Matt woke up to Mello typing on the computer again. He'd had barely any sleep. Heroin would be a great sleep aid, but he couldn't use with reckless abandon like he normally would have wanted to, lest his withdrawal symptoms got noticeable again. Whenever he started to get antsy, he took a day off or two, and slept worse for it.
It wasn't ideal, but it was what he had to do in order to get his fix and keep the work coming. Besides, he knew that tomorrow, he would have a day to himself.
So it really wasn't too bad. Really. It could be way, way worse.
It was Sunday morning. Matt had to pick up the car later for their mission tomorrow. The day was shining behind the grey curtains, though Mello kept them closed. When Matt emerged from the bathroom after his morning shower, towelling his wet hair, Mello was cracking his neck, popping another round of his pills at the desk. That was all Mello did recently — pop pills.
Re: who was the junkie now.
Mello flipped over a sheet of memo paper, staring at some numbers he'd scrawled down. Looking at the NPA digits that he'd lifted from a previous mission, probably. Still none of Matt's concern.
Matt was just supposed to play backup tomorrow. Keep the lines running smoothly, making sure that the coast was clear and that whoever was there wasn't doing anything they weren't supposed to. It was low-stakes, especially since Mello wanted him to be completely invisible.
Matt was good at invisible.
Matt walked back to his bed to grab the ashtray and a pack of cigarettes. He glanced up at the clock by the bedside table as he pinched a cig between his lips. Needed to be in Flushing by 2:30 — then he had to get his ass back here to test the GSM bug on his phone so that he could tap into Mello's calls. Matt hadn't perfected the art of phreaking just yet, which meant that the set up was still pretty amateur.
Still, it was the best he could do in a two-day span.
He turned on the TV with the remote as he flipped his wet hair out of his eyes, struggling to find his lighter from messily strewn comforters. The hotel introduction channel music slithered into the room, sounding like soft 80s jazz.
"We'll be establishing connection tomorrow," Mello said finally, putting down his pen on the table. "We're choosing the officer who isn't currently acting as L."
Matt nodded, unearthing the lighter from under the pillow and lighting his cig. "What time?" he asked, sitting down at the end of the bed and pulling the ashtray into his lap.
No more hotel music. Matt changed the channel. ABC. Flip. More news. Flip. Sairas' wrinkly old face. Flip. Samurai Jack. Fuck, he loved that show.
"By 10 PM tonight for the Delta flight," Mello responded.
Matt looked up. "'Kay. Where will you be meeting him?"
Samurai Jack pulled out his katana in the moonlight, glinting with a sharp ding! Mello said, "I won't be."
"Hm?"
"I'll get killed if I show my face."
Matt tilted his head, frowning. "Then where are you taking him?" he asked.
"To Near."
"Near?"
"Near thinks that Kira is the current L," Mello responded levelly, his back still turned. "I want to see if that's true, but like hell I'll take the fall for it."
Matt blinked. "Wait, you mean you're…" He paused. Stopped. Restarted. "… You're going to bait Kira to kill Near?"
"As a worst case scenario," Mello replied nonchalantly. "The best case is that we make the NPA realize that Kira is among them, because they don't know."
Matt opened his mouth to say something, then closed it. Blinked again. Laughed uneasily, because he wasn't really sure what other reaction to give.
Even after all these years, Mello really was able to just casually count involuntary manslaughter as part of collateral for a mission, as long as it was Near's head on the pike. Psychos were psycho, Matt supposed.
Mello pushed his chair back with a hearty sciiiirtch against the carpeted floor, turning his body around to look at Matt. His pinkish left eye glowed underneath puffy scarred skin, his skin like raw shrimp, and Matt couldn't help but look away.
Back to Samurai Jack. Back to the wall. Back to something else.
Mello shifted his laptop away from the glare of the morning sun, pointing at the screen. "We'll be meeting him."
Matt looked back warily. On the screen was a solid unit of a man, looking big and domineering, features carved out of stone. In the furigana above his Japanese name: Mogi Kanichi.
"Yeah, seems like a cool dude," Matt answered at length. Maybe he was naive, but he didn't really want to see anybody die tomorrow.
