All The Way Here

Matt stepped out of the hotel foray, into the street, and lit another cigarette. He could smoke in their room, but there was still something of the desperate novelty about being able to do so. He inhaled deeply, still tasting that first cigarette after the plane; he\'d had about ten since then, but he thought that the relief would be stark forever. Yet it brought with it a slight sense of unease and a pang of guilt. Mello\'s face loomed large, of course.



The fact that the blond hadn\'t said a word, and, to be fair, didn\'t need to. Matt hadn\'t given him time to protest the formation of the new world order. He\'d raised a hand in an emphatic gesture the second they\'d emerged from indeterminable lengths of corridors and found a door to the outside world. "You get the bags, I\'m having a cigarette." Matt closed his eyes in horrified memory of his words. He hadn\'t even waited to see precisely how his lover would explode, he\'d just raced out of the doors and lit the cigarette that had been in his hand from the moment they\'d touched down.



It was amazing how much more friendly, ordinary, the world could seem with nicotine rushing through your system. Suddenly the hostility and paranoia dropped away leaving in its wake a faint wondering that anything could have ever seemed that bad. Matt had been almost at the end of that glorious first cigarette when he felt the equilibrium return, his psyche rising like he was newly awake and the light returning to the day. Only then did it occur to him that he and Mello had now split up and that probably wasn\'t good, especially since Matt had no idea where they were going.



He\'d pondered then, as now, if he ought to be offended by Mello\'s propensity to share information on a need to know basis. Matt knew that it wasn\'t meant to be a slight upon his intelligence. It was a habit born of the days when it was necessity for survival in Mello\'s world. The more people who knew a thing, then the greater the chances of it being leaked to unwelcome ears. Babble about a project and someone could tell Near about it, who might then copy and score higher points than Mello did; discuss a hit and someone could tip off a Mafia heavy and next thing you know there were people expecting you. Mello didn\'t tell him because it never occurred to him to do so. Or something like that. Though it could be a control issue as well.



Back at the airport, Matt had lit a second cigarette while he decided what to do. It dawned on him that Mello waiting for luggage, amidst a crowd of people staring at his scar, was an inevitably disastrous mix. There could be people dead by now. Alternatively, he could seethe in silence, but take only his own bags, leaving Matt\'s travelling around and around and around. He\'d just decided that, potentially fatal as it was, he was going to have to go down there, when Mello had walked out. His slim form held every bag in their joint possession, but his expression... It was the first time ever that Matt had honestly experienced a flight or fight reaction to Mello. That he stayed his ground was testimony either to courage or self-destruction.



Not a word had been spoken between them until they had taken a yellow taxi to a hotel in Manhattan and entered their room. As soon as Matt had dropped the bags, Mello was holding out a piece of paper and several tightly wadded tubes of money. Eyes still flaring with murderous intent, the blond had growled, "Don\'t get comfortable. Here\'s your shopping and to do list. I\'ll see you back here later." That was it. Matt couldn\'t shift that disturbing notion that he\'d just been reprieved from a death penalty.



So this was New York. It was very big. The buildings induced vertigo, if you stood on the ground with your head tipped right back. The broad streets seemed constantly clogged, mostly with trademark taxis, but also with cars bearing the licence plates of practically every state in America. As he walked, Matt amused himself by trying to spot all fifty, though suspected that he was doomed when it came to seeing one from Alaska or Hawaii.



The redhead meandered into the first electrical store he found and gazed over the computer hardware. A shop assistant eyed Matt as if he might be a shoplifter, then descended to inquire if he needed help. On the verge of saying no, Matt spotted the equipment he needed. "Yes, please." He spotted. "I\'ll have five laptops, a rootwire, three extension leads, some... erm... four of those scarts, printer, scanner and... where are your desktops please?"



Three streets away, Mello peered out from beneath his deep hood to memorize his route from the Metro map. The sooner he had a motorcycle again, the better, but this errand was his highest priority. He felt naked without the whole of his arsenal, though the weight of the .45 he\'d just bought helped a little. The address he had, for a supplier in Brooklyn, would do much to restore his piece of mind. There was a whoosh of air, a fierce wind gaining momentum through the subterranean chamber, then the train arrived.



Mello elbowed his way into a seat and took out his book. It was his insurance against conversation, though he doubted that anyone would dare. It was a Bible stolen from the hotel room. He wasn\'t really reading it, just had it open at any page, partially because his mind was still picking over details in his plans in case something even now lay undiscovered to trip him up. However, there was also an element of distrust. This was a New American Standard Bible and something deep in his soul wondered if it was, well, safe. After all, a retelling so decidedly Protestant couldn\'t be sanctioned by the Pope.



After a while, his eyed defocused to read what any onlookers must have believed him meditating upon. Mello grinned evilly, as his mind picked over the words. \'Declare the things that are going to come afterward, that we may know that you are gods; indeed, do good or evil, that we may anxiously look about us and fear together.\' "Ok. I\'ll do my best." He muttered beneath his breath, his fingers reaching at a subconscious command to touch the rosary around his neck. Then, as he peeped up, he saw that someone had graffitied a word in two foot high red spray paint on the onside of the carriage, \'Kira\'.



