AN: Yes, I know I should be working on Primes. Yes, I know this isn't anything special. Please read and review, nevertheless. This is my therapy. I need honest reviews, and crit--and ego-stroking, too. Thanks, all. :) (Edit: I have changed some things in the summary; you may notice discrepancies with future ANs, but the chapters remain in their original form!)

About this story:

SPOILERS for the entire series. Genfic. Time frame = time lapse. (M/M/N Arc.) Explanation follows.

Time lapses in general are purely fictional elements. Somewhere in the literary recesses of these fictional realms, time must move on; it lumbers forwards, backwards, and sideways. This is an exploration of what might have happened during that sheltered time, what might have led Matt to do what he did, the motivations and, more importantly, the people behind the sketches provided by the creators. Too often are characters reduced to stereotypes; here, I'd like to move beyond bulleted lists and into something real, something tangible. I've always wanted to meet the characters of others, and writing is about as close as I can get.

Tell me if I manage it.

Sometimes Matt wonders what the hell he's doing, following Mello around. Following Mello is like chasing a dragon—all well and good, until you finally catch up with it. And so every cliché fantasy novel ever penned makes the journey the whole point of the book, instead of the ending. Some literary bookbrain decided to call it suspense. Matt calls it the will to live; only an idiotic knight would rush in to his death without meandering about a bit beforehand. Drawing it out is the only means a pawn has of prolonging its life, when its controller is determined to bring it to its doom.

Not that it matters, of course. Matt follows. Mello leaves enough clues behind, enough footprints, enough eddies and swirls in the currents of life, and Matt can keep track of him. Despite that, though, blonde terror always manages to elude him: a falsified train ticket here, a fake identity there, and they never collide. Whether it's Mello's caution or Matt's unwillingness to bring the chase to an end, they never quite meet up, but Matt's there nevertheless. Two point five steps behind. Following.

It wasn't always like this, he thinks dimly. There had been a time—once upon a time, his mind laughs cynically, and he needs to stop reading crap fantasy parodies—there had been a time when Matt honestly hadn't cared. Truly, really hadn't cared. He's heard himself called a dog before, like a lonesome, lovesick puppy limping after an abusive owner: Mello's dog. He's heard the names. But they've never been applicable, and he doesn't mind, because when it comes down to it, his loyalty to Mello has always been worthless. Matt had always liked the value of his own skin over anything else; life was simple as that.

Even now, that hasn't changed much. Matt takes another puff of his cigarette and watches as the smoke curls up into the ventilation system. The Vegas casinos are all about the tech of the day, and the hungry vents and thirsty fans gulp down the cloying scent of smoke like reverse dragon-breath. He nudges a pile of chips forward with his spare hand, grinning languidly at the dealer. "I'm feeling lucky," he says, his mouth contorting and twisting with the awkward syllables. He's affecting an American accent today. The dealer smiles faintly and nods, and Matt watches as the cards turn over.

He's lost track of how long it's been since he learned how to count cards. It was him and Mello, he remembers, the two of them, learning side by side, and Mello was never quite as good at it. Except maybe he was, and Matt recalls the battered memories with a wry grin; maybe he was. It wouldn't be unusual. Mello could be good at anything, if he felt like it; he just hadn't cared enough about Matt's silly little games. Matt didn't mind—after all, the last thing Mello needed was another obsession. When Mello decided that something was worth his interest, he was consumed with it. He didn't know how to do things halfway. Beating Near. That had been one of his things.

The dealer's angry, though he's quite cordial about it. Matt gets an ace and a queen, and inwardly, he's laughing, because blackjack is so very elementary. "Ha!" he crows aloud, clapping his hands, playing the idiot. "Nice one." He watches as the chips amass before him, hand after hand, and the goofy grin comes without prodding. Matt's careful, though; he's rationing himself with the alcohol, and the goggles keep him halfway removed from the dizzying mayhem of the casino. The fortunate drunk, that's him, but he has his senses still. "Again, eh?"

Chasing Mello is just a hobby, after all, the same as his gambling, and it's fine to take a break every now and then. He could sit here all night, just another falsified persona raking in the good fortune, except then he'd be kicked out and that wouldn't be good. After tonight's run is over and done with, he's going back to his little apartment, and he's going to track that blasted blonde some more, just for fun, right? It's not like he's got aught better to do. But for now—it's not urgent, and Matt takes yet another drag on his cigarette. The only fun to be had from blackjack comes from beating the system, but he's getting rather good at that.

