yourself any more." It was his mother's
exasperated voice, tearful and hoarse. "Obviously we're not good enough for
you-- your father and I--"

"When he's home. All he's done is put mediocre food on table and fuck off to
drink at the bar so he can avoid us. I'm supposed to be grateful for this?"

"You listen to me, Matthew-- when you have kids of your own one day--" She was
close to crying again. 

"I won't. I'm not going to screw up like you did-"

"You'll change your mind about that, mister. Or something will happen." There
was a viciousness in her words then, something implying that he'd repeat their
mistakes and that he was powerless to change the fact. 

"Unlike you and Dad, I learned about safe sex in school."

And that was when she slapped him. Like he was the one being hysterical. 

Gripping his face and determined not to cry, he glared at her. "I'm outta
here, Mom. Hope your football star sons and Luke the Loser are enough to
fulfill your unrealised dreams." And with that, he'd pushed past her and
stormed upstairs.

Gasping heavily-- this was surreal, this was like something out of a movie-- he
climbed the stairs and pushed the door to his room open. He'd been packing; the
fights over the years with their increasing viciousness, the distance and
drinking from his father, the way his brothers were in stages of growing up and
how they all still neatly fitted together-- and he was the odd puzzle piece
that belonged to a different picture-- had grown hideously clear to him.
He'd been expecting a fallout like this, though with his father, not with the
woman who always stood up for him. Mom was weak and stupid and simple. Mom
never understood him. He frustrated her, he could tell that much, but it wasn't
his fault. They didn't understand: none of them did. He was destined for better
things and they were like a ball and chain, securing him to this house, this
suburb, this drudgery. Mom would defend this shit with her life.

Grabbing the backpack under his bed-- there were clothes in there, a second
pair of shoes, and money-- sweet freedom, saved carefully from working cash-in-
hand at the factory after hours and then from that job at the video store
after-- and sometimes instead of-- not that Mom knew about that-- school, it
was enough to propel him interstate and into the limelight.

He was young, he was attractive, he was ambitious. And unlike other people his
age, he wouldn't be constrained by stupid parents making him go to school or
telling him that acting couldn't be a fulltime job because he was too young. He
had to do this early, make a name for himself. Teenage heart throb and then
Serious Actor. Maybe a kids' show in between. He'd be that story of starting
out with nothing and making it big; one of the stories the tabloids loved. He'd
be photographed in mens' coffee table magazines reclining on a black leather
sofa with a glass of brandy in one hand, a casual, affected look on his face,
refreshing yet intense, as words accompanying the article described what he'd
told an interviewer. "I always wanted to be an actor." False humility, because
people like that: "But I never thought the dream would come true." There'd be
photographs of him moodily leaning against walls, peering at an unseen
audience, boring his gaze into their souls. There'd be classic photographs of
him in black and white, a kitsch nod to the film stars of earlier days, perched
on a motorcycle, beautiful and brooding.

He'd planned this. Not to leave in exactly this fashion, but it was
opportunity. His mother would never understand. His father and brothers
wouldn't care. He was better off gone and going away and doing what he needed
to.
He walked downstairs, backpack slung over one shoulder, a careful eye on his
mother in the kitchen. Mom was furious, and Mom had been crying. He almost felt
sorry for her. Perhaps there could be some reconciliation, he could leave on
good terms.

"What are you doing now?" The sneer and anger in her voice put him off.

"Leaving." 

He could hear the recently-departed tears in his mother's voice, but overriding
them was the rage and contempt. 

"Good luck with that." And she turned back to the oven, likely cooking
something made with store-brand food from a mediocre household budget, expected
to please an unpleaseable father and his stupid brothers who'd eat anything.

He wasn't going to let his mother know she'd gotten the better of him.

"Thanks," he said bitterly.

The flyscreen door didn't hit him on the way out.
 
 
5 hours later
He was surprised that no one had looked for him, but he relaxed when he
considered that Mom and Dad would probably not start worrying about him for a
few days at least. A few days to get himself set up doing something: the new
city was huge and warm and cluttered in a way that outer suburbia never was. 

Welcome to independence.

The money spent on the bus fare here still left a lot of change behind, and
smiling to himself, he opened his wallet as he walked down the street, studying
everyone. They all looked like they were here with a sense of purpose, like
they belonged, like none of this was special or exciting or different to them.
Matthew didn't want to look like a starstruck wannabe; and hoped that the
swagger in his walk and the airy casual way he avoided smiling too much made
him look like some Hollywood brat who always spent time in hotels like the one
he was headed into.


The man at the reception desk didn't even look at him with suspicion, though he
looked surprised by the cash appearing as payment for the room. He didn't ask
questions. He didn't ask for a name; he asked for a signature. With a large "M"
and a scribble which looked indistinguishable-- but sophisticated-- Matthew
hoped, he was given his key and some directions. With a generous tip (that's
what people do here, right?) he flashed a movie star smile at the man and
received one in return, suddenly changing his mind about the idea of the lack
of expression. He didn't want to be thought of as the spoilt offspring of movie
bigwigs, he was an up-and-coming star. He needed to shine brightly in whatever
light he appeared in. 


By evening, the novelty of the hotel room had worn off. He knew the high life
and the hotel wasn't sustainable, that he needed to find work before the money
ran out. But unsure of directions and not wanting to look stupid by asking
anyone anything, he headed across the road to the flash-looking bar with the
neon sign out the front, impressed with his maturity and ability to convince
the doorman not to ask for ID. 
 

Inside, it's dark but exciting; there's a movie star feel to it; this is where
he can-- what do they call it--? schmoozle and network with the right people.
There are people in here he's sure he's seen on television; talking, laughing,
dancing, drinking-- and there are men in suits having what seem to be important
discussions in a more secluded corner close to the bar.
In a boring looking shirt and faded shorts and sandals which he's hoped looked
effortlessly casual, he felt garishly out of place, and tried to work out how
to blend in.

Give the people what they want... It was that mantra which had won him the
praise and attention of various teachers and classmates when he was back at
school: it didn't matter what you were, but what they thought you were. And if
you could match your presentation and behaviour to their desires, you could win
over everyone. 

He ordered himself a brandy because brandy was sophisticated and expensive, and
he knew it came in a glass he could swish dramatically. And no one else seemed
to be drinking it; surely an attention-grabber. 

He was intrigued by the taste of the drink; fruity and sweet yet alcoholic, but
nicer than most booze he'd sampled in the past. With a glance towards the table
of men in suits, he wondered if he'd be spotted and discovered by someone. He'd
heard too many stories about people randomly being noticed by people with
influence while they were going about their regular activities; perhaps this
could be one such situation.
 
No one paid him any attention. Not the barman, who started eyeing him
suspiciously as he grew more and more unsteady and slow with the cash, not the
other patrons who were involved with their own associates, not the men deeply
in discussion, some of whom disappeared for awhile and returned jolly and
talkative in a way Matthew was puzzled by: he'd had the "Just Say No" talks in
school though presumed that they had been using drugs of some kind; but there
wasn't that sticky sweet sickly green smell of weed, and the men showed no
signs of scattered hyperactivity like the kids back home who did shards or
smoked crack. 