By the grace of God, Matt found a baby blue El Camino from 1968 on Craigslist, its windows tinted at 70, gutted like it'd been drag racing since yesterday. He'd gotten it for around 50k, paid all in cash, and yeah, it kind of left a significant dent on his savings.
But it was a really beautiful fucking car, all things considered.
The next afternoon, Matt sat in his nice new car, smelling his sweet new car smell, and watched as busy little heads bobbed one by one out of the subway station exit. It was in downtown Manhattan, in plain sight of Near's Kira building, and Matt was on the lookout for the stocky Japanese dude named Mogi and his friends who had hitched the same flight over from LA.
Here he is, came an OTR message on Matt's laptop from Mello.
And so he was. Barrelling out of the flimsy door of a yellow taxicab, his crew-cut standing six feet proud, Mogi was wearing a tan suit jacket and bottlenecking the middle of a busy sidewalk.
"I've exited Nick Street Station," Mogi's accented English announced, a thick layer of static masking his voice over the interceptor as he looked around his surroundings. The quality was shit, and the other layer of interception of his recording software probably made the soundbite inaudible.
Still, he did what he could do.
"Good," Mello's voice answered. "Enter the building right across from you."
Matt leaned closer to the window to watch Mogi with the phone held to his ear, walking past the sidewalk towards the long steps that led to Near's building. According to Mello, the SPK were somewhere up on the sixteenth floor. The call was most likely going to cut before that.
He's in, Matt keyed in. Here started Phase 2.
Mello's message responded: Keep an eye on the tails.
Matt squinted as another taxi cab pulled up just beside his passenger seat window, letting out two more Japanese men, their suits similarly prim, both on their phones. They swept past Matt's car, peering over at the SPK building before standing around at the square in front of the fountain.
One of them stayed, while another shifted between an alleyway, disappearing from sight.
Mello's phone beeped over the bug as the call disconnected. A new line had been established, and Matt glanced down at his phone to tap into the new one as it connected through the dial tone.
"Hal," Mello's voice greeted roughly as Matt watched one of the men sit down on the ledge of the fountain, tucked behind a hot dog stand. "Get me Near."
Matt quirked a brow as he propped his elbow up against the wheel. So Mello had a rat inside the base. Matt didn't know that.
"Near," Mello said gruffly, "A man named Mogi from the NPA is coming up to the SPK headquarters to see you. He's tall. Around 6'2"."
Near responded with a curt exhale.
"I'm going to use you today," Mello continued. "Let him in and ask him everything that you need. Keep this cell phone on so that I can hear everything that's being said. If L really is Kira, then convince me."
Feedback followed, bleeping and blooping through the layers of airwaves. Matt watched the Japanese man by the hot dog stand frown as he turned up his phone volume, and then heard Near's voice finally over his eavesdropper.
"Hello, pleased to meet you," Near's lukewarm voice said. "My name is Near. Please sit down. There are things I want to ask you."
Matt looked up to see the Japanese man frowning deeply, an expression of horror on his face. Over the call played the sound of a swivel chair. Some creaking, some footsteps. Guns cocking. No words, until Near spoke up.
"Mogi, isn't it?"
Mogi didn't respond. Mello was waiting. Near was silent.
Matt jogged his laptop before it went to the screensaver, and typed into the messaging portal. Tails are surprised.
"All Mello wants to do is capture Kira, just like us," Near continued. "Won't you cooperate with us? Even if it means putting your life at stake?"
Matt bit his lip. Mello sent back, They are listening in on the line.
Jesus, that must have meant that there were at least six people on this fucking call. What was this, a conference meeting?
"I've heard that you met the former L. The real L. Is that correct?" Near paused. "Are any of your colleagues currently or previously suspected of being Kira within the National Police Academy? A yes or no would suffice."
Silence, still. Matt had known about Mello's mafia chase, covering their tracks — he'd also known that Mello had been in close quarters with Kira himself. But the specific details of the Kira case had always been things that Mello had held close to his chest. Matt didn't ask questions, and Mello never answered anything.
It was his first time hearing it all unfiltered, thrust into the middle of the chase. Matt didn't know what to think.