Matt relinquishes his cigarette for just a moment, so he can toss back another drink, and the strong, potent warmth coils around his stomach like a slumbering serpent. There had been a time when Mello was just another nothing, just another kid, a best friend when that title didn't really mean much. It's a pity, really, but here's the sad truth: Mello ran away. Mello ran away, and Matt doesn't have any choice but to follow, because to leave him be is an insult to Matt's perseverance. And Matt—

Matt doesn't lose. Not at his games, and certainly not at Mello's.

Distractions can only last so long.

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Matt drives back to his apartment, which requires quite a bit of maneuvering, given the hectic nature of the Vegas streets. He manages the steering wheel with nothing more than the toes of his left foot and half an eye, swimming through the dizzying rush of lights while his feet do all the work. Driving like this—it keeps his dexterity intact. You've got to enjoy the small pleasures life tosses to you, right?

His apartment is on the edge of the city, in that tiny nether-zone where the jumble of buildings jams right against the void of the desert. It's a disconcerting change, to go from the cacophony of neon to the hollow spread of scattered scrubs. This far from the strip, the only visitors are the locals. Matt likes that.

He lets himself in with the old brass key, then turns and punches in his access code on the keypad by the door. His system chirps, and Matt pats the interface briskly before dumping his bag on the sofa. One of his first projects every time he moves is to set up security, and this time's no exception. After entering the door, an intruder has five minutes to punch in the code—a long time, perhaps, except that after five minutes, the whole building goes up in smoke.

Matt likes fire, too.

There's an email waiting for him, and he quirks an eyebrow at the sender: nr-at-wh-dot-com . He wonders what the "r" stands for; after all, his own identity on the network is mj. Sharing the same initials with a pasty-faced pedophilic freak isn't what Matt would call fortunate, but it can't be helped.

He opens the email. It's nothing unusual, coming from Near—short, concise, and more than a little curt. It can't be helped, of course. He probably doesn't realize how irritating he sounds.

Not that Matt's making excuses for him. He fumbles for a cigarette and flicks his lighter open, watching as the end catches with an orange flare. The email—Near presumes that he has the ability to scold Matt. And for what? Matt's his own person. Always has been, and always will be. It's not his fault if Mello's making…difficulties.

It's not as if he's caught up with Mello yet, anyway, though that might possibly be his fault. He hasn't really been trying. He's certainly not going to rush into it just because Near's asking, though, so why did the stupid kid bother? Near. Near probably still plays with his toys, even now. Matt remembers that.

The nicotine soothes his nerves. Near's probably just a little…stressed. All this Kira nonsense—it'd get to anybody's head, probably. Even Near.

Matt doesn't send a reply.

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Once upon a time—

Matt's lungs are clogged with cigarette smoke, as usual. It clings to his throat, scrabbling inside like a caged beast howling to get out. The nicotine doesn't belong to his body, and it knows it. He forces it down anyway. Smoking beats ennui, any day.

Matt's bored. He won't say as much to anyone—particularly Mello, because Mello has plenty of none-too-pleasant ways of relieving his boredom. But he's bored.

"Aren't you a bit young to be committing suicide?" Mello asks casually from across the room. His hair is strewn across his face, casting a lazy shadow over his vision. "Honestly, Matt."

"Not suicide," Matt returns. He tosses a cockeyed grin at his comrade. "I'm going to die of life long before lung cancer catches up to me."

"That's morbid."

"It's true. Come on, Mello. L's already grooming you and Near as his potential heirs, and he's only in his twenties, or thereabouts, right? You think that any of us are going to live to be a hundred and ten? We're not capable of being that ordinary."

"You mean you're incapable of rationality," Mello points out. "You're worse than me."

Matt shrugs and sags back against the bookshelf, tipping his head towards the ceiling. He's bored. "Maybe I don't care."

Mello snorts and returns to his books. Matt watches. The pile of texts is high enough that he can only catch half a glimpse of Mello's head, bent over endless streams of words. His fingers glide over the text, carefully imprinting every sentence into his memory, carving the words into neural pathways for future recall. Matt shakes his head and swallows another breath of smoke. Mello has always been one for studying.

Matt wakes up, and the irony slams into him like Bowser into Toad.

Out of the three of them, Matt's in the least danger right now.

He laughs at himself a bit, shakes off the deliriousness that accompanies lack of sleep, and slams into his pillow.

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The next day, he catches up.

Matt cradles the phone against his ear and stretches out on the couch, cat-style, feeling the coarse fabric scraping against his exposed hip as the striped shirt rides up. The ceiling is orange, just like his world, seen through convex lenses. "Is that right?" he mumbles into the phone, fingers uncurled above his head as he stares into nothingness. "I'm not sure I believe you."

