AN: I'm baa-acckk...
I realize that many of you are probably long, long gone. Binary has been stagnant for a long time, and I have no excuses besides: I'm sorry. It's been over a year. Wow. That's...ridiculous.
Regardless, I'm trying to jump back into it. I struggled with this chapter, as what happens here is mostly a transition for the next stage. In the beginning, we were in the time lapse. Now, we're back to the canon story, and I know that not everything will line up, but that's OK. I've avoided mentioning dates because, urp, the manga and the anime are on two different timelines.
I'm kind of afraid that this throws off the pacing a bit--not much actually happens--but the next chapter should have the dynamite you'd expect. :)
Please read and review!
~Fly, 1.29.2010
They arrive in Manhattan after a brief, uneventful plane ride. Another limousine is waiting for them, and Matt watches as the world rushes by through the tinted glass. There are so, so many pedestrians, and it strikes him that New York actually has inhabitants.
"Why New York?" he asks, to break the silence. Near smiles in that bland, careful way of his—more a grimace than anything else, but Matt knows that Near means it to be a smile, and therefore accepts it at face value.
"Because," Near replies, "I was only in Las Vegas in order to track down a few things. I have what I wanted now." He pauses. "Las Vegas is…less pleasant. Maintaining my headquarters in New York is easier."
Matt turns his head to look out the window again. Near falls silent, but Matt can feel the broad, dilated eyes resting on his skin. Amanda is in the front seat again, invisible behind the limo's partition.
His hands are trembling in his lap like the vibrating strings of a violin, and Matt stares at them and wonders who is playing him like a fiddle this time.
The limousine pulls into a dark parking garage. Near, Amanda, and Matt all step out of the car. Amanda gives him a small smile; Matt tries to return it, but he feels his face cracking as he does so. "Come," Near announces, and they follow him out into the blazing sunlight and then into a nondescript office building.
Inside, the cheerfully-decorated lobby is empty, the receptionist's desk unattended. Near approaches a door labeled JANITOR'S CLOSET and places his palm on the wall next to it. "N," he says aloud. A red light flashes beneath the yellow paint, and the door clicks open.
The JANITOR'S CLOSET, as Matt expected, holds no brooms, no mops. Instead, it opens to a metal stairwell. Near turns his head and smiles. "Welcome to headquarters," he says.
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"Headquarters" is located on the basement floor, in a dim, windowless room filled with glowing screens and office chairs. There are other rooms, too, all filled with similar setups, but the cluster of people in this room makes it clear that this is where things happen. The dartboards and toy robots and train sets strewn throughout the room are a good heads-up, too. The gathered agents look up as the trio enters. "Near," one of them says, a man with short-cropped hair and faint lines emerging on his open face. "Did the trip go well?"
Near smiles and walks calmly down the last few steps. "Yes," he says. "And I have brought someone with me. This is Matt."
Five pairs of eyes snap up towards him, and Matt tries not shift uncomfortably. These agents are a far cry from his usual cohorts; they look sharp, clean, with well-pressed suits instead of guns and leather. All are male; Amanda must be the only woman on the force.
"Welcome to the Special Provision for Kira, then," says the first man. "I am Commander Rester. Near, could you explain…?"
"Of course." Near takes his place at the table in the center of the room, shadowed by Amanda; Matt leans against the stair banister and meets the guarded eyes of Near's underlings. "Matt was previously in Los Angeles, working on his own. He has requested to join the task force." Near hesitates. "He and I are…old acquaintances. I will vouch for his intelligence. He will be an asset, particularly in the realm of technology."
"That's it, then?" one of them asks. Matt takes him in with one visual sweep: dark hair, lithe body, the crooked tilt to his eyes that suggests he is less upright than, say, Rester. "He's in?"
"Yes, Gevanni." Near says flatly. "Do you protest?"
Silence. Near dips his head a little, and even from behind Matt knows that there's a half-smirk playing across his face. He speaks again, businesslike authority ringing through his voice. "In that case, I believe introductions are in order. Matt, these are Commander Anthony Rester, Stephen Gevanni, Steve Mason, Ellickson Gardner, and Ill Ratt." He points at each in turn. "John is not here, as he is doing field work at the moment; you are already acquainted with Halle, though you know her by her alias."
Amanda—Halle—gives him a crooked, lipstick-cake smile. "That's me," she says. Purrs, almost. It sends goosebumps rippling along his arms.
"Ellickson, escort Matt to the residential level and establish him there. He can take one of the stations here for his work—though, on a second thought, Matt, perhaps we can bring a table for you to set up your custom system?"
"I'd prefer that, yeah," he says. Near nods.
"For today, then, you'll use the spare workstation. Ellickson, set him up; Rester, I want the latest briefings."
