My Own Way

The first thing that Matt did when he reached the apartment block was to double-check the address. It all seemed to fit, as did the key in the door when he tried it. He stopped dead, just inside the front door, then jogged into each room ensuring that he was alone. Only then was the door chained and deadlocked behind him. Next, he took out a screwdriver from his own keyring and searched every socket that he could find, checking for bugs. There were no cameras, as far as he could see. Only once all of these checks were completed did he stand in the centre of the open-plan living area-cum-den-cum-kitchen-cum-hallway and allowed his jaw to drop.



The place was huge and luxorious. It was the kind of apartment that you imagined presidents or A-list celebrities staying in and yet it had patently been prepared for Matt. There was a whole wall of monitors and electronic equipment. There were several games consoles, all still in their boxes, alongside a stack of the latest games and some very, old favourites. There was a settee that someone could get lost in and a bath which was big enough to swim in, albeit only a single stroke. Outside, down below, there was a swimming pool. Above his head, the air conditioning hummed. He opened the bedroom to find a king size bed. The wardrobe contained several pairs of jeans, shorts, t-shirts and jumpers, all in various sizes. Mello hadn\'t known what size he was now.



That realisation hit hard. Matt sat down heavily upon the bed, his head in his hands, just staring at the carpet. "Oh my fucking God! Oh my fucking, fucking God!" The past few hours, most of a day, unfurled themselves in his mind. Trying to sleep with the dregs of the chemicals still racing through his bloodstream; Mello; the heat of the bed against his skin and the coolness of the floor, where the draught from the skirting board could reach him; Mello; the decision to take some valium and sleeping pills; Mello; the awakening to find himself tied and heavies pointing guns; Mello; the terrifying flight across the Atlantic; Mello; the car ride across LA; Mello; the hotel room; Mello. He had found Mello! "Oh my fucking God!" His hands covered his mouth and nose and he stared up at the wardrobe door. He\'d found Mello. "Fucking. God."



Matt stood, uncertainly, then pinched himself to check that this wasn\'t just some elaborate trip. There was no way of telling. He ran into the palace of a front room and powered up all the PCs. Mello had metamorphosed into someone he did not recognise. He had always been a bit tempermental, but had never been so seemingly combustible. The studious teenager had turned into someone who looked like he turned tricks for money. There had been a kind of madness in Mello\'s eyes that froze Matt more than the serpentine stares. He had imagined a billion times what he would find when he eventually tracked down his friend, but none of them had even come close to the reality. And yet, there had been little things that spoke of his Mello still inside there. Just once, there had been a look, almost pleading for understanding, help or forgiveness, before it had been drowned in another power-kick. As long as that remained ambiguous, Matt was willing to stay. For auld lang sang.



Matt smirked. He muttered to himself, under his breath, "Yeah, Jeevas, you keep on believing that."



Another thing - the crosses. Back at Wammy\'s House, Mello had had a rosary which he kept over the edge of his headboard. Occasionally Matt would interupt him, presuming saying the prayers associated in them, but they were always spoken very quietly in an unidentifiable language. It sounded Eastern European, which fitted with his colouring, though that could equally be Scandanavian. Matt had memorised a few words, but forebore to search them on the internet. It felt like an imposition. Their upbringing had been very strict on the retention of personal information, going so far as even changing their names. That was by the by. Mello had survived their childhood with his strong Catholic faith demonstrated openly only in a tiny crucifix, which he wore sometimes around his neck and sometimes pushed into his pocket. Matt had bought it for him one Christmas. He had seen it again today, only now it had been transformed into a bracelet, the crucifix itself falling down to nestle at Mello\'s palm.



It had been joined, however, by a startling array of other Christian paraphenalia. Both knees had been intersected by leather cross patches, whose arms spread halfway up his thighs and down his shins, the left-right arms almost encircling his legs. His rosary was now around his neck. His belt had contained one huge cross at the buckle and at least three more around the waist. Matt had a memory flash of Mello rushing around their room, preparing for that morning\'s examination. Himself speaking languidly from his bed, "Why are you worried about this? You\'re going to pass." Mello frowning and pausing in the act of refilling his fountain pen, "I\'m not worried. Why do you think I\'m worried?" Matt smirking back at him, "Because the first thing you did when you got up was put your crucifix around your neck." So now, in the present day, the redhead felt sick when he considered just what level of inner panic caused his friend to literally cover himself in the things.



