Light is bouncing off the walls. Not literally, just in the metaphorical sense. He's been here almost three weeks; almost, and there's no sign of one of the doors becoming the front door of his house. His ipod's run out of power, and he can't walk away from the people he exploits. He's so far outside his comfort zone that he can no longer see it,
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It turns out the semi-familiarity of the voice wasn't a lie: it's him. Or not him: younger, and less defeated, and half-asleep, and angry. At the sight of him, Light's eyes narrow by a few millimetres, visible suspicion. His hands rest on the back of the chair, beneath his chin. What are you supposed to be? After all, based on what Light's been told, all his copies are mass-murderers...
Thinking about that, he waves one hand to the teapot on the counter. The comment isn't as offhand as it sounds; it's pregnant with meaning.] ( ... )
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Did it? It hasn't been so uncooperative with my clothes.
Perhaps it's because you're a serial killer.
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[It's his best flat stare. Worse things have happened to him, but that's obviously intended for effect.]
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[It is, of course, a lie. Fishnets were never in, at least, never outside lolita fashion and 1985.]
You aren't one of them.
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[starting to fix himself some toast.]
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[Scowling into his bowl, he picks at it.]
For all I know, standing around kitchens in duck underwear is exactly what mass-murderers do. Turn it into a joke, hope people believe you when you say it isn't so? I don't know.
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[Sounding bored, and honestly, he barely knows.]
You're only the second of me I've met. The other one - [just a bit of something sombre under his voice] - didn't seem so unlike me when I was his age.
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[Sitting back in the chair again - he'd wanted to smack the kid.]
He was - seventeen, eighteen. World at his feet and didn't care who knew it. You know the sort of thing.
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That's quite a question to spring on me. What am I supposed to say? Third planet from the sun? Goes by "Terra" when it's feeling pretentious? Population approximately eight billion?
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Excuse me, I didn't misinterpret. You were unclear.
But nothing so spectacular, I'm afraid. No, my world's running itself into the ground as fast as it possibly can. [A lot like Light himself, in fact.] No dragons, no zombies, asteroid impacts, global wars, anything like that. Nothing but-
[He breaks off: "too many people", suddenly, doesn't seem like a phrase he wants to use.]
I'm twenty-four; it's 2010. October 20th, I think.
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