A/N - Well hello there all, finally finished a story I thought was worth uploading, and here it is ^^ Hope you all enjoy it, and I'd love to hear your thoughts. :)
Disclaimer: DN not mine.
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It's his third energy drink of the night and his fifth speed run of this particular video game. He's got the game on mute because the fight going on three stories down in the alley behind his rather dodgy apartment is minutely more interesting than the pattern of enemies to be shot he memorized on his first run of the game—not interesting enough to go watch, though. Mildly funny, as a woman shrieks furiously and there's a crash of something thrown and a man protests, but hardly novel.
Not much is, and he's resigned to that, so it's not a disappointment. He rounds a predictable corner in the game, crouches behind a virtual barrel, counts five seconds and a half then pops up to shoot.
The buzzing of his phone is unexpected, but not enough to startle him, and he picks it up and glances at it out of the corner of his eye without pausing. Playing with one hand is more challenging but hardly impossible. He figures it's probably just someone from work. They're always botching up his systems and calling for help.
His job was a way to amuse his ego at first, but now it just pays the bills. Matt hadn't even had to apply. He'd simply hacked into the security system, cracked into the most compromising file he could find, and left a short explanation of how he did it and his phone number at the top. The head of security had called him the next day with really no option but to hire him to fix the hole he'd taken advantage of, because going to the police meant surrendering up their not-so-legal files as evidence to be picked over. They won out in the end, of course, because now they were the best-secured casino in the country, possibly the world. Matt supposes he gained from it too, because he has more money than he knows what to do with, or really cares to use.
It's not a number he knows. He pauses the game.
Through three rings he stares at it, the lit green screen glowing bronze through his tinted goggles, and though he's expected this, his stomach feels cold and he has a sudden, overwhelming need for a cigarette. No one but Jim from the casino and the pizza place down the street have this number, and it's the wrong area code to be a telemarketer (though a part of him hopes that he's wrong about that at the moment). For three years now he's expected that any day, the call will come from one of two people, and in light of recent events, he's honestly not sure which it will be.
It's irrelevant. His answer is the same to both of them. He's never cared about their petty squabble, not at the House and not now, doesn't care about L, doesn't even care much about Kira. All he has to do is let the phone ring, and turn his game back on, and pretend it never happened.
The yelling outside his window reaches an even higher pitch and what sounds like a TV shatters, and it's so annoying and stupid and typical of this neighborhood, so cliché and everyday, that he says to himself the hell with it and picks up the phone, because for a couple minutes at least it'd be nice to talk to someone who's not a complete idiot, even if they're trying to talk him into something he knows he's not going to do. Honestly, this is the most exciting moment he's had in the last three years, and he'd almost forgotten what it's like to have that sudden shot of icy adrenaline zinging through his veins.
"What." Small talk has never been his thing, not when he's being genuine, and charm would be wasted on either Mello or Near.
"Matt. It's been a while."
It's been a while, indeed, since he heard that name—and he's never heard it used in an American accent like that. Here in Vegas he goes by Scott March, elusive but highly sought-after casino security consultant, and guy who orders all-meat pizzas almost every night.
"Mello. Unsurprising," Matt comments, tossing the controller on the floor and stretching his back, cramped from hours of hunching in front of the TV. There's a half-empty pack of cigarettes on the coffee table, and he lights one. "Nice accent. Is that a hint of southern Cali I detect?"
Matt's never bothered to hide his British accent here in Nevada. There are enough weirdos here that a charming Brit with an odd habit of wearing waterproof gloves and long sleeves despite the desert heat doesn't attract particular notice.
"Unsurprising?" Mello snaps, and Matt takes a drag on his cigarette, thinking his old childhood schoolmate seems a little more on edge than he used to, which is saying something. "Been waiting for my call, have you?"
"Expecting," Matt corrects, closing the window on the off chance that he'll be overheard, and peering up at the dayglo-orange night sky through the ugly curtains. "If Kira could take out L…well, no offense, but I figured at least one of you would start looking for allies, especially given the setbacks you've both suffered lately."
Mello curses at him, which is also expected, and Matt doesn't mind because he knew saying that would piss him off. Part of him hopes if he gets mad enough Mello will just hang up and not try to talk him into something stupid.
"Done?" he asks when Mello pauses.
"So you've been following both of our investigations," Mello says, abruptly smug and sharp-voiced, and it's Matt's turn to curse, silently to himself.
"It's not quite as good as daytime TV, but sometimes I get tired of reruns," he says lightly.
"I don't think you know anything about what's going on in the investigation. You're fishing for information, because you're bored to tears teasing casinos in Vegas but don't want to admit you want to get involved."
"Caught me," Matt says, rolling his eyes and blowing out a long stream of smoke. He knows plenty. Matt is chronically bored. Anomalies pique his curiosity, and he has the skill and resources to dig into them, find information other people shouldn't have, put together apparently unrelated events into coherent pictures. He's not as good at picking up on tiny details as Near, nor as enthusiastic in searching them out as Mello, but he's good enough, and has had more spare time on his hands than any human ought to. The diverted plane and the unscheduled missile, and the upset in the world of organized crime when mob boss A-Rod and most of his closest followers were blown up in their own hideout—that had Mello's flashy, go-to-hell attitude written all over it. And the more recent rain of hundreds of millions of dollars in downtown New York City, interrupting that pro-Kira riot? Only Near had the combination of ready cash and outright gall to do such a thing.
Matt knows both Mello and Near decently well, knows how they operate, anyway, and neither would resort to such crude, traceable shenanigans unless pushed into a corner.
Admitting how much he knows, though, would be admitting how closely he's been following them, and Matt's not about to admit that to even himself.
"I don't hear a game," Mello observes. "Finally tired out on your shooters?"