One of the agents breaks from the group and nods to Matt. "Mr. Ellickson, I presume," Matt says, slipping into his native British accent for humor's sake.
"My first name," the man says, "so, no, actually." He's old, with an enormous bald patch and an unpleasantly hooked nose. "Follow me."
Matt obeys. Follow this, follow that; if this is how his time with the SPK is going to be, he'll need to shake them up a bit.
Even in his head, the words fall flat.
At the end of the day, Matt curls up on his bed and plays his Gameboy.
It's been a while since he's indulged himself, and his skills have slipped. Not by much, not by enough for it to be a disaster, but he feels rusty. The buttons stick beneath his thumbs and his arm is going numb from sitting crunched up for too long.
Die, monster, die.
Today would have been monstrously boring, if Matt could bring himself to care. Briefings on the SPK's current leads, explanations of which systems they're already burrowed into and where Near wants him to plant feelers next. The trust Near automatically places on him is startling, at first, but then Matt realizes that albino boy just isn't worried. It's obvious why: what he's doing isn't just a step ahead of Mello's work. It's a hundred. He knows so much about their suspect—someone in Japan, involved with the police, knew L (oh how reverently he pauses after the name), deeply connected with the case, a god complex…L solved it…
Near has his toy soldiers standing at their posts in Japan and New York and Los Angeles and all over the world, and he is truly L's successor, and Mello honest-to-goodness doesn't seem like a threat now that Matt has caught a glimpse of this operation.
It's a puzzle, that's all, and how simply Near says the words. It's a puzzle. And then there is that fierce gleam in his eye, the look of true exhilaration that Matt has so rarely seen from the albino, and even though his face is blank his dark eyes are incapable of mistruths.
Hours later, and Matt is playing video games. His cell phone is by his side, fully charged. It's been silent. He wonders if that should worry him.
His pixilated avatar fails the jump, and Matt mashes the A button over and over again even though he's already plummeting to his death. "Damn," he whispers.
It's funny, he thinks; this is so much like the orphanage. He knows that Near is probably sleeping somewhere in this building, too, as is Commander Rester; as for the others, he isn't yet sure. And once again there are little competitions, puzzles, games to be won. The only difference is that the stakes are higher, and Near is probably the only ones who sees it as a game. Matt doesn't care enough to make it one, and the others are too melodramatically involved; their heartstrings are tied up in Kira's web. If they know that it's a game to Near, they ignore it, because to them it's a demeaning word, an insulting word.
They have no idea.
The others are in it because this is the hunt for a murderer, because of their blinding sense of justice or for the sake of revenge or because they are simply humans, protecting what they know to be right. Regardless, they speak of Kira as a killer: monster disgusting bastard evil egomaniac fool, slur after slur after slur. He (she? they?) is a murderer, at least to the SPK.
The GAME OVER screen flashes in big bold letters, and he hits RESTART and begins again. Infinite lives. Infinite do-overs, even if you can't get exactly back to an exact moment in time. His thumbs smack against the sticky buttons.
Kira is a murderer.
Matt struggles to frame him in those terms. Who has he killed, after all? Criminals. Matt brushes away that one easily; after all, that was L's job, too, even if he didn't sully his own hands, and Mello does it without any moral scruples whatsoever. Who else? Innocents who stand in his way. That's too abstract for it to matter. L? Matt waits, listens. The Gameboy emits 16-bit sound and his conscience doesn't stir.
This time his character makes the leap over the void, and he survives, keeps running, keeps hacking away, fingers dancing over A and B and the D-pad.
The rage doesn't come. When he thinks of Kira, there is no anger, no disgust. Unlike the other SPK members, Matt is not in this because of Kira.
It's always been about Mello. Mello Mello Mello, the boy with the blonde hair and the chocolate who could never stop screaming or working or moving, because he needed to beat Near, beat everyone.
And now, finally, his vision clouds and he slams his hand on the START button just as the tears begin to trickle down his cheeks. He's crying, as if he's six years old at the orphanage, alone and hungry and friendless, except this time he doesn't even know who or what he's crying for.
Mello is hundreds of miles away and Mello has threatened him, used him, nearly killed him. And Matt let it happen. And now he's run away, but joining the SPK is no escape, and he doesn't give a damn about fixing the world any more than Near does.
His smokers' lungs heave with stifled sobs, and Matt bites the pillow, thinking over and over again: god damn it, god damn it, because some things you just can't escape.
Chasing Mello is like chasing a dragon, he'd thought once, all those days ago, just after he'd learned that the blonde terror was in Vegas. Like chasing a dragon. If only he'd known.
The next morning, he awakes to Halle banging on his door. "Matt," she calls. "Get up."