They're on cocaine, he thought to himself. Only rich people do cocaine. I am
around rich people. I need to be noticed by them. I need my big break.

But no one noticed him. He was disappointed and queasy, and decided that
returning to the hotel would be a better idea than spending the last of his
money in here and waking up with one hell of a hangover. This wasn't going to
be easy, but the idea of a challenge thrilled him. He knew when he broke
through that ignorance of him, it would be the best feeling he'd known. 

He just needed to work out how.
 
 
 
10 minutes later

The man has been staring at him for some time now, and it's mildly unnerving.
Matthew watched him-- effortlessly, hopefully-- as he shifted aside from his
group of associates, as they barrelled off down the street, leaving him alone.

Maybe he's about forty; he has the sort of face that plastic surgery can't
quite fix, ordinary looking dark brown hair, and the tell-tale sign of
yellowing fingers. His teeth look unnaturally white, and Matthew smiles
nervously at this. This man has image-- or at least, he's trying to have it.
And he appears to be waiting for something. 

Maybe he's looking for talent. Late at night, in the city-- who knows what you
might find? The moon, hanging in the sky above them is lumpy and yellow and
luminescent; it could be something out of a film set but it's all real. All
fake and real at the same time, Matthew thinks.

"Waiting for someone?"

The man's voice is friendly and warm: he could be an agent.

"Not really," he replies, hoping that his enthusiasm is blunted enough so all
this doesn't seem out of his depth. 

"I saw you in the bar before," the man admits. "I didn't actually spend that
long there myself-- we wrapped up a shoot late tonight--" He stops himself, and
Matthew wonders if he's noticed the way his face has gone slack with amazement-
- "so if you're not waiting for anyone-- care for a drink?" 

It would be weird, but the man was one of the men who'd returned to the
conversation cocky and talkative, and he offers an explanation. "And they say
that drinking alone is a sign of alcoholism."

"I was doing that," Matthew says, and instantly feels stupid, because somehow
it was the wrong thing to say. "Back... in there."
The man doesn't seem bothered, and he chuckles, shifting a bit closer to him.
He smells like crystalline leather and sunlight, Matthew thinks, which sounds
stupid. Evidently his preferred aftershave isn't available in your standard
suburban drugstore. 

"Let's keep you away from being labelled an alcoholic, too, then."

Something about his confidence and demeanor is so friendly and clear that it's
infectious, and besides the hotel staff jonesing for tips, no one's been kind
to him for what feels like an awfully long time now. This, he thinks as he
walks through the held-open door-- could be the start of something big. 

"So, on a break from college?" 

The door closes behind them. The murmur of voices rumbles through the hotel's
bar, and soft, inoffensive music plays in the distance. The bar is crowded,
though it's a different feeling to the last bar he was in.

"No." I'm not a tourist, damn you Matthew thinks angrily, realising that he's
going to need an improvised and convincing story post-haste. 

"Vacation?" 

"No-- I recently decided to move here." 

There's a smile in the man's eyes as they move through the bar. "To the sparkle
of the silver screen," the man says. "Not at all uncommon. Though I've seen
more leave with dreams shattered and broken hearts than those who make their
dreams come true." 

They sit at a small table towards the back of the bar. The stools around it are
too tall, and Matthew's feet don't touch the ground though he notices the man's
do.

"So what do you do?"
 
"I'm an actor." He says it so confidently that he starts to believe it. "I've
only done small things here and there though I thought I'd try and get serious
about my career." 
 

The man nods seriously, still smiling. "I'm surprised I haven't seen you on TV
yet," he says. And Matthew notices it; the expression, the way his eyes rove
over him, like a kid at a new school does, evaluating and categorising him. He
sucks in his breath: this is it. "I mean, you've definitely got the looks and
the experience if you've already worked--" 

Matthew wants to scream with joy. This was perfect. This was what he was
looking for. Instead he smiles graciously. "Thankyou."

"Look," the man says, "My friend's an agent-- he should be able to set you up
with something-- he runs others in your league, and he gets them work--" 

"Thank--"

Another distracted look from him, like it hardly matters. "How old are you,
kid?"

There's something about the way it's asked that makes Matthew know he'll lie,
and he'll lie well because if he doesn't, his chance is blown. Something about
this world screams to him that he needs to be an adult. Even the bar and its
no-underaged patrons policy suggests as much.

He flashes what he hopes is a casual smile. "Eighteen."
 
 
 
The Next Morning

He studies himself in the mirror and exhales slowly. He's already showered
twice and part of him is detached about it all: the haze of what happened is
too surreal, too wrong, too fucked up glamtrashtastic Hollywood cliche, too-- 

much like what actually happened last night.

He wants to pretend that it meant nothing and that he didn't remember, but he
does. The conflict gnaws at him as he turns away from the mirror and reaches
for the taps in the shower again. 

He doesn't like men. Not like that. He's not some kind of a fag. He thinks
about the way his brothers taunted him, how other kids did at school: to them,
though, fag was said with a curl of the lips and a jealous sneer, aimed at
anyone who showed a grain of intelligence and an interest in the arts.
Matthew's response was to unnerve them, to absorb the insult and walk away, or
to flirt slightly if he knew he was able to to outrun the bully. There was a
weird power in being able to do that, even though he wasn't actually like that.
It was all acting, wasn't it? Working for the audience.

The audience last night had been the man; he didn't come across as particularly
interested in other men, but a few drinks and a short walk and an elevator ride
upstairs had changed that, apparently. 

Half disgusted with himself, and half in awe of the sheer attention from the
man, Matthew was divided: the shower was a distraction, it was cleansing, it
was... 

Where the hell were his parents? Why had no one looked for him? He thought of
his pathetically backwards family and his mother's hostility only a few hours-
- now seeming like half a lifetime-- ago. He hadn't quite lost his virginity,
but he wondered with a nasty sneer what they'd think of what happened a few
hours ago. 

He still wasn't sure who'd been in control. Part of him was terrified and felt
sick; he was manipulated into this, wasn't he?-- another part of him-- sick as
it was-- relished the attention and the affection and the man's movements and
words. They fuelled him, they made him play a role. He wasn't some gangly kid
being called a fag by high school bullies in a stupid hick suburb full of
decaying spirits, he was glorious and nymph-like and the gaze and adoration
from his older companion felt like being under a spotlight for awhile.

He wasn't a kid: he was a man on the cusp; he was eighteen after all, wasn't he
(he privately relished the fact that he'd managed to fool him there) and able
to do things and bask in this sort of attention.

Even though he didn't swing that way. Even though the thought of doing that had
always been vaguely disgusting; somehow, in the right setting, it was doable,
when he was playing the role of someone else.

The man had slept with an arm draped over him, and he'd flicked the channels on
the pay-per-view, watching bits of infomercials and late night movies and
cheesy pornographic ads for sluts who'd show you their pussies on your mobile
phone for two dollars fifty. 

The whole night had been surreal.

He'd done things he didn't think he did, but he'd been smart enough to worm his
way of letting the man do what he assumed he was going to-- with a few murmured
compliments and a come-hither look with an open-mouthed pout. 

