Meh. A short, filler chapter, but completely necessary for future events. Sincerest apologies for the wait. I typed this up on the notepad of my electronic reader (which is not made to write novels, mind you; only read them) when I rode in the back of a van for thirteen hours and then had to retype everything onto the computer because I missed the little button in the upper right corner where you can email it to yourself. So... yeah. Technology is not my thing. XD
shewhowasnamedanyway. bummer: Your wish is my command!
bored411: I almost answered your question here, and then I released that I'd be giving stuff away. XD I swear, sometimes I'm as scatter-brained as Jewel.
NorthernMage: We hope. *gulp*
Notes/Warnings:
- rise of the multiple narrators
- Eve hates apostrophes, and dashes, and most other forms of punctuation
- biased perspectives on mental illnesses
- slightly insane American laws
Here's to me NOT owning Death Note.
Does This Dress Make Me Look Fat?
Eve's POV
How could Jewel be so reckless, running off like that? Was she trying to endanger herself? Or did this whole "Death Note" business get to her head, defile her sanity, and leave her venerable?
No, that's just you. The voice seems to float in on the breeze. Immediately, I inhale and fumble my backpack off of my shoulder. My psychiatrist told me that my condition was a side effect of Post Traumatic Stress Disorder, not an excess of dopamine in my nervous system. In simpler terms, it is all in my head.
Dark sky. Yellow streetlamps. I pull the tiny jar of peanut butter and box of baby carrots from my bag and scoop out a large dollop with the vegetable. The nutty flavor seeps out across my taste buds. For whatever reason, peanut butter helps calm my nerves and, consequently, my schizophrenia. Normally, this would be a completely impossible cure, but I have been told that peanut butter, much like ginger, has a surprising amount of benevolent properties. Ginger, however, has actually been proven to increase the health and well-being of one. Peanut butter falls sadly behind. Once again, all in my head. Like a placebo. Fake. Either way, it helps.
The police station is surprisingly empty when we finally reach it. Mrs. Cueva veers towards the front desk. G and I take a seat in plush chairs by the door. We remain quiet as the loud voice of the woman soon reaches us. Apparently, the only officer in the whole building is the one running the front desk. He sits with wide eyes as Mrs. Cueva speaks in very slow English.
"My daughter is missing and I need someone to find her now!"
Even if the poor man speaks the same language, I doubt he would know to tell her whether or not the forty-eight hour law still applies in Japan. Dark hair and eyes. Smart uniform. Hesitant smile. He might be cute. Or funny. I feel like I should know about things like this. Just because I am a teenage girl does not mean that I can relate to the stereotype. Especially the blonde jokes.
Japan. We are in Japan.
I glance over at G, who slumps in the chair as though she is trying to make herself smaller and hide. If I had to tell anyone the truth, it would be Jewel, but that is not an option for obvious reasons. Mrs. Cueva should be the next optimal choice, but of the few times I have seen the mother of Jewel lose it, I know that I am not really keen on unleashing that wrath anytime soon. Besides, if I tell Mrs. Cueva, then she might expect me to know a thing or two about Death Note and demand an explanation I cannot give. I do not know where Jewel ran off to. I do not know which city we are in. I do not even have proof that we are in Japan, Death Note, or any variety of the above. All I do know is that Jewel is not with us, Jack is still on the loose, and my hormone levels are fluctuating. Again.
But I do suspect that Jewel ran after that man we bumped into. Light, I believe? Kira. A fictional character. As an author, I can understand the allure, but who in their right mind would go chasing off after a man they know murders people? It is not even something I would consider. And I have done some fairly stupid things over the course of my life. Ergo, the root of our problems. If only I were a little less impulsive, there is a very good chance that we would not even be in this situation.
G sucks in a breath like she is trying to steal all of the oxygen from the atmosphere in one go. The anxiety on her face is as obvious as a neon sign. I bump my elbow against hers.
"Of all the times Jewel has gotten lost over the years, has she ever once landed herself in a dangerous situation she couldn't weasel out of?" I ask, forcing a smile we both know is fake.
"Are we counting the time we all took a tour of Virginia Commonwealth University and she punched an escaping criminal in the face outside of the magistrate's office?"
Now both of our smiles are real. Jewel argued that when one goes to the police in the hopes that they might have a payphone, a "cuffed madman" should avoid charging her until she secures her location or finds her cell phone. The mother of G, with whom we were traveling at the time, seemed far too amused by this. G and I were not. Long story short, none of us were considering attending a university in downtown Richmond in a state where the speed limit is "enforced by aircraft."