He groans and fumbles for his goggles. In the dim lighting of the SPK headquarters they're a bit impractical, but he likes to live in a separate world. He's still wearing his clothes from last night, and his right leg prickles with the pins and needles of sleep. He lurches over to the door and yanks it open. "What?"
Halle matches his gaze with pale, gold-green eyes. "Well," she says, "you look like you slept well." Matt doesn't answer, and after a few moments she sighs and says, "Near is out for a meeting with our dear president, but he's left you some work. Get…dressed, showered, whatever. There's a kitchen on this floor if you want food. Just be in the main room in forty minutes."
"Fine." Matt closes the door and leans his head against it. He has a headache.
It's probably because he hasn't smoked yet, but that can be rectified later. For now, he needs a shower.
The bathroom is hotel-sterile, but at least it has a good mirror. He leans forward and studies his face. The bones of his skull are becoming more pronounced every day, it seems. His eyes are dry, thank god—except, wait, this twisted world has no omnipotent caretaker, does it? Thank-his-own-body, then.
He smiles as the hot jets hit his face.
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The main room is quiet, save for the clacking of keys and the whispers shifting fabric. The SPK members are quiet, calm, serious. This is business.
Halle takes off a headset and smiles at him, ruby lips smashing into a curving line. "The list is at your desk," she murmurs.
"Thanks." Matt can't help but feel that he has so much less grace than these men or Halle as he slumps into the stiff chair and opens his laptop. He can feel Halle's eyes watching him.
"What?" he hisses, turning around. She shakes her head and goes back to her own work. The other task members don't even look up. Matt mutters a few complaints under his breath and picks up Near's list.
He needs a direct, private cell line established, one that nobody but Near (and Matt, he presumes) will be able to access, for the purposes of receiving information.
The NPA's database has eluded them for some time. He needs to retrieve information from early on in the Kira case.
A select group of NPA officers are assigned to the Kira case at present; if possible, their network should be compromised as well. Near notes that this may well be extremely dangerous and that it will require the utmost caution.
The list continues, and Matt can't help but grin, because this is real stuff, fun stuff. For the final assignment, Near notes that the mafia's computer system is unusually secure. Matt is not required to hack it (unlock it?) unless he wishes to do so.
Matt can't help it; he starts to laugh. The other SPK members exchange bewildered looks behind his back and he lights a cigarette, not caring if any of them start to protest.
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Near comes back a few hours later with Commander Rester following two steps behind. The SPK members spin in their chairs to face them. "We're official," Near announces to the room. "The president has kindly agreed to establish the SPK." He's smiling.
Grins and chuckles ensue, and Matt raises an eyebrow; this is the most emotion he's seen from the tense group all day. "You mean that you invented the SPK?" he asks dryly. "You just snatched the best and brightest without asking?"
"The president is a coward and a fool," Near says. "I work with the intelligence agencies. The FBI and the CIA are far from perfect, but it's simpler to ask them than to force a decision from our spineless chief executive." He sits down in the middle of the floor. The table that was there yesterday has been moved; in its place is the toy train set. Near crouches in the middle of it and lifts one of the trains into the air. "Besides, it's better to act first and apologize later, don't you think?"
Near sets the train down on the tracks and begins to make it zoom around and around, circle after circle. The motions are the same as ever, but Matt's not stupid; he knows that it's merely a way for Near to distract his body, that true mind is working feverishly while its flesh-bound casing is busy elsewhere.
Matt goes back to work on the NPA database.
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That night, his phone rings. The caller ID gives him the standard UNIDENTIFIABLE NUMBER crap, but he flips it open anyway and lets the silence speak for him. It's not like there's a question of who it's going to be.
"Matt," the familiar voice says. The word is tight, terse, but it is neither sighed nor spat.
Matt already has a cigarette dangling from his lips. He takes a puff and waits.
"Matt," the voice says again, crackling over the poor cell connection. "You coward. Speak up."
"I'm here," he says quietly.
Then the explosion starts. "So you're there after all," Mello snarls. "You motherfucking traitor, of all the places you could have gone, you go to him." He spits the last word out like it's a suicide capsule. "Do you have any idea what that means to me?"
"I think I do," Matt says. He cradles the phone against his shoulder and takes another drag and smiles. He hadn't thought about that, honestly, but of course this is the cruelest thing he could have done. Mello and his inferiority complexes. Why didn't he think of this before?
"Matt, this oversteps every line, you know that? Like I needed any more proof that you're a coward, a traitor—"
"You're not in a position to be insulting me," Matt interrupts. Somehow he manages to keep his voice level. "Why did I leave, Mello?" Another pause, another smoke-filled breath. "You tell me."
Mello goes quiet, and Matt gives a bitter laugh. "Yeah," he says. "That's what I thought."
"You had no right to do this."