Matt opened the file. It was short and to the point, but even so, he read it at least four times before he accepted that the words were not going to change from what they had said the first time round. Mello wanted him to arrange for a missile to be taken from a military compound in Florida and transported to the Utah desert. He had outlined the backdoors he had found so far, along with a list of possible avenues. Two things struck Matt immediately. The first was that there was really no need for him to have been brought to America to do this; he could have done just as well from his flat in England. The second was that, unless Mello had suffered serious brain injury in the intervening four years, there was nothing here that he couldn\'t have done himself. It was complicated, time-consuming and highly illegal, but not beyond Mello\'s capabilities. All of which confirmed Matt\'s initial deduction that there was a cry for help on a much deeper level going on here. Mello was in over his head.



He stepped away from the computers and sat down on the massive settee. His mind was reverberating and his body was aching. He had already picked up some cigarettes and a small bag of supplies, gushing like a tourist over the price of the former. It was well over a fiver a packet back home, but a packet of cigarettes here cost around a dollar. He had yet to try one, so they might taste terrible, but that was nearly five packets for the price of one English packet. Matt already had plans to post himself several multipacks to his home address. If his flight here was anything to go by, then the return one wouldn\'t involve a duty-free shop. Now that he had seen the gaff, though, there were other things that he wanted. A scanner for a start, to properly check for bugs and cameras, and some external hard-drives.



Matt smoked as he called. First to home to tell Aimee that he was alive. She sounded half-scared to death, but he made light of it. He told her that he may be away for several days, if not weeks, but she was to ensure that the rent was paid and was to look after his stuff. She could stay in the flat while he was away, but only if she didn\'t trash it. Aimee promised faithfully, but wasn\'t about to let him go with just a few bullet-point statements and requests. As she waffled on, it occurred to Matt that he had never had a conversation with this woman whilst sober before and that she bored the crap out of him. In the end, he knew that he sounded quite rude as he interupted her. "Aimee, sorry, I\'ve got to go. Someone\'s here." She reluctantly said her goodbyes, but then started off on another spiel about Gallagher and her on-off relationship with Sammy. "Aimee, really, I\'ve got to go." He disconnected the call before she could start again. Mello might have been many things, but he was never banal.



Next he jumped onto the EHC Forum and logged into a second level chat-room known only to thirteen people in the world. He typed. "Anyone want to earn a bit of money taking some jobs off me?" The question was met with confusion and curiousity, but no-one asked him outright and so he didn\'t tell them anything. One by one, the five hacking jobs he had been working on were taken off his hands and he logged out. He had already sent a private message to one member though. It finally flashed with a response as he was inspecting the contents of the kitchen, frowning at what Mello considered to be food. He raced back to the computer.



ohai Crash

sup

stop lookin 4 mello

0.o Orly?

Yarly

Gud newz???

8D

Yay!!

lol yeh

Rly plzt 4 u man

ty an tyvm 4 all ur help

np yw

Sry c4nt tell u moar

np

g2g cya

lol u crack me up

Huh?

Nuthin u n33d 4nythin else?

nty

kk cya

cya



Matt had actually meant to speak for longer, but energy was surging through his body. It wasn\'t drug related, though it might be the comedown. It could be adrenaline leaving, though that implied becoming tired, not energised. It might be his mind imploding after only two hours sleep in three days, or it might be better not to question it. Whatever it was, he just couldn\'t sit there plugged in and trying to converse with anyone. He\'d found Mello. Mello was back. Matt stood there and grinned, then berated himself for feeling pleased about it. He didn\'t owe Mello a second\'s more consideration than he already had. But...



The redhead picked up the car keys and money, deciding to go shopping while he had this second wind. An exploration of the contents of his pockets had already turned up a packet with ten pills and an ounce of speed. He took a dab of the latter, just to ensure that this burst of energy remained while he was out. It didn\'t touch the sides. He was too immune to its effects now.



He returned an hour and half later with bags of provisions and immediately followed through on his promise to himself to have a bath. He added some arnica for the bruising and emptied into it enough bubbles to really work the jacuzzi aspect. It looked deep enough to drown in. He worked out how to patch the music through and accessed one of his servers to find some suitable music. Rob Dougan fitted the bill. Just upbeat enough to keep him from sleeping, just mellow enough to relax to. \'Clubbed to Death\' suited his mood perfectly. Mello was back.



Matt slid into the bath, sinking into warm water up to his chin and still had to put his hand down to find the bottom. It soothed instantly his protesting muscles and aching joints. It was the most beautiful bath in the world. He felt it caressing his bruises and wiping out the anxieties of the day. One day, he promised himself, he would get a bath like this installed into his own place, though he might need a bathroom extention first. Perhaps move the bathroom into the front room. He laughed. He could feel his eyes getting heavier. Mello was back. Adrenaline coursed through again and his eyes shot open. Mello was back. Hating himself for it, Matt grinned. Mello was back.