"Can you direct me to someone who speaks English?" Mrs. Cueva says with the same booming volume.
As the man blanches drastically, I wonder if Jewel is okay.
Jewel's POV
Roughly an hour after we made our little agreement, Jack and I find ourselves residents in a very nice apartment complex. Well, to be correct, I find myself a very surprised co-owner of an apartment. I don't even want to know how Jack did it. For all I know, he's part Hypnobrai and hypnotized the dude at the front desk into thinking we're his masters.
You're being unreasonable again. He probably just flaunted a wad of cash and a big smile, says the little voice in the back of my head.
Sometimes, I really hate it when I'm right.
The apartment is more like a flat (or a suite-style dorm room) and is located in the back corner of a multistory complex. The foyer triples as a common room and kitchen, opening up to faded red paint and threadbare carpet. Two couches, tie-dyed purple against white, sit on opposite sides of the room with a small coffee table in between them. A large window filters moonlight through lacy drapes over a stand where a television might sit. In an indention along the left wall, the stainless steel kitchen appliances hunker, its left and right corners framed by two wooden doors coated in thick layers of stain. One quick exploration rewards me with two bedrooms connected by a Jack-and-Jill bathroom. (Hah hah. Irony.) Both beds and bath have some sort of Valentine's theme to it—red, pink, white, with bits of violet—but by this point, I'm too tired to care. If I don't get some shut-eye, I'm going to-
The bed spring pops me square in the back and I jolt awake. What the..? There's a funny pain in my head that reminds me of the time I cut a cartwheel off of my bike and ended up in the hospital with a concussion. And the blankets are trying to strangle me. By the time I battle back the covers with overly-enthusiastic declaration of triumph, I recognize the excess windows of the bedroom to the right.
I went to sleep? I don't remember ever deciding to go to bed. And why did I, the non-morning person, chose the extremely bright room?
Grunting, I drop my feet to the floor and straighten out yesterday's clothes. My shoes scrape through the off-white carpet with a muted rustle as I trudge out into the common room. Jack scares the poop out of me when I round the corner to find him standing right there. Like a boss, he ignores my yelp and uncoordinated swing in his general direction. I do, however, notice the stylish hoodie he adorns. And the Danish in his hand.
"Fooooooood..." I intone shamelessly.
He stares at me like I've grown a second head. "What's the plan today?" he asks listlessly, taking a savory chomp.
It takes me a minute to kick-start my brain into gear and keep myself from drooling. After all, no matter how much I'd love to snatch the pastry and gobble it down, I generally need to keep on this guy's good side.
"Ah... well..." I scratch the back of my head. "I'll need to check the date before I make any serious decisions. I don't exactly want to throw off the timeline so badly that we can't keep up."
I want to add that no matter what we do, we need to decide whether or not regrouping with Mom, G, and Eve is a priority, but my inner fangirl smothers the logic from my forethoughts. I chose Light, fiction, Death Note. There are some choices that just can't be taken back.
Only when I notice that Jack hasn't replied do I give him my full attention. Both sleeves of the hoodie is pulled up to reveal two very fancy looking watches, one on each wrist. It isn't until I read the tiny 'AUDEMARS' inscription in the inside of the rim that my mouth drops.
Jack is wearing million-dollar watches. Two of them.
"Does the brown one make my arm look buff?" he wonders aloud.
I punch him square in the shoulder without even thinking about it. This does about as much damage as poking him with a toothpick. Jack shoots me a mildly annoyed look.
"Where did you get those?" I hiss.
"The Westin Miyako is just down the street and there's this group of rich kids staying there for winter break-"
"Is the hoodie theirs too?"
"Duh."
I release a cry of pure frustration. "Jack! Did it ever occur to you that stealing from people in the hotel next door might make us possible suspects?! We're a couple of teenagers who just bought an apartment! You can't go out in public wearing any of that!"
He has the decency to look sheepish. "...Whoops?"
Clearly, Jack Daniels is no L.
Jack's POV
I am proud to say that I have never been stripped by a woman in my entire life... until today.
December twenty-seventh, 2003—Grace is a few fries short of a happy meal.
I was forced to wear my old hoodie and leave my rifle—which made Grace scream as soon as she saw it—at the apartment with the watches. Then we spent the day shopping around for new clothes, more food than anyone should be physically capable of carrying, and cosplay outfits.