It hadn't been so bad, had it? It wasn't like this was going to happen that
frequently, this was just one off minor celebrity craziness. The man had
promised to introduce him to that friend at a party next week; all it had taken
was some coquettish looks and to suck him off and he was moving up in the
world.


The water rushed over him like heavy, hard rain, pelting him, entirely too hot
but cleansing. The heat and steam and all the alcohol he'd had last night and
the psychological whiplash from everything made him feel nauseous, though.

He leaned down, curling into the corner, allowing the walls to support him, hot
and sick and his head swirling with elation and self-loathing and confusion. 

And then his insides lurched, and he retched into the drain. Less than a moment
later and under the force of the water, the only evidence that remained was the
taste in his throat and the bizarre, dizzy memory of it.
 
 
 
That afternoon

He's slept for most of the rest of the day and the dying sunlight blazes
through his window, screaming for his attention. 

Things could be worse; he can still afford the hotel room, and there's
something so completely decadent about lying in bed like this, messy and filthy
and trashy and wrong in a kind of careless fucked up gritty kind of way. 

He's about to hit the big time and he knows it. 

He reaches for the remote by the TV and that's when he notices the money and
his eyes widen. Looks like he's been left a present-- which is probably more
than Mom and Dad had in the entire family's savings account. 

He smirks to himself. It's his. All his. Its arrival didn't come after two
weeks of sweeping disgusting floors in a massive, hot machine of a place which
smelled of unnatural chemical burning and hot metal, nor did it arrive after
standing on foot for eight hours a day pretending he cared about someone's
complaint about scratched discs or dissatisfaction with the title. The money
came from him being beautiful and adored. 

He considered it; sensibility overrode the desire to go shopping like a
celebrity, to buy designer shirts and live it up for a few moments. The hotel
could be paid for for awhile longer. 

Tomorrow, he'd get serious about finding work: he couldn't rely on a possible
lead in a week at a party.
 
***** Two *****
June, 2012

He's lost in the role to the point where he's forgotten what date it is. The
nights have become his days; he's nowhere near an actor, but he's near the
movers and shakers. Though the closer he gets the less he starts to care. This
has its perks in a way. There are no bullies, there’s coke, there’s booze,
there’s money that he never even knew existed, and for brief moments, he has
his audience and his adoration. 

"You're making more doing this than you would be starring in commercials," he's
told by one client, in such a friendly, casual manner that it could be a
perfectly ordinary afterschool job. But being an afterschool job would mean
he's going to school, not sleeping in til noon and spending the afternoon
deciding what to wear to which party. Most afterschool jobs don’t come with a
side-serving of worrying about STDs. 

Matthew—(or Matt as he’s started going by, because it sounds less formal and
more breezy and carefree—a partyboy who’s cute and fun and just out for a good
time—) just nods and smiles slightly; the music thumps in the background and
while he could almost be touched by the effort the client is making to be nice,
he's not, particularly; these guys don't want conversation, not really; it's
condescending. They want to feel wanted. That's his role, and he knows his
lines and gestures perfectly. 

He doesn't want their bodies in the way they want his, but word's travelled
about what he likes, and a giggle escapes him. Do these idiots really believe
he's eighteen, or is it just easier for everyone to avoid the reality of what's
going on? He doesn't care any more; they shouldn't be fucking him, but he
shouldn't be enjoying the perks of this life either. What came first, the sex
or the drugs? One fuels the other; the drugs keep him functioning and they put
a curtain between Matthew, the starstruck innocent and what he's turning into-
- the often nameless, mysterious young man with the brooding pout and the big
brown eyes and the ability to--

He stops the conversation, sliding into the space on the sofa next to the
client, blinking, eyes locked onto his. This guy pays well. This guy usually
has blow on him, too, and he's usually good about sharing it. 

"You're eager tonight, aren't you?" 
He's drunk enough to ignore the lecherous suggestion in the client's voice, and
his response is to lean slightly, shirt falling open a bit, exposing solarium-
baked skin and some slight muscle definition. Someone warned him if he worked
out too much he’d have to go the whole way because muscles aren’t big in the
scene. And in the next breath came the warning that he’d better not get fat,
either, but if he got skinny, they’d think he was using smack or some crazy
fucking shit which would make him a liability rather than the sweet, doe-eyed
kid everyone knew and loved. 
He runs a hand through his fringe. Apparently that’s sexy. He does it when he
realises he’s getting nervous.
Let's just get this over with--

"Perhaps we could do something a bit different?" 
Survival instinct kicks in and for a moment throws him off-guard. Matt's heard
stories from others in the game; the other young men, all of whom seem to be
mysteriously eighteen and trapped in time although some look a lot older and
some look even younger than he does. He's had a few odd situations, but nothing
too nasty. Though he's heard some shockers. When clients ask for something
different, they’re often testing boundaries. 

"What?" He hopes it doesn’t sound like a yelp of fear. Especially if this one’s
into that beady essem shit.

"I've heard you'd like to be an actor." 

At least it's nothing too weird. One of the others had bruises appearing on his
neck days later because a client had wanted to strangle him. Other guys had
said that their clients had wanted them to pretend to be dead. Someone else had
been made to wear a client's son's clothing. A few had done videos, Matt had
heard, there was reasonable money in it, and rumour had it that it sometimes
got your foot in a studio door later on. He wasn't sure if everyone clung to
that idea in the hope that things would improve, or if there actually was some
truth in it. It was a dream he could happily inhale. 
 
A blink and a smile. "I'm not sure what you're suggesting..." Play coy. That’s
what this one likes; to pretend that this all a one-off seduction from an
innocent, not that he relies on this much more frequently than he should. 

"Some friends and I were thinking of filming some of us partying with a few of
the better looking... regulars... in this scene." 

What did this man do? He had a way of making everything sound rather sanitised.
Denial. Denial. Denial.

"You want me to do pornos?" His smile had widened, and there was a flash of
teeth. The idea of pornos was always ambiguous to Matt—you’d be captured, on-
screen, forever, doing fuck-knows-what—and he was smart and aware enough to
realise that there were no blushing off-camera moments and soft lens
innocence—but the guys in pornos were adored. People knew them. People wanted
them. He wasn’t sure if being the object of the camera—or the subsequent
attention—was a greater fascination. 
He blinks again, doe-eyed and innocent. Perhaps he could seduce them into not
having to do anything too horrible.

The client frowns. There's always a sanitised way of talking about this. "Not
really," he says, a smile creeping onto his face as his hand 'casually'-- and
Matthew knows it's not casual at all-- brushes his thigh-- "It's--art. Just
capturing some of the fun we get up to for a select audience with discerning
tastes." 

Rumour amongst them says that this particular client is a political
speechwriter. Matt wonders if that's true, and if an entire population has
believed his lies and sugar-coating. Not that he cares-- though he feels a smug
sense of superiority realising that he's still smarter than most of the
population. 

He allows a hand to creep up to the client's chest, fingers mapping out where
things are. Of course this could be sweet, awkward touching designed to put the
client at ease or to derail a potentially awkward conversation neither wish to
continue. 