"Mello," Near's voice said suddenly. "It seems that this agent's been influenced already to not say anything about Kira."
"I think so, too," Mello's voice responded, his timed entrance cool and clear. There was the crack of a chocolate bar on the other end, even though he never ate chocolate that goddamn loudly other than when he was making a point. "There isn't a reason for him to not want to cooperate with us. He's still clearly under some form of influence, even if not directly through the notebook."
Near vs. Mello, just like the old Debate Club days. Matt shook his head to himself, pulling out a cigarette from his vest pocket and squinting at his laptop as he flicked on his lighter.
From Mello: Make sure they don't move.
Matt narrowed his eyes, rolling down the window a small crack as he puffed his cig. The NPA member was still sitting by the fountain, surrounded by carefree joggers around the square.
"I've already had some of my men test the notebook," Mello said, smoothly, completely unnoticeable that he was having two conversations at once. "Nobody had died within thirteen days of writing in it."
Near continued, "If a person did not write a name for more than thirteen days, they do not die. Does anything strike you as odd about this?"
What a stupid rule. Still, Mogi wasn't talking. The guy was hard.
"All we want to do is catch Kira. We have no reason to lie to you. I'm sure that working with someone who was formerly under suspicion is uncomfortable for you, as well. It would be much easier if we talked about it, and we solved this problem once and for all."
Nobody spoke. Near's weird psychologist's inflection resonated in Matt's brain stem, ricocheting around the grooves of his skull. Seconds ticked on into minutes, punctured only by Mello's chocolate bar like a chiming clock.
Mogi had stayed silent for the whole meeting, but Matt didn't know what it meant — if it was admission of guilt, mind control, or pure assholery.
Or maybe all of the above.
But it sounded like silence regardless. In every prolonged pause, Matt was expecting pandemonium. Somebody to kill somebody else. Guns, screams, Kira to emerge, notebook in hand. But nothing happened, still, and still again ten minutes in.
Mogi didn't say shit.
Three hours later, Mogi still hadn't budged, and nobody had made another move. Mello and Matt had given up on communicating, leaving the silence over their OTR messaging system to fill up the ride. He wanted to test his new car's speakers, but he hadn't brought any CDs with him to NYC and he didn't have time to hook Miku up.
This meant that he was listening to Adult Alternative for the past hour and a half. That was Nickelback's Rockstar. That was a load of crap. Now, some Foo Fighters' The Pretender…
The NPA guys had left the square sometime around 3 PM and had moved to the cafe across the street from Matt's car, sitting by the window with coffee cups in their hands, looking bored. He wasn't sure if they were supposed to do that, but they were still on the call. People had needs, he supposed.
Like Matt, who was beginning to crave a hot dog.
For the fifth time in an hour, Near prodded, "You can speak, Mogi. We will not judge you." Or something along those lines. But Mogi was ice cold. It was an auditory Mexican standoff, but nobody was winning.
Matt kept his interceptor plugged in through his car's battery, but he'd long since graduated to playing QWOP on his laptop with the Starbucks wifi from down the street.
He got to 70m before the dude onscreen ate shit, toppling over onto his back.
A blonde chick jogged past with a tracksuit that had the word JUICY dancing over her ass, her hair swinging to-and-fro as she ran through the square. A tourist lumbered past his car with sunglasses on, horking down a relish-covered hot dog. Some college-aged chick with a pin-covered backpack walked across the street, texting vigorously on her Blackberry without looking up for traffic.
New message on his laptop: Where are the tails?
Matt ignored the alert and restarted his QWOP game, his guy raising his left leg and dragging his right knee on the sandy rubber. Ouch. The racer fell to his knees and his bones cracked. He finished at 8m this time.
The pop-up said: everybody is a winner.
Matt switched tabs to the Sairas falling game that was #1 most popular on Newgrounds this week. He flung the President through the bubbles, watching as he slithered through the cracks and dislocated his spine over a human-sized, rock-hard bubble.
Another alert popped up, the window flashing: Answer.
Jesus H. Christ, this was fucking torture. He'd finished his box of cigs already, and his windows weren't even tinted enough to do anything that he didn't want to be caught doing.