"It's for disguises," she had told him earnestly, "in case we run into my mom."
If any female can explain to me how disguises equal cosplay, speak now.
Currently, I slump over a low stone wall, sipping soda from a cup larger than my head, and eyeing the potential victims ambling past. I mean, these people just have so much stuff hanging all over them. It's not like they could possibly have a good use for it.
I'm also bored. I thought that getting to run around Japan unsupervised would be fun. Be anyone, do anything, pretend you're a badass—but no. Instead, I'm stuck babysitting Grace, who I'm pretty sure is only physically older than me. I can also claim to have never met a human being as clueless, clumsy, or straightforward as Grace... until I met her.
Sighing loudly draws Grace's eyes for a split second before they return to the newspaper. I know she isn't reading—her eyes remain fixed on a single point on the page—but the deep lines of concentration etched across her face tell me all I need to know.
"If memory serves me correctly," Grace says after a while, "this is the day Raye Penber and those other FBI agents get killed by Kira." She pauses her train of thought long enough to bring me up to date on this. Frankly, I don't know what to think. "In other words, we're in the manga, it's still December, Light's still in high school... or whatever system Japan uses, and L is still a faceless detective hopping hotels."
"Does any of this actually help us leave Death Note?" I ask, somewhat sourly. I don't like the idea of a justice-driven detective hunting me down for swiping a few spare belongings here and there if my name just so happens to come up in casual conversation.
Her expression contorts into one of disbelief. "We can't leave until we learn why we're here in the first place. Have you never read fanfiction?"
Fanfiction? Isn't that those wannabe-stories written by obsessive loons who have nothing better to do with their time?
At my blank look, she adds, "It's like every horror film ever written. You don't check out odd noises during the night, no matter what they sound like or what your spouse tells you. You don't split up. You don't arm yourself with a flashlight and say 'Good enough.' You don't leave weapons or kitchenware laying out in plain sight. You don't trust the man whose character introduction starts with an excuse. You also don't trust the man with the creeper van who offers candy to small children. And in self-insert fanfictions, you have to figure out why you're in some fictional world because the answer could be a life saver. Literally." She frowns. "But in really bad fanfiction, it's usually some lame thing like an alternate reality, teleportation, fiction-is-real, or a bunch of other nonsense."
December twenty-seventh, 2003—Grace is an entire order of fries short of a happy meal.
G's POV
When I wake up, the first thing that hits me is Eve's elbow. The next thing that hits me is her fist. The last thing that hits me is that Jewel is missing.
I hit back.
Eve lets out a faint grunt and rolls over, mumbling something incoherent in her sleep. My eyes fall on the digital clock that tells me I've slept in.
Jewel has been missing for almost eleven hours.
'Nother-Mother slumps at the foot of her bed, legs hanging off the end, elbows propped on her knees, face cradled in her hands. In that moment, I hate Jewel for putting even more stress on her mother; it's not like she deserves it.
The hotel reeks of something that suspiciously reminds me of this one time at band camp—ahem. I offer my sincerest apologies. Just picture a really foul scent that reminds you of something illegal, and try to ignore the fact that it is nearly impossible to "picture" a smell.
I slither out from under the covers and make my way across the cold tiles to 'Nother-Mother's bedside. When I sink on the mattress next to her, 'Nother-Mother slowly raises her head and offers a gentle smile.
"How are you holding up?"
I shrug. "I'm okay, but I'm more worried about you."
'Nother-Mother laughs quietly. "To tell you the truth, I would feel a lot better if-" She cuts herself off, teeth running over he bottom lip. It's almost as if she wants to tell me something, but is restraining herself because she doesn't want to admit that she doesn't know what to do, or that she isn't a suitable guardian in this situation.
If I were a mother who had awoken in a foreign country less than two weeks ago and had recently lost track of my daughter, I wouldn't be feeling too hot either.
"It's Jewel. She's not the most coordinated of people, but she's not stupid," I say quietly. "We'll find her."
That gentle smile transforms. Although it remains the same size, there's a certain lightness to it now, as though my words have reminded her of some great comfort, and a second later, I find her hand rubbing the top of my head.
"Of course we will." 'Nother-Mother purses her lips.
Hooray! Almost all of the characters have their own POVs now. I am one step closer to ruling the wor-I mean, uh... progressing in the plot!