When Matthew's hands brush against a silken inner pocket and there's the
hardness of something there, his smile grows. He doesn't fondle the plastic
baggie for too long; no, that's tacky, and this client doesn't know him well
enough to know he's not a thief.

But he smiles all the same, realising that whatever he's going to say yes to
will be rendered an experience if the client has that much blow on him. This
one's generous. 

"Sure," he says. "Why not?"
The client smiles at him, a broad hand running over Matthew’s shoulders and
pulling him closer. “You’ll have fun,” he assures him. “I’ll make sure you do.
You’ll look great on camera.”
 
 
August, 2012
The noise and the confusion of the set is intoxicating. It’s been months, and
this wasn’t what he expected at all—but there is enough sleep and there are
enough drugs to blunt the effects of the pain and the horror—and amongst the
shit, there are cracks big enough to let the sunlight through. 
The cracks reveal what life might be like if he was an actor—you know, the
other kind, the kind who didn’t get pawed by men three times his age and have
to pretend that sucking someone else’s dick for the camera was, like, the most
enthralling thing ever. Sometimes all it takes is for someone to refer to the
hotel room—or the house—or wherever they’re filming— as a set, though, for him
to remember what this was really meant to be about and if he does enough blow
and sinks enough piss, then he can believe that he’s really a movie star.

He’s become much more blasé about things.
“What the fuck’s that?” 
It’s the director—or someone playing director—who notices the bruising. And
Matthew isn’t in the mood to explain—he’s still orbiting somewhere thanks to
the combination of things in his system, and he remembers someone telling him
that if you did certain drugs too frequently, the bruises stood out more
because the blood thinned and… and something. He giggles absently, rubbing his
neck. That motherfucking bruise is surreal—it’s not the first time someone’s
left a bruise on him, but it’s the first time it’s been that big.

And they don’t like bruises. Not in here.
He shrugs. No use explaining—the client two nights ago had been drunk and he’d
lost his shit and tried to strangle him. All in a day’s work. The director
doesn’t want to know about that.
“You keep bruising yourself up like that and they’re not gonna call you, kid.
They think we do it and no one likes child abuse, kid.” 
The director looks so earnest. Someone told Matt that when he’s not doing this,
he shoots commercials with a child modelling agency. Matt sometimes wonders
about those kids, and about their weird parallel universe: is it just like
this, completely depraved beneath the glamour and the neat cuts and edits, or
is it really the whole nine yards and picket fences and adorable families and
kids who would mistake blow for washing powder? Why don’t those kids have to
worry about bruising around their neck and downing pain killers to get through
the day and a niggling rumour that perhaps someone he’s going to be filming
with has hep C?

He giggles again, and spies a tell-tale box poking out of the corner of the
man’s shirt pocket. He’ll ask for a cigarette. The director will give him one.
He’ll smoke it with a coquettish smirk and the director will be seduced and all
will be forgiven and he’ll party tonight and make some more contacts and drink
until someone has to carry him to bed. It will make all of this godamned
horror—out of the corner of his eye he catches a glimpse of someone’s
sugardaddy paying a sickening level of attention to the set, and he feels
momentarily nauseous—worth it. So, so worth it.

“Hey,” the man says softly. A hand reaches out, his thumb and forefinger tilt
his chin upwards so they’re looking one another in the eye. “You’re cute—but
I’ve seen where this shit can take you if you screw up too many times.” 
Is it concern or is it a threat? At the moment, though, his head is foggy and
he’s cute. He’s different, he stands out, this guy’s noticed it. It’s enough to
make him not bother asking for a cigarette after all, and to nod and smile
vacantly. Cute doesn’t smoke. Cute has big doe-brown eyes and cute giggles and
plays innocent to everything. 

He’s cute. 
“Get yourself over to makeup and make sure you don’t come here again like that.
If you’re too much effort, they’ll just get someone else.”
He doesn’t ask for anything, but he remembers that conversation, even years
later. It’s then when he decides that he wants to be too much effort, and
indispensable.
 
 
 
September 19th, 2012
It could keep on going like this, but the body and the mind don’t like it.
Matt doesn’t get much warning; there are vague shadows of days and nights and
imperceptible figures, two, three, perhaps more than that but they’re lost
amongst the shadows and his own intoxication. There’s talk around the room
about him when they think he’s passed out, and he has but he hasn’t and it’s
like being underwater and hearing vague detached murmurs without seeing what’s
going on properly. He can hear them discussing him in terms of his work and his
use-by date, how there are newer faces coming into the scene who aren’t as
problematic and how everyone’s getting sick of him and the drug use is starting
to show.
 
“Kid looks like a godamned zombie,” someone jokes, and someone else makes a
joke about shooting necro. Someone else makes some comment about how some
people would do anything for a buck. 
“You’d like that, wouldn’t you?” one of them laughs, slapping his ass
playfully, as though suddenly they’ve realised he’s here; and it doesn’t even
hurt, it’s pressure without sensation. What hurts, what alarms him, is the
statement: he’s washed up. Inside the still numbness of his body, he’s
horrified and panicking. 

And it’s caught in an infinite loop; the drugs numb him into something almost
comatose, but he can hear their voices and he hates them and they’re all
laughing and randomly touching him and there are drug noises around him and
he’s a thing, not a person, not… anything. Even though he can only see black,
he isn’t asleep and he can’t sleep; all that he’s aware of is that he’s on his
way out and everyone’s sick and tired of him and there’s laughter and he used
to be hot and now he’s a nasty little junkie fuck and he’s not commanding high
fees any more which means at least he’ll broaden his horizons, winkwink, nudge
nudge, oh why is that so hilarious?
He doesn’t remember passing out, but he remembers waking up in the cold air
around him, reeking of stale semen and his own piss. He’s washed up. Already.
He’s not even legal.
Except he “is” and it’s all been a sugarcoated lie. 
 
 
December 23rd, 2012
Christmas out here isn’t like the Christmases back home. The weather is like
everything else; it’s not quite as severe and there’s a sort-of white-washed
fakeness to it, like it’s spray-on snow dusted over windows; it’s cold but not
really that cold. It’s Hollywood bullshit winter; like everything else, it
doesn’t cut so deep.
Christmas almost makes Matt think about going home, but home is impossible now.
Maybe Mom and Dad have stopped being so pissed, maybe they’re even looking for
him, but what they’re looking for won’t turn up anywhere. Their innocent, good-
kid pretty boy, Matthew, was someone else. He wore a dashing smile and went to
church on Sundays and was going to date a cheerleader who was as naïve as he
was. That kid has vaporised into thin air, Matt thinks as he looks across the
room at the company he’s keeping at the moment. 