"I had every right. Since when am I your pet, Mel? Your trained code monkey? 'Cause that's what you needed me for, right? You haven't done a damned thing that would have made it worth risking my life." Matt can feel his voice rising now, but he doesn't bother stopping. "You can't order me to put my life on the line and get pissed when I say no. Maybe you should try remembering what it's like to be human."
"I wouldn't have pulled the trigger," Mello says softly.
The words hit him like a veteran griefing a level one noob, and Matt closes his eyes as the memories surge. Breathes. The pain is there, too close to the surface, and now more than ever, he needs to be careful.
"Liar," he manages to bite out.
"I'm not." Mello breathes against the phone. "Come back. Please."
"Oh, and I just forget the gun to my head?"
"You're scared." Whatever sympathy was in his previous words, it's gone now; the statement rings flat and stale, like copper in the air. "You're scared of me, aren't you? That's why you ran to Near."
"Mello—" Matt begins angrily, but the blonde cuts him off.
Stiffly: "No. You're right; I acted irrationally. Good-bye, Matt."
"Don't you dare—"
But then it's too late, and he's yelling at a dial tone.
Matt sits on the bed, stares at his phone, and smokes his cigarette until the stub falls from his fingers and crumbles against the perfect-beige carpet.
So, he thinks wryly, this is what it feels like to be punched in the gut.
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He doesn't sleep; instead, he walks out of the building. He's already entered his data into the security system, so getting back in won't be an issue.
He wonders if Near will notice.
Manhattan never sleeps. Even at midnight, there are people walking, talking, laughing, crying. There are the homeless sleeping on sewer grates and in doorways, young couples huddling together under awnings, yellow taxicabs speeding down the roads. The air smells like sweat and smoke and garbage. He breathes it in.
He's staring like a tourist, and he knows it, but for a moment he wants to drink in every detail, every smell and sight and sound. He needs to make these moments his.
Not for the first time, he wonders who he is.
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One day, Halle is there when Matt steps out of his room. He raises an eyebrow; it's too early for the other members to be here yet. "What's up?" he asks, thankful that today, at least, he threw on proper clothes before going to the kitchen.
"I was wondering…" and here Halle hesitates, and it's so out of character that Matt stares at her, "You worked with Mello, didn't you?"
Matt's lips tighten. "Yes," he said.
"What was he like?"
His eyes flutter closed and he can feel Halle's eyes on him. The pain is twisting in his gut again.
"He's a bastard," Matt says finally. "A brilliant, cocky bastard." He pauses and opens his eyes, meets Halle's gaze.
"You were close," she says.
Matt nods. "Yeah," he says. "We were."
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Kira has moved beyond the internet. The whispers have evolved, transformed, and no people speak of him openly, in coffee shops, on sidewalks, in their houses. Hearing people talk about Kira makes the SPK members tense. As for Near, he builds dice towers and card castles and plays with his robots.
Names and pictures spew onto the internet. Some are real criminals; others are simply the victims of grudges. Kira becomes a threat, the bogeyman, but with real, terrifying powers. People clamor for Kira's judgment. The word killer becomes a prayer.
Kira, Kira, Kira.
It is no longer a thing of shame. Justice is a twisted word, and the police struggle to maintain their strength as Kira steals their role from them. Crime plummets. The calls for Kira's wrath grow louder each day, each week, each month.
The new L is doing a horrendous job. The real L—N—is the true investigator now. He knows about the Death Note, and while they haven't recovered any of L's notes, Matt knows that the picture is resolving itself. The blank puzzle pieces are being fit together, slowly, slowly.
And through it all, Matt sits at his desk in the dim glowing room of the SPK headquarters, doing what Near asks, pouring his energy into the world of white code on black screens and ignoring everything else. He doesn't build a rapport with the other members; he has no energy for that.
His cell phone rings like clockwork every week. He ignores it.
He doesn't know why he's working the case. It doesn't matter. It's something to do.
And, besides—maybe these people will remember him.
He stays up late every night, filling the room with smoke until his eyes water, and then he heads to his bedroom and plays old video games until his body forces itself into sleep. Kira's influence spreads like a disease, and the more he grows, the more indifferent Matt becomes, and the harder he works.c
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Near sends John McEnroe to Japan to retrieve the NPA's Death Note—"I do not trust this new L," he hisses. Matt is listening in with the rest of them when Yagami bellows, "Where have you taken the director?"
It all comes out quickly; the NPA's director has been kidnapped, and the kidnappers are demanding the Death Note in return for his safety. But the Death Note is such a closely kept secret—
A mole, Matt realizes, at the same time everyone else does. Near looks at him thoughtfully as McEnroe and Yagami continue their conversation. Sweat beads on Matt's neck.
I didn't do anything.
Not that it matters, really, because Near's look says: It's Mello, and Matt's unspoken reply is: You're right.
Time to up the stakes.