[Matt is barefoot and unstriped, with his goggles pushed up on his forehead. The ever-present cigarette is still, well. Present. He's been wandering around for what feels like forever, opening doors at random, but, as if it senses he just wants some damn variety, the mansion has presented him with an endless succession of rooms that fail to turn him into a cartoon character; or give him a small, unassuming spider on his shoulder; or do anything except sit there and be pretty, or boring, or something impossible in normal spacetime, like that one with all the seasons crammed up against each other, but ultimately nothing more than scenery.
So he's almost relieved to find one with a person in it, a person he knows, even, and if their interaction is always somewhat fraught, at least it's something.]
[It's weird enough that the wall shimmers, showing another human being-or whatever the two of them now are. That it should be that Matt, who he hasn't seen in what feels like a year and a half, but who's still instantly recognisable from his barely-there hostility? That's stranger still.
His first thought, as he glances up from the floor, is no, you're not real; his second, almost contradicting it, is ugh, I'd forgotten how much those things stink. And the old program's faded so far that the thoughts take longer to patter across his face than they used to.]
... Matt. [Not "Mail", as it once might have been. His voice feels rusty.]
[He says it casually, and the glance he gives Yagami's sketchbook is equally casual; he's encouraged by the use of the alias. He figures they could be here a hundred years, and Light still wouldn't have made it to friendly, but courteous represents progress.
Wow. Matt really needs another hobby.]
Has this place, like, totally emptied out, or is it just fucking with me?
[And, indeed, he's just a little defensive of the sketchbook, still, in a way that he doesn't care by now is substitution-and he's been isolated long enough to not quite block the way he bristles at Matt's glance at it; his fingers close protectively around its top, little lost Light and his little black book. He's never forgotten the way he lost one of its predecessors. Or that Matt had been there too.
That moment of-no, definitely not pity, but usefulness-is responsible, probably, for him showing any courtesy at all. But the question gets his attention, and draws him upright a little, deceptively calm. It's possible that this is really him. Unlikely, but possible. I have to be careful.]
Emptied-what? [He clears his throat, covering his mouth and nose with a stray hand; he's not even pretending the smoke doesn't bother him.]
It's quieter than you're used to, out there? Who'd have thought it.
[And there's another thought, far in the back, a ghost thought: if he's here, she could be here too.]
Comments 27
So he's almost relieved to find one with a person in it, a person he knows, even, and if their interaction is always somewhat fraught, at least it's something.]
Light.
Reply
His first thought, as he glances up from the floor, is no, you're not real; his second, almost contradicting it, is ugh, I'd forgotten how much those things stink. And the old program's faded so far that the thoughts take longer to patter across his face than they used to.]
... Matt. [Not "Mail", as it once might have been. His voice feels rusty.]
You must have done something quite dreadful.
Reply
[He says it casually, and the glance he gives Yagami's sketchbook is equally casual; he's encouraged by the use of the alias. He figures they could be here a hundred years, and Light still wouldn't have made it to friendly, but courteous represents progress.
Wow. Matt really needs another hobby.]
Has this place, like, totally emptied out, or is it just fucking with me?
Reply
That moment of-no, definitely not pity, but usefulness-is responsible, probably, for him showing any courtesy at all. But the question gets his attention, and draws him upright a little, deceptively calm. It's possible that this is really him. Unlikely, but possible. I have to be careful.]
Emptied-what? [He clears his throat, covering his mouth and nose with a stray hand; he's not even pretending the smoke doesn't bother him.]
It's quieter than you're used to, out there? Who'd have thought it.
[And there's another thought, far in the back, a ghost thought: if he's here, she could be here too.]
Reply
Leave a comment