In a shopping mall above ground, Matt had paused for a cup of tea and a cake. He played a bit of Metroid Zero Mission, but his mind was elsewhere. Like ninety percent of his thoughts these days, it was on trying to work out what was going on in Mello\'s head. That final entry on the list had been missed until after Matt had arranged delivery of the computer equipment and was skimming through for the next easiest task to tick off. It read, \'find out Near\'s address.\' Yes, fine. Whatever. Was it that Mello threw these things in just to test him or to set him up for a fail? Give him something to shout at Matt about when he couldn\'t deliver or did he actually have so much faith in the redhead\'s resourcefulness that he thought this was a viable request?



He\'d already tried Roger. The older man didn\'t know or so he said. Matt actually believed him. It made far more sense for no-one to know where Near was, which rendered it all the more strange that they were in New York. Why did Mello even think that Near was here somewhere? In all the hacking, Matt hadn\'t even seen a ping that mentioned the Big Apple.



Matt froze, his head suddenly up and his eyes glazed. He had watched Near a fortnight ago, on a hacked surveillance camera. The redhead closed his eyes. How could he do it again without reactivating the Mario Clause and undoing all of his work of the past week? He couldn\'t. How could he withhold this information, when he knew that Mello was searching for him? Because he had to. Matt\'s mind span around the consequences of each course of action to eventually arrive at the same conclusion.



Mello wanted to find Near because the war between them still raged as violently as their two-pronged war against Kira. Their Wammy House ratings were as keenly important now as they\'d ever been when they were children. As far as Matt could see, their rivalry was what this was all about, however much it was dressed up as avenging L or stopping Kira. People ignored megalomaniac wannabe world leaders and genocide every day of their lives. It was someone else\'s problem, happening in far-away countries of which they knew little. A tribe got slaughtered in Dafur; a group of people got killed on the Israel/Palestine border; a few hundred criminals had a heart attack in prison. Same shit, different place, all very bad. But Mello and Near singled out the one that had killed L and used the hunt as round three billion and ninety-four thousand in their sparring for supremacy over each other. The Mario Clause could not be even known, let alone reactivated, because that, right there, was the real Apocalypse waiting to unfurl.



Hell no. Matt checked the list. He would go and buy the smoke gun instead.



Stepping out of the subway entrance, after an extraordinarily long journey, Mello viewed the darkening day. This bit of Brooklyn was reputedly bad news, where people shot you as soon as looked at you. Snapping off chocolate, Mello grinned. This is favourite sort of place. People left you alone in areas like this. They assumed that if you were confident enough to walk around like you owned the place, then you knew something that they didn\'t to support your case. The people he grinned at were already on their guard, instinct recoiling at the obvious enjoyment sparking in the blond\'s eyes. Anxious to remove him from their vicinity, they all pointed him in the direction of the block he needed.



Once there, Mello didn\'t knock at the front door, but edged down an entry, silent despite the scattered rubbish and the bicycle against the wall. Reaching a rear entrance, he rolled his eyes at the realisation that the door was ajar. Idiots. His fingers curled around the .45 and Mello pressed through into the bright interior. There were voices in the left-hand room, silence from the room to his right. He listened carefully, counting three vocal individuals. Child\'s play. A well-heeled boot positioned and ready, then Mello burst into the front room with a blast of gunfire. Less than thirty seconds later, two lay dead on the floor, while the last gurgled horrific noises, blood bubbling upon his lips. There were only three. Now for the dangerous bit.



Mello ran up the stairs, kicking open doors to reveal no-one else there. He gazed out of the window, but no-one was about. Good, it meant that the neighbours weren\'t so stupid. Satisfied that he had a few minutes grace, at least, he tramped back down to the bloodied front room and watched the third man die. A snap of chocolate and Mello spoke to corpses, "That was a message from Rio. He said he knows about the Colombia deal."



Pacing back through to a box-room already noted on his first search of the house, Mello sorted through guns and bullets, grenades and other such paraphrenalia of violence. He placed it all into a large suitcase and, straining to carry it all, left through the backdoor again. Now all he had to do was find the hotel again.



Matt entered the rental place and browsed the catalogue. Of all the bizarre items on Mello\'s list, this one was probably the strangest. Who wanted a bloody vehicle in the most traffic jammed city in, probably, the world? He sighed, but went on looking. "What\'s the insurance like on this Harley?" While the young assistant went to check, Matt stared out of the window. Just two things left now, groceries and finding Near. He frowned. He hadn\'t even seen a grocery store in his travels. Did they eat in New York? Why did they want food when there was room service? Worn out, Matt took the pen on the counter and altered the entry to read, \'cigarettes and chocolate.\' In his humble opinion, it was about the only thing on the list that made sense.