Matthew wasn’t being fucked by guys old enough to be his father. Matthew wasn’t
able to hustle hundreds out of a client for a few hours. Matthew was actually a
virgin, not a Hollywood one. Matthew didn’t know the skyrocketing exhilaration
of cocaine, and how it could make every fucked up thing that you ever had done
into the best, most interesting joke ever. 
Matthew hadn’t seen the inside of rehab and met others, unlucky, unfortunate
souls who hadn’t made it out relatively unscathed as he had. Matthew, the
Matthew of Christmas past, would be sitting nervously in a corner at a party
like this, wearing that terrible blue-check shirt Mom said suited him because
Mom didn’t know any better and had no taste.
He’d be listening to relatives ask his brothers about football and his ears
would be pricked up waiting to hear that he was handsome. Matthew wouldn’t be
eyeing these guys from a distance, looking at the fishbowl on the glass coffee
table, teasing, rather than seducing anyone nowadays.
Matthew wouldn’t know what to do with a guy like Marlow, let alone how to make
him lose all manner of control. Matthew would have been horrified about someone
like Marlow, not exhilarated. And Marlow wouldn’t be interested in Matthew
either, because Matthew didn’t know how to suck dick and Matthew hadn’t done
countless features, and Matthew was a boring hick nothing with no life to move
onto. Matthew was square, not an exotic, fascinating being like he is. 

He decides at the party that he’s not ringing Mom and Dad, he’s going to get
high and have himself a merry little Christmas. Marlow has this friend, right,
who’s done some accounting work for a big studio; maybe he can have a talk to
him and shit and perhaps…

He remembers Walmart Santa Clauses, Christmas shopping and no one ever having
enough money to buy anything decent for anyone else. Christmas was like a table
of leftovers after a warehouse clearance sale. This year he’s got the latest
phone that was only just released and which no one can get their hot little
hands on, he’s wearing a gold necklace which feels serious and heavy, he’s
sleeping in the penthouse suite of a hotel where rooms start at five hundred a
night, and he’s never been in this sort of demand before. Maybe he’s not
shooting as many movies, and maybe he only has a select audience nowadays, but
he’s made it. 

Marlow’s accountant friend has a chat to him about giving him a job; at first
he makes it sound like something serious, like he should be stocking shelves or
delivering pizzas—like anyone around here eats pizza, anyway, Matt thinks
dryly—some kind of boring kid thing. But all he means is that they should get
him set up with a proper name and a tax file number so his earnings don’t
arouse any suspicion. The last thing anyone needs is his hot little ass getting
hauled into juvenile hall or worse because someone’s tax-evading. It’s almost
concern from the accountant, who won’t even charge for his work since Matt’s a
minor and all.
 
 
December 26th, 2012
No one’s in the hotel and they’re all visiting their families and the drugs are
wearing off and everything’s a wreck and what happens if mom and dad find him
and find out what he’s been doing or what happens if one of his brothers sees
him on the internet because everyone’s looking at him for the gag factor
of OMG, gay porn, and suddenly people realise it’s him and he hasn’t
disappeared, he’s just doing stuff that everyone in his former life would
denounce him for…
And there’s nothing on the fifteen million channels of cable in front of him
except some cheesy talent show re-runs and everyone’s favourite golden boy,
that fucking clean-cut twerp with the guitar who looks like something out of
the nineteen-godamned-fifties and who’s probably never seen another dick let
alone been fucked by one.
For some reason the fact that the kid has bad teeth and a sort of dopey look on
his face, and no discernible talent except for some mild musical training—and
the fact that he’s probably about fifteen or sixteen too—makes Matt feel a rage
and a loathing he’s usually able to dull with one substance or another.
There are no drugs at the moment. There is this hotel room, which he’s been
told he’s not meant to leave, there is that huge gala party thing coming up in
a few days which he needs to look hot for, and there is this fucking TV with
this fucking smiling dipshit of a pig-fucker smiling at him and being oh-so-
humble.

Matt’s not used to hating someone like this. And despite rehab, despite seeing
what could and does happen to kids on drugs, he’s not used to having to face
his hatred while sober or whilst coming down. He’s lonely and angry and bored
and he’s tired and sore and his head is throbbing and the room is full of
mirrors and TVs and shit--

 
Two mirrored doors are beyond recognition; a TV has been wrenched from the wall
and thrown against the ensuite, the drawers from the bedside table went out
through the window. Cleaning staff were screamed and sworn at and threatened—it
was every feeling, every rage and indignity he’d survived rising to the surface
in those isolated couple of days, it was blood smeared across the walls, it was
breaking and damaging everything to the best of his ability. It’s sitting on
the bed, the one island of softness and protection amongst a sea of shards and
the eternally broken. It’s howling at the moon and the fact that if he was a
girl he’d be rightfully called a slut and a whore and all the other things boys
call girls and that girls are in order to get attention and fame and money and
he’s no better than that even though he knows he is.

And it’s the gnawing hunger. The loneliness he can’t tear himself away from;
the longing for another person beside him, a pulse against his skin,
reassurance that he’s there and acknowledged by someone like that tree in the
forest that needs someone to hear it to make a noise when it falls. 

Even if that company comes with what it usually does nowadays. He can take
anything. He will do anything, as long as there’s some company in it. And
that’s the beauty and the shame of it all, really.
 
 
31st December, 2012
His new year resolution, as he watches the fireworks from the bridge, is to get
out of this shit.
He forgets the precise moment where anger turned to terror, but it was
somewhere between hearing Marlow and some of his business people talking about
how he was a godamned liability and that there was over twenty thousand in
damage, and that no piece of ass was worth that, and that they’d probably never
get a room like that there again. His outburst was costly and destructive, he’d
been offered rehab, and—
“You’re going to make it, kid.” Marlow tells him this with a grim, need-to-
prove-them-wrong determination because Matt knows that the hotel incident has
lost him face. Sure, they get expensive presents and attention and drugs, but
there’s a hidden code and contract. None of the others have pulled shit like
that, Marlow says, in a voice that suggests that he’s owed. 
Matt isn’t sure what the price will be, but he wraps himself around the man,
grateful that someone’s still there for him and that there is warmth and
attention against his skin. 

Since Christmas, since the discovery of his episode, everyone’s avoided him.
The clients are fearful because he’s unbalanced and risky and dangerous, the
other boys are fearful of him as though whatever he has is catching, and their
status will be affected by association with him. The girls on the side think
he’s crazy and that’s hilarious. No one gets too close to him. He wants to tell
himself that it’s like being exclusive, being too high up to touch, but he
despises himself. He’s going to make every single one of these idiots jealous
one day. 

And fireworks explode in the sky in front of them. He allows Marlow’s grip to
embrace him and his lips to move towards his ear. “Happy New Year,” he
whispers, though Matt’s not sure which one of them it’s really for. 
 
 
2015
The break comes when he isn’t expecting it, and with it comes re-encountering a
now-despised presence who has seemingly followed him around from TV screen to
billboard from the time he ran away. 
Juan fucking Corrida. 
Initially a child-actor who took some time off for study and to be a normal
kid, and who then got discovered playing guitar on one of those stupid hack
talent shows, Matt recognises him amongst the other hopefuls going to calls for
bit parts. So far, he’s hauled himself off to commercial shoots and a few crowd
scenes. Extra work is boring, but it pays the bills, nearly as well as his
night shift work. 