Matt typed: They're at a cafe beside your building.
Then he sighed, sticking his hand into his vest pocket deeper, his fingers brushing against the silky texture of wax paper. Yeah, he did have that — and his last hit was a while ago; almost twenty-four hours. He'd kept his junk on him in case Mello ever felt crazy enough to go through his belongings again, and now, suddenly, it seemed like a pretty good idea.
Would he?
Not in the car. He needed to darken the tint still. His plates were already unregistered, and he had an illegal gun in his boot. The very last thing he wanted was to nod off in the car and wake up to the fuzz.
Matt sat up, stretching his spine out on the leather seats, and unplugged his cell phone. Then he sent Mello another message: Taking a piss break. Brb.
The response: Brb?
Matt ignored it, switching Dave Grohl off and cracking his neck as he opened the door. He shoved his hands in his pocket to hold onto his stamp bags as he jogged across the street to the cafe closest to the square, right where the NPA agents were sitting, their faces turned to the window like watchdogs.
Come on, Matt deserved this.
He pushed the door open to windchimes, sidling past the counter. The men didn't cast a glance in his direction, preoccupied still by the phone call that wasn't going anywhere, as Matt slipped into the hallway to borrow their single-use bathroom stall for a few minutes.
The hotel door hissed open and shut as Matt sidled through, cold and wet takeout bags in both of his hands. It'd started to drizzle again outside, and Matt hadn't packed appropriately. His corduroy vest was dark brown, his boots leaving sloppy footprints on the dark red carpet.
Matt deposited the takeout boxes beside the TV and shook his hair out, flinging droplets everywhere around him. His goggles were fogging up in the warmth of the hotel room, and he strung them around his neck in irritation as Mello spoke up from the armchair near the sheer curtains.
"We're not going to be able to leave New York soon," he said, lounging over the satin, a chocolate bar hinged in his teeth. He looked like a Bond villain, with the dark scar and the shiny leather pants glinting in the lamp light.
Matt shrugged his vest to the ground and grabbed the hem of his damp shirt, cleaning his goggles with them. "Yeah, I know."
"Where are the tails staying?"
Matt nodded, replacing the goggles and blinking as he ambled over to his bedside. "They're here," he said, emptying his pockets. Receipts, key card, car key, cigarettes. "At the Centurion. But I couldn't follow them in."
Crack. "You don't know the floor, then?"
Matt slumped down on the bed beside his shit and yanked his boot off, dropping it onto the ground with a thud and a sigh. "No."
"Can you find their CCTV?"
Matt was tempted to say no, but he answered truthfully, "Yeah, I can probably access it pretty easily."
"Good," Mello said, rewrapping his chocolate bar, crinkling the tin foil loudly. "Then you can find out exactly which floor they're on, and when they're coming and going."
Matt nodded, lifting a cig from his now empty pack as he watched Mello rise from the chair and walk across the hotel room towards the food. Mello untied the knot in the takeout bag, his leather gloves squeaking against the foam container as he peeked into the box. "What is this, burrito?"
"Yeah," Matt said, lighting up. "There's a burrito bowl, too, if that isn't your thing."
Mello put the burrito box back down, reaching for the box underneath and picking it up into his hand. Picky goddamned eater. That never changed.
Though Matt noticed Mello was a little different since he'd landed in New York. Calmer, less of a weird bitch about things. He gave Matt his own space, and wasn't batshit about Matt not following exactly what he said to a tee.
He was, for the lack of a better word, nice. Relatively, of course. Because Matt still hadn't gotten paid yet.
"Uh, by the way," Matt said offhandedly, picking up one of his receipts from off the comforter. "I wrote up an IOU for you."
Mello looked up at him from the desk, about to shovel a forkful of burrito rice into his mouth. "Did you?"
"Yeah," Matt said, squinting at his own scribble. "Do you want a breakdown?"
Mello put the fork down. "Just give me the total."
"You owe me $38,180.90 on top of my salary," Matt read aloud. "I took out the $15,000 you gave me when I got here."
"Alright. Thanks."
Mello turned back around.
Matt blinked. His crinkled IOU fluttered back onto his lap as he watched Mello fork something into his mouth, chewing. He kept watching until Mello swallowed, waiting for him to say something else.