The voice on the other hand is nervous, and Paul reminds Matt yet again of his rabbit-like tendencies. He startles easily, but Matt can trust in his stupidity, and he's absolutely terrified of Matt right now. The terror is one of the few things Paul tends to get right—Matt's holding the strings to his freedom, and they both know it. Half-assed hackers make for wonderful prey, particularly when Matt can hold their misdeeds over their heads. "It's weird, but it's true," he assures Matt in that breathless, high-toned pant. "I mean, it's not like Travis takes on a pet all that often, but he's done it before. You know the kid?"

"Nah," Matt says, and he needs a new cover for this stupid couch. It's beginning to irritate the skin of his wrists, which are still slung over the edge, but then again, he really wants to buy that new router, so it'll have to wait. "I don't, but he sounds…amusing." He laughs, and it rings like tin in his ears. "So, then. Is the hierarchy being shaken up a bit?"

"A bit, maybe," Paul says, practically tripping over his words. "I mean, I don't know, and it's not really my place, but they—he's smart, anyway. Real smart."

"I'll bet," Matt says dryly, and he's beginning to get bored. "Anything else new?"

"I—well, I mean, nothing's happened." Matt wants to shoot the idiot in the face, he really does, but there's nothing for it. "You want me to get you anything?"

"I'm fine." Matt's right arm folds back into place so he can grip the phone properly, with his hand instead of his shoulder. "That last chip was great, Paul." He sighs. "Keep me posted. If there's a disturbance, I want to know about it, posthaste. I'm not getting myself licked."

"Got it," Paul says, trying to sound chipper and failing miserably. "I'll see you later, shall I?"

Matt considers returning the pleasantry, but social conventions are such a bore; he clicks the end button on the phone and slips it back into his pocket. Silence.

He stays there for a moment, right hand brushing lazily against the floor, left arm slung over the couch cushions. He counts seconds in heartbeats, minutes in breaths, and suddenly he's just sick of it all.

Paul, the little rodent that he is, says that there's a new kid shaking up the structure in the local community—a blonde kid, one with a demonic demeanor and a chocolate fetish. He's also, by Paul's account, a manipulative prodigy, and he's apparently got one of the local gang heads wrapped around his little finger. Pet. Well, there's one label that's never applied to Mello. Matt wonders how that happened, and which bits of Paul's rumors are actually true.

So, then. He's found him, finally—Mello. Or, actual, it's Hannon now, isn't it? (Again, according to Paul.) Matt finds that funny, but Hannon's less memorable than a name like Mello, he supposes. So, he's gone and named himself after John Hannon—the founder of the first chocolate factory in America. How very fitting.

Matt slips his goggles up over his head, pushing back both bangs and the orange glow from his lenses. Great. So he's found him. Now what?

The smart thing—the sensible thing—would be to get in touch with him. Call him. Email, send a letter, hack into his system and leave a smug little note. Except—none of that's particularly appealing right now, and Matt can't for the life of him figure out why.

The funny thing about goals, the snide voice in the back of his head remarks, is that once you finally hit them, you've got nothing left to do.

There's a number programmed into his phone. Matt's got feelers in most of the underground here, tiny little roots and carefully nurtured bulbs, all good sources of information. He writes code, distributes it, gets paid, and leaves, and that's how his job works—except, he leaves backdoors in every program he writes, and there's no way to get his programs out of a system once he's put them in. He could get in touch with Mello, easily, if he wanted to.

He doesn't.

Matt rolls off his couch and grabs his DS, still mulling over the latest development. Mello's here. Mello's here, in Vegas, and Matt could talk to him, if he wanted to. The game starts up; today, it's Super Mario Brothers, and he's beaten it at least six times, but he keeps coming back. It's all about reflexes and a system of controls. Easy stuff, but good; this is the kind of game he used to play back at Wammy, all those years ago. Christ. He's all growed-up now, but that doesn't stop him from playing his games. Super Mario puts blackjack to shame.

At some point, once you play a game long enough, the music, the animations, all of it—the game worms itself into your head. When you close your eyes, it's there, lurking, waiting, an alternate world that seizes your consciousness by the scruff of the neck and refuses to leave. Once you start the game, you can't stop it; like it or not, your mind's going to keep on playing, even if your thumbs have long since stopped.

Chasing Mello—

It's a lot like that, and for the fiftieth time, Matt wishes that he had something better to do. As it is, though, he's got a cigarette clenched in his teeth and plastic buttons under his thumbs, so life is almost okay.

Almost.