Night 49: Home World: Streets near NHN, Tokyo
[from here]
Mello stepped through the door, and the world spun crazily around him. Oh, god, what now? he had time to think, before it righted itself, and he found he was grinning, halfway to a laugh, even before he consciously identified the familiar tightness of his proper clothes, and the reassuring, much-missed press of the Sig against the small of his back. Even better--so much better, some of this lightheadedness had to be relief--the babble in the back of his mind, which hadn't relented since the moment his flashlight had illuminated Matt walking toward him (he's onto you, can tell you're not right, won't follow for long) had simply stopped.
Then he blinked the last of the disorientation away, and felt the laugh die on his lips.
They were outside, in a large downtown intersection, inside a ring of unmarked cars, at the center of which stood a red sports car, bullet-riddled. Morning, chilly, and early enough that the headlights of the cars surrounding the red one were clearly visible. They were the only people in sight. Spent shells littered the asphalt, and Mello might have been imagining it, but he thought the sharp scent of cordite lingered in the air. He'd never been here, or seen that car, but that was kanji on the signs on the buildings, and the bottom had dropped out of his stomach. He looked back at his friend.
"Matt--"
He spoke quietly, the question he wasn't sure he wanted the answer to, but had to ask, in his tone. In the eerie silence of the deserted streets, it seemed shockingly loud.
Mello stepped through the door, and the world spun crazily around him. Oh, god, what now? he had time to think, before it righted itself, and he found he was grinning, halfway to a laugh, even before he consciously identified the familiar tightness of his proper clothes, and the reassuring, much-missed press of the Sig against the small of his back. Even better--so much better, some of this lightheadedness had to be relief--the babble in the back of his mind, which hadn't relented since the moment his flashlight had illuminated Matt walking toward him (he's onto you, can tell you're not right, won't follow for long) had simply stopped.
Then he blinked the last of the disorientation away, and felt the laugh die on his lips.
They were outside, in a large downtown intersection, inside a ring of unmarked cars, at the center of which stood a red sports car, bullet-riddled. Morning, chilly, and early enough that the headlights of the cars surrounding the red one were clearly visible. They were the only people in sight. Spent shells littered the asphalt, and Mello might have been imagining it, but he thought the sharp scent of cordite lingered in the air. He'd never been here, or seen that car, but that was kanji on the signs on the buildings, and the bottom had dropped out of his stomach. He looked back at his friend.
"Matt--"
He spoke quietly, the question he wasn't sure he wanted the answer to, but had to ask, in his tone. In the eerie silence of the deserted streets, it seemed shockingly loud.