He hates Corrida even more because the guy—and yes, he is his age, which makes
him even more infuriating— doesn’t even need to be doing this. But he can
ignore Corrida, who is showing up as though to inspect the potential up-and-
coming competition—because Corrida is so fucking arrogant that he won’t notice
him. Until he does.
“I know you from somewhere, don’t I?” The kid’s voice sounds professionally
trained. Matt blinks, making the doe-eyed innocent expression he knows works on
clients and which sometimes worked on Marlow. 
“I think I’ve seen you at parties. I think. It was awhile ago...” 
It’s cruel, because Matt knows there is no way in hell they’d ever be in the
same room as one another. It’s just a subtle headfuck from a pampered little
shit. A little shit who could very well be him. Should be him.

He laughs, and while he’s doing that, he hates his submission. He despises
himself for quaking to this guy—who shouldn’t be intimidating, who isn’t as
attractive as he is, who is the same age as him and who has nothing over him
except the fact that he’s famous and it’s probably not for a scene in a movie
that left him throwing down painkillers for days after shooting it. 

“Probably not,” Matt says, and there’s something bashful in his voice but
territorial. Suddenly the crowd he runs with, which has shunned him and hurt
him and used and abused him—is something this arrogant prick has no right to
claim to. It’s his crowd. “I don’t think we run in the same circles.” He
laughs, brushing the fringe out of his face, wondering if either of them will
get a callback. Perhaps Corrida’s failing here is that he’s too famous, too
well-recognised. 
“You were doing lines of coke with some older guys and then pretending to give
one of them a lap dance,” Corrida says in this irritatingly non-judgmental way
but which is loaded with the notion that he was doing something else nowhere
near as immoral or hideous. And it bothers Matt, too, because he does remember
that party; it had been with a bunch of industry people and somehow Marlow had
scored entry with a couple of his associates and he’d gone because Marlow had
wanted to show him off and had promised there’d be coke. He’d been so
preoccupied that he hadn’t even noticed that there were real actors there. 
He chuckles. “Some of those parties get pretty weird,” he says, leaving it,
waiting to see if Corrida will offer anything else. 
“You should go for ads with the Clinistry Group,” he says, sounding bored. “The
health promotion people who love getting teenage extras on their books.” 

It looks like a compliment and a friendly suggestion, but it’s laced with smug
knowing about what Matt was really getting up to at the party, and it’s the
insinuation that of course, he’s only a nobody.
Matt laughs and sneers at the implication. “What, promote kids having safe
sex?” he asks. “You think I could make condoms cool?”
Corrida laughs. Maybe Matt’s upset his balance by joking like that, or maybe in
some way it’s intimidating. But for whatever reason, Corrida seems to think
he’s made a friend, and when both of them are asked to be part of a crowd scene
the following weekend, they decide to hang out and say hello. And Matt’s not
sure if it’s survival instinct or he’s just another starfucker, but he even
sounds enthusiastic about it.
 


July, 2015
“Apparently there’s going to be a Steel Samurai spin-off.” The agent, insisted
upon by the accountant, and unaware of the way Matt earns money when he’s not
picking up work as an extra—calls him as he’s getting ready for a party.
Ironically, it’s another friend of the accountant’s, so he really has to be
there even though he’s got a good track record as an extra.
He’s not sure if he hates the extra work more than the prostitution, though.
Sure, extra work means doing nothing out of the ordinary, but it lacks a
certain glamour, no one gives you coke, and you’re meant to be normal. Matt’s
never been normal. He’s played it before, and it’s boring. But it’s not going
to kill him, and it doesn’t make him feel sick to his stomach when he considers
what people have done to him and said to him. But there isn’t the same thrill-
seeking motorcycle rush.

That was the accountant’s doing, too. They decided that a motorcycle would be a
smart idea, and that since he always wanted one, and could use it for
transport, purchasing it secondhand from someone who might have also had his
paperwork creatively enhanced by the accountant was a smart idea. Riding it
makes him feel like he’s fleeing, like he can outspeed anything and anyone.
He’s focused and slick and he’s faster than coming down and making a mess, he’s
faster than being washed up, he’s faster the terror of being infected with
something, than some old fat grey-haired creep telling him he’s washed up, he’s
faster than the abuse and the laughter and the invisibility and he’s faster
than being a no one in a crowd. The bike takes him away from the awfulness. The
speed and the wind chills him like he’s high but he doesn’t have to be. He’s
got the innocence and the casual good looks of James Dean on that thing.

He’s intense. He’s rebellious. He’s a heartbreaker. And he’s on the cusp of
eighteen and legitimate adulthood. He can stop being a teenager.

But when the agent tells him about the Steel Samurai spinoff, he can’t hide the
excitement in his voice. The show has a cult following. It isn’t just kids that
like it: Matt’s seen the news on TV, thousands of people dress up like the
characters on that show a few times a year to go to big geeky meetups where
they meet the actors and it’s all a big fucking fantasy for them. “Awesome.”

“You’re going to need to familiarise yourself with the franchise, and if you
have any… marks—you’re going to need them gone by the day—“
“I thought those actors wore costumes, anyway, dude?”
“Maybe so, but they’re not meeting you in a costume. It seems that the powers
that be at Global have realised the cash cow they’re sitting on, and they want
a Samurai who is going to be an icon. They’ve had Powers and Hammer for years,
they want a fresh face, someone who could charm the pants off a nation—“
There’s a sick undertone there, suggesting that Matt might have already done
that—which he recognises without responding to—“So they want clean cut, Matt.” 
“I can do clean cut.”
The agent chuckles darkly. “Oh, I know you can. I haven’t told my other clients
about this one, kiddo: you’ll perfect.” 
He knows there’s going to be a price for it; an agent’s fee combined with
whatever else the agent expects, but Matt’s willing to pay. If he makes it into
the world of Juan Corrida’s legitimate acting, he’s not going to need this and
these people any more. He thanks the agent profusely, snapping his phone shut
and adjusting his helmet. Now, to ride away into the sunset.
 
***** Three *****
July 17, 2015

He’s conscious of two things, primarily, when he appears in front of the panel.
Everything else has left his mind: the nervous wannabes in the hall, some with
professional-looking agents (he makes a note that his agent should have
accompanied him as theirs did, and he’d decided out there, watching them
enviously, that should he get this role, the first thing he’s replacing is the
agent who clearly doesn’t care about him), the nervous chatter amongst some of
the guys trying to be nice to one another, the weird idea that this is Global
Studios, and that they actually make movies here around the place. Inside those
sheds in the distance; sometimes they offer tours around here, but not today,
not whilst this is happening.
It's all very hush-hush, non-disclosure agreements and secrecy until the studio
launches it. Which only adds to the excitement, of course.
 
It’s surreal. It’s a world removed from the worlds he’s become accustomed to;
it’s not the shithole start to life he had or the sleazy what-the-hell-did-I-
just-do world of drugs and pedophiles and sex on film. It’s something else; it
sits off the radar.
And it’s intimidating as all hell.
 
He’s sure he’s seen one or two of the other hopefuls amongst the hundreds here;
they might have been waiters or other rent boys moving up in the world. It
doesn’t matter; they’re competition. And a lot of them, it seems, have had a
world of opportunity which he hasn’t; he spies some with obviously concerned
and hopeful family members in attendance, and his insides seize up. His family
who didn’t even look for him. His brothers who used to laugh and call him names
and say he was weird for wanting to be on TV and in movies.
And then there were the ones who had clearly completed some sort of acting
school or another, who practised lines and facial expressions and who looked so
stereotypically like actors that it was laughable.
 