Mello did not. He dug his fork into his food and left it there, satisfied with one bite, and then went back to his laptop.
"... Okay?" Matt scoffed. "What am I, your paypig?"
Mello turned around to stare at him. "What?"
"I said, you owe me $38,000 and my salary," Matt remarked, snubbing out his cigarette. "So you wanna write a check, maybe? Give me a few more rolls of cash? Wire me?"
Mello narrowed his eyes, giving him a once-over, before he spoke. "I can't touch my money right now in New York," he said slowly, as if Matt was stupid. "Besides, it's not exactly easy to transfer $100,000."
Matt shrugged. "You had that 15,000."
"That was cash I brought over."
"So, what about just the car then?" Matt picked up the receipt again, reading aloud, "$37,100?"
"I'll give it to you when I can," Mello said, shaking his head. "You have enough to last you another month."
Matt looked away. Not if he wanted to get enough heroin to last him until February. But he didn't want Mello to know that. "What if I said I didn't?"
"Then you'd be lying," Mello responded coolly. "You're an adult, Matt. Learn how to budget."
Matt glowered, folding up the IOU-receipt. He grabbed his wallet out of his back pocket, thin and light in his hand, and shoved the piece of paper inside.
"Lunch tomorrow is on you," Matt grumbled. Mello rolled his eyes and turned around to face his laptop again, marking their conversation Over.
After Mello went to sleep, Matt peeled himself away from his bed, slithering into the hallway. It was 4:32AM.
He'd been waiting, and waiting, and waiting and waiting and waiting.
Matt knew he had to scale back on using, especially since his funds were low. But it'd been a long fucking day, and he couldn't stand it anymore.
He tiptoed into the bathroom with his duffel bag, closed the door behind him, and turned the lock. He felt the wall for the lightswitches blindly, watching the bulbs flicker over top of the mirror when he found them, and then turned on the faucet as white noise.
Matt knew Mello was a light sleeper from when they were younger. He assumed it had gotten worse over the years that they'd fallen out of contact, and he really just didn't want to take the risk.
He was going to kill Mello before he let him ruin this for him.
Matt closed the toilet seat, easing himself quietly on top of the porcelain, and stuck his fingers into the front pocket of his jeans. The wax paper crinkled between his fingers, the lump of H already noticeably smaller since the first time he'd shot up at Alex's place. He pulled it out and set it over the counter, reaching into his duffel bag with his other hand to dig past all of his hard drives.
He rummaged around, trying to keep quiet under the sound of the faucet, before he found them.
Zippo. Spoon. Syringe.
He spread his paraphernalia out over the countertop, arranging them neatly on top of the hotel hand towels. In the center of the summoning circle was the Gucci stamp bag, the faint pink logo glowing like a designer heroin ad, surrounded by expensive eaux de toilettes.
Matt sat up and pushed the envelope open. He pinched a small amount, watching the powder dance with the water. The bottom of his spoon charred black as he cooked. His left hand was shaking, holding onto the murky solution like it was liquid gold.
Almost…
He soaked the needle through cotton and filled the barrel. Legs up and feet arched, he popped the needle into a dark vein by his big toe, pulling up the plunger and watching a burst of red with a slow, shaky breath.
3, 2...
Matt pushed.
The tingles started from his foot, spreading to his ankle, up to his thighs and hips. Slowly, the coziness travelled to his chest, his neck, his head, his brain.
It ballooned, spreading outwards. His body became the liquid gold, oozing bliss and warmth, shimmering all over the surface. Everything was fine. Nothing could go wrong.
Matt knew this was what Heaven was like.
When he came back to earth, his mouth was wide open and the needle was still in his foot. He still felt the buzz, the weightlessness of his body, the lightness of his brain and his thoughts. Around his shoulders, he felt warmth wrapping him up like a hug from God.
His heart was full. It felt like love.
Matt blinked and yanked the needle out of his foot, brushing the beaded blood away. The faucet was still running, loud in his reverie.
Christ almighty, Alex was right. This was good. Really goddamned good.
Matt could feel it in his fucking toenails.