"On mute," Matt lies. The dirt on the window is bothering him; besides the fact that it obscures the unimpressive view, the gamer has always hated dirt and germs; he hates cleaning almost as much, though, so he just keeps himself protected from the nasty stuff instead. He examines the patterns of dust on the outside of the window closely, wrinkling his nose a little.
"You expect me to believe you've got your phone in one hand, your cigarette in another, and your game, what, playing with your toes? You're interested."
"Headset, and who said I was smoking?"
"You're still a shitty liar, man."
"And you're a shitty leader. I'm not interested in getting caught up in all this and getting myself killed." Matt turns abruptly away from the filthy window, sticking his cigarette back in his mouth and taking a hard pull. He wishes now that he hadn't picked up the phone at all. "Nix that: letting you get me killed."
"Matt." Mello's tone is changed. He's quieter, more sober. "Look, I know you never really gave a shit about the succession, but Kira murdered L, dammit, and the little bitch deserves to go down for it. Don't you want revenge?"
"Not interested," says Matt, and hangs up.
They both know he's lying, because when the phone rings seconds later he takes another drag of smoke and picks it up again.
"You're a right git, you know that?" Mello snarls, a touch of that old Winchester boy bleeding through his fake American accent as he says it. Hearing that little hint of his old friend, Matt almost feels a little nostalgic. Almost.
"Oh, hello. I feel so popular tonight."
"Damn straight it's me," Mello fumes. He hates being interrupted, Matt knows, and now he's probably throwing things around wherever he is. "Are you gonna hear me out or be a jackass? Or are you waiting for Near to call?"
"Mel." Matt sighs; it's still a sore point for him, and he doesn't want to talk about it, but he doesn't intend for there to be another chance. "You know I'm not going to go work for Near. He's got nothing to do with me. You're the one who's so damn obsessed with him. I honestly just don't care about Kira, and I don't want to have anything to do with this."
"You don't want anything to do with me," Mello clarifies in a low, tight voice.
Smoke curls through his gloved fingers. "That's right, Mello. I left the House without a word to anyone because I couldn't stand to work with Near. I disappeared off the face of the damn planet and never got a hold of you even though you were in one of the most obvious places in the world, not trying terribly hard to hide from anyone who would know what to look for, because I wanted nothing to do with you." Crushing the spent cigarette, Matt regrets not restocking the beer he usually keeps in the fridge. He could use one. Instead he lights another smoke. "Don't try to guilt trip me. You're only calling me because you have nowhere else to turn, and you refuse to work with the one person who wants to work with you."
"That was low," Mello grates, and Matt can tell he's struggling to stay calm, because he can't afford for Matt to hang up again.
"It's true," Matt replies, and he's not exactly sad, just resigned. He's had three years to get over it and stop caring.
There's a snap and a staticky crackle; Mello is apparently agitated enough to go for the chocolate. "Is that what you've been thinking all this time? Thanks a lot for the vote of confidence."
"Stop." Matt has half a mind to hang up again, but things are coming to the surface, things he's wanted to say for years without even realizing it, buried beneath the mental non-effort of not caring about Vegas casino security, not caring about cleaning his apartment, not caring about L or Kira or the House or anything, and still, he has no intention of giving Mello another chance to hear it. "You were never a good friend and we both know it. You never gave a damn for most things except L, and beating Near. But one thing you always were at least was honest."
A long silence, then, "Feel better now?"
"Yeah, actually." Matt's a little surprised to find that it's true, and he blows out a lungful of smoke, feeling much lighter. "Well, bye then. Good luck with Kira and all."
"Wait," says Mello desperately. It's the desperation that makes Matt pause. When Mello gets desperate, he takes more than the usual risks—running the line between outrageously daring long shots and downright suicidal. As much as Matt has never really forgiven Mello, he doesn't want him dead either.
"Waiting," Matt says dryly when the other doesn't go on.
"So how's Vegas?" Mello says, obviously making an effort to sound collected, and succeeding as he goes on. "Loving the night life? Enjoying your job?"
Matt knows anything he says will be the truth, and will argue against him, or will be a lie, and Mello will see right through it.
"It must really be great. You're speechless," Mello notes ironically. "And that daytime TV, well, that really sounds spectacular too. Got any games you haven't beaten three times already?"
"Yeah, and what are you up to? Skulking around, following suspects and prank-calling Near? Sounds like a real thrill ride." Matt lets out an irritated huff of smoke. He hates that Mello still knows just how to manipulate him, and he hates that it might just be working.
"I'm going to Japan tomorrow."
"So?" Japan, that's where Kira is, Matt knows. A tingle of adrenaline grips his gut like a cold, thin hand.
"I know you're making a fortune, Matt. You could do anything you want. But instead you hide and play games all the time. Of course you're bored." A hint of scorn touches his Americanized voice. "It was always me that dragged you away from that computer, complaining and moaning the whole time, but in the end we always had fun, didn't we?"
"In the end, we usually wound up in Roger's office." He lights a third cigarette.
"Roger's not around anymore," Mello said slyly.
"I'm not interested."
"You're not interested in anything, Matt," says his friend. "I bought you a plane ticket too. I'll meet you at LAS tomorrow at 10 AM."
Matt opens his mouth to tell Mello he's not coming, but the blonde hangs up.
"We're gonna get ourselves killed," Matt mutters in an almost sing-song tone to himself. Damn it. Opening the window again, he notes that the fight is apparently over, its participants gone off to who knows where, somewhere predictable, no doubt.
Under his bed he thinks he's still got an old duffle bag he can toss some junk in. Digging it out, he starts rifling through the jumble of wires and boxes in his living room, sorting out the stuff that might come in handy, and thinks it might be prudent to buy a spare gun.
After all, who knew what might happen?