He didn’t have any of that. But he had something: the knowledge that this was
his chance out. This was his potential moment of glory, the world’s biggest
fuck you to everyone: to an uncaring family, to every single one of those
cretins who’d fed him drugs and treated him like a piece of meat, to fucking
Marlow for getting his hopes up and then disappearing on him recently, to Juan
fucking Corrida and his phony baloney friendship and his casual putdowns. Fuck
the lot of them.
He wanted it. So much that he would fight for it. But he was always smart
enough to know that victory didn’t always go to the one who fought the hardest,
but the one who could fight—and maintain a good image. Image was something
which he’d become particularly good at; if the entire world could be reduced to
one great big predictable stage, all was good, everything was an act, nothing
was real, nothing could affect you that badly.
This was a staged fight to which he already knew the outcome: his victory. And
while he knew that, he knew that the unfamiliarity, the not knowing his
lines—that stuff—that was terrifying. What if the director screwed up and one
of the others got selected? At least he hadn’t seen Juan Corrida out there; now
that would have been problematic.
 
 
“So your name’s Matt—En-gard?” The director didn’t seem particularly interested
in him at first, and had mispronounced his name.
“Engarde,” he explained. “Like… in fencing.” He’d heard the term one night
whilst watching cable; there had been fencing on, highlights of some sporting
event or another, and the word had appealed. It sounded exotic and intriguing,
and a hell of a lot better than his birth name. Engarde. French, sophisticated.
On guard. A double entendre.
But telling them now, he feels pathetic and stupid. But it’s his one chance,
and he knows it. And if he’s going to get queasy about them getting his name
wrong, he might as well turn around and walk out and go back to—
No. He’s not doing that. And one of the producers; the woman—she smiles at him.
He’s wondering when they’re going to ask him to do something, but she’s
appraising him with the sort of expression as some of the guys at the parties
have. It makes his insides seize up uncomfortably.
“So you’re-- new to the industry?” she asks, her cigarette making an even
stream of smoke to the ceiling. Everything about her is high glamour. Matt
wants to be a part of her world, he wants to be seen with women like her,
decadent and beautiful and who seem to think nothing of expenses and other
people’s opinions.
“I’ve spent the last few years around the industry and I have been in a few
features.”
“Oh?” She says it like she’s purring. The men on either side of her at the
table look bored by the whole thing; Matt’s aware that if someone needs to get
won over, it’s her; she's clearly the one with the final say and all the power
in the room. They're just... decorations. He's seen guys like her and guys like
them, he knows how this works.
“Just a few independent productions,” he offers casually. “I’d prefer not to go
into details.”
He wonders then if he’s said the wrong thing. It’s not about what youwould
prefer, he thinks, but he’s between a rock and a hard place. He knows he can’t
exactly talk about what he’s really been up to.
 
Dee turns to one of the suited men next to her and nudges him with an elbow.
“He has a nice face,” she says. “Looks younger than he should. Global has a new
heart throb?” She laughs; it’s a dry, almost crude laugh mingled with smokers’
cough, as though Matt’s appearance, not even the man himself—is somehow
amusing. All he can do is smile, pretending that he has no idea what’s going
on.
The man to her left looks interested. “We need a new face,” he says. “This is
the first one to come in here and be this…” He thinks, index finger crooked
under his chin. Matt tries not looking him in the face too much because his
acne is distracting. “Refreshing,” he decides upon. His attention turns to
Matt. “You realise you’re going to be inside a suit that probably weighs as
much as you do, kid?” he asks.
Matt nods. “I’m familiar with the franchise,” he says with a refreshing smile. 
“I was about to ask: “Do I get to see the suit I’m wearing?” A giggle. Dee
smiles at the giggle. If Matt’s willing to bet money on this, she’s been won
over.
“It’s still with the design team in its concept stages,” the other man—one of
the producers, Matt assumes—says. “Though it’s like the others in past seasons
have been—you’re going to need to move around in that thing—and pull out the
moves. We try to not rely on stunt people in this studio unless it’s completely
unavoidable.”
Matt offers an impish smile to Dee. “I’m very flexible,” he says. No
elaboration. Play coy. Be almost naïve-- refreshing. She chuckles again and
looks at Matt as though she’s about to say something to him, and then seems to
think wiser of it and she gives him a smile that might be knowing. Does she
know? Terror rushes through him; he’s not like the rest of them, not most of
them, anyway, they’re <i>real actors</i>, not people who’ve been filmed doing—
He can’t let that thought unnerve him.
“I’m sure you are,” she says. She sounds darkly amused by the whole thing, like
he’s a novelty. And for a moment, Matt realises that there’s no chance in hell
that he’s got the role; they’re flirting with him, toying with him for their
own amusement: maybe someone does know his past and they’re wanting to see just
what he’ll do for their amusement on the casting couch.
He steels himself, pulling himself up from the chair, standing. The humiliation
stings like a slap in the face; the least he can do is leave here with some
dignity.
“What are you doing?” Dee asks. She’s unimpressed, and those cool, aloof eyes
with orchestrated distance are now furious and directed onto him like lasers.
“I—“
“If you’re going to work for this studio,” she says, in something close to a
hiss, “You’re going to need to do only as you are asked.” A raised eyebrow.
“Are you able to manage that much?”
“Y-Yes—ma’am—“
Her chuckle becomes something light and girlish and she turns to each of the
men next to her.
“One of you get those fucking geeks out of here,” she snaps at neither of them
in particular. “I’ve made up my mind—“
“But—“ The one with the acne protests to another icy glare from Dee.
“I’ve had enough of overgrown fanboys who think they can hide their awkwardness
behind a costume,” she says, “I want this one.”
This one. He’s not a movie star, he’s back to being a thing. And he can hardly
believe what he’s hearing; he’s waiting for the penny to drop.
“I want the paperwork signed and settled before you leave,” she says. “The
studio will not be held liable for any injury you may sustain in the course
of—“
 
Her voice fades out somewhere, and Matt feels like he’s both high and
underwater at the same time. And he knows what that feels like, he’s been there
before—where sound isn’t quite real and he’s in his own safe fluid world where
everything is weightless and nothing hurts and for a moment, everything is
warped and liquid and nothing can cause any damage and it’s all too surreal to
believe entirely, but all the same just a moment he wants to exist in forever.
Lawyers. Managers. Agents. They’re all people whom he needs to get behind him,
if this is really going to happen and he’s really going to be the Nickel
Samurai. If.
 
 
3rd September, 2015
 
He's signed the final contract. The hands have been shaken. He's been shown
around Global Studios and he's not sure if he feels tiny, seeing the vastness
of the world he's just joined, or enormous in comparison to what looks so big
on TV but is really just a few sheds with skillful props and backgrounds and
costuming.
 
He saw Will Powers wandering around. Will fucking Powers. The Steel Samurai
himself. 
 
The Nickel Samurai is going to start filming in a couple of months, he's been
told, time to start working on the scripts, working out a little, looking after
himself. 
 
"Get yourself an agent--" the woman who'd introduced herself as Dee Vasquez had
told him sharply.
"I already have a--"
"A proper agent." Her heavily made-up, 1920's-inspired look made her come
across as mildly eccentric and harmless. The way she only focused her attention
on particular points, diving in and bluntly pulling people up by their collars-
- only verbally-- made her terrifying. Her handshake should have been fey and
floppy, but it was solid and dangerous, the handshake of a CEO or a
dealbreaker. Matt knew these people, he'd dealt with them before. He was smart
enough to know that you didn't trifle with them.
"Your contract--" she continued, "--states that you're to be well enough
compensated that you're going to need a proper agent. Not some hack landing you
background roles for two hundred dollars so you can say you were in a crowd
scene in a commercial for insurance." She blinked at him, no-nonsense. She
wasn't smoking right at the moment, but Matt could smell the tobacco on her
breath in a way that was both intoxicating and stifling all at once. "You may
have also noticed in that fine print that you aren't to work for anyone
else, either." Something in her voice suggested that if he even considered it,
he would be sorry. "You're ours."
"Inpax." She was no longer looking at him, but gazing indirectly into the
distance. "As you're leaving, get that assistant of mine at reception and tell
her I asked you to ask for Inpax's details. She's good at dealing with people
like you." Matt wasn't sure what the like you was referring to, but the way Ms.
Vasquez had sounded earlier made him unwilling to ask for clarification. He had
no idea who Inpax was, and for the first time in a long time, felt wildly out
of his depth, nodding and trying to pretend he looked like he knew what was
being discussed. 
He nodded silently, grinning stupidly, his thoughts flitting between terror at
the idea of screwing any of this up, and the sheer giddiness of what all this
represented. He was going to be inside the (currently in developmental stages)
Nickel Samurai costume. In one of those sheds. Filming a hit new TV series
which would be shown all over the country. All over the world. He was fifteen
years old again, and he was going to be a star, and he had no idea what he was
doing.
Inpax's card in hand (a professional, almost boring business card with a
photograph of an older, but still very attractive woman in the corner), he
headed for the studio carpark. Security watched him from their booth as he
slipped the card into his pocket and boarded his bike, snapping on his helmet. 
This was all top-secret. He wasn't to talk about this in public, he wasn't to
talk to the media. He could tell a handful of people, family, close friends, et
cetera, he'd been advised-- on a need-to-know basis. 
 
Starting the bike and turning around toward the security station where he'd
been assured earlier that he'd have his own pass and could enter and leave
without having to fill out  visitor's book all the time, he sped out onto the
main road. 
Who to tell?
 
There wasn't family. There was Marlow who'd been losing interest in him lately,
and whose contact was tapering off to the point where it seemed more like they
were casual acquaintances than anything closer. Marlow was still partying, but
Marlow wasn't partying as much with him any more. There was the accountant who
didn't really want his company any more, either. He still fudged some books for
him, made it look like he was a freelance artist rather than a-- well, yeah-
- Matt wondered nervously what the hell he was going to do about the past
productions he'd been in-- but there wasn't that same relationship. 
He wasn't sure how he felt about either of them. Grateful they wouldn't impede
his success? Disgusted that they had done what they'd done with him, even if,
in the accountant's case, at least, he'd just sat by knowing what happened
without any apparent concern? Depressed that these were the people he'd thought
of who'd need to know about his impending work schedule. The "independentb
features" work had dried up over the past couple of months-- that godawful
extra stuff had actually been paying bills and putting food on the table, and
even if he hated it, he had to be grateful for it. The agent would have to be
told, at least, but thinking about it, Dee Vasquez's words echoed through his
mind: a need to know basis. He knew he was sitting on something big. The agent
knew as much, too. And if he said something to the agent, and the agent let
others in the industry know that he'd found Global's newest star-- before
Global announced it-- his star would have crashlanded quicker than you could
say "breach of contract."
No. The agent could wait.
He longed to tell someone, though, and he combed through a mental list of
names. Boys and girls he'd seen in and out of rehab, temporary intense
friendships you always swore would last when it was four walls and a few souls
who knew how badly you needed to get high, people you never saw again until you
both landed in the same rehab centre with the same people and the same fucking
problem. The friendships were superficial and intense, they served a purpose,
and they didn't last. 
There was that nice shrink therapist whatever the fuck she was at that sexual
assault place he'd been made to go to after one rehab place decided he needed
that as well as detoxing. She'd been nice, even though he'd just talked shit to
her and none of that shit was about why he'd been sent to her to begin with.
He'd seen her, what, three times, and she seemed to genuinely give a fuck about
him?
No. That was pathetic. 
In the end, he pulled up outside the apartment, deciding he'd kick back on the
sofa, roll a joint and celebrate by himself and without telling anyone unless
Marlow decided to come home, though he probably wouldn't, though Matt kind of
wanted him to. He'd ring that Celeste Inpax lady and talk about having her as
his new agent because Dee Vasquez recommended it. Maybe he'd ring the
accountant afterwards. 
Then he'd have a sleep, and order a return ticket back to his hometown, he
decided. He'd told them he was going to make something of himself. And he was
going to make them bitter for what they'd doubted. 
 
 
5th September
His hometown looks nothing like it did when he left. It looks sadder, bashed
around by the elements, by whatever happens a world away when you're not paying
attention. It's like staring at a news report; everything's older and more worn
and damaged, some things have disappeared entirely. There are more boarded-up
shops than there were last time, there's an uneasiness which hits him when he
walks down the street. 
The life of the west coast seeped into him, and changed his vision, he thinks.
It looks so dull here, even without the effects of the cyclone or the hurricane
or whatever it was that hit when he wasn't paying attention to the national
news. 
He hails a cab, and drives around, heading out towards the estate where they
lived, not too far from dad's factory, that shitty afterschool job which made
his eyes water and the inside of his throat feel dry. He'd forgotten that
feeling; over the past couple of years pain and discomfort became replaced with
other sensations. 
He watches the locals curiously, like an observer at the zoo. He's no longer
one of them. He's better. He got out. These people, these cattlehave no idea
what they're missing out on. They don't care about the life beyond their stupid
shitty little lifestyle and they lack the curiousity and the ambition to move
beyond... all this. 
It never was, and never will be him. 
 
His heart's in his throat when the cab turns down towards the street he grew up
in. He's going to confront mom. Tell her that he made the right decision. See
what her face does. See what she says. Anger starts coursing through him,
electrifying and vicious, forcing him to calm himself by rehearsing the lines
in his head for the script he's wanted to perform for so long now.
"I told you, Mom."
 
And then his phone rings, and it's Celeste Inpax, finally having gotten back to
him, and she wants to see him right now because she's heard great things about
him from her friend Dee Vasquez and apparently he's super talented and
absolutely gorgeous and he's going to revitalise the Samurai franchise in a way
that the industry has never taken it before, and then it occurs to him: does he
visit the mother who didn't give a fuck, or the agent who is dying to meet him
and full of adoration?

He asks Celeste to hold for a moment, and then asks the cab driver to return to
the airport.
 
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