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Death Note Redeemer: Jan. 28thOver.
After 6 years, it was over. Not as planned, not really-Matsuda wasn't supposed to shoot, if he'd miscalculated anything it was that. Damnit. Of all people to fuck things up at the last moment, it had to be Matsuda typical.
Near's voice broke over the headset:
"Kira's on foot-" he said dully. "The task force insisted on going after him."
"How bad?" was his own flat reply.
"Leave him, he's not going to survive this."
"I make the decisions," and it had been that way for a while now-a power struggle already. The boy was 19, barely on the field, but the threat was in his tense stubborn, silence-there would be a break between them-it was coming. Mello may have been right all these years.
"Which direction did he head in?"
"West along the pier," Near replied. "They'll find him eventually, or what's left of him. He'll bleed out-" but Near didn't have to finish, because Light's figure was suddenly stumbling into the doorway, covered in blood, panting, exhausted, drained, suit smear
1420 MHzHe keeps a list wadded in the depths of his front, left pocket: where he holds his keys, and the forgotten/abandoned shell of a lone pistachio. The list is his biography, written in the shape of Argentine Spanish:
Me gustan los tomates en verano.
Yo amo a mi novio.
Nos besamos. (Mi novio chupa mis dedos de los pies.)
Las estrellas cantan sus canciones.
Mi nombre no es Eduardo.
Vivo con Jacobi ahora.
His pants are wadded, now, on summer-warmed hardwood; his shirt is draped over the back of a cane-back chair, the most incongruous of antiques in Jacobi’s tech-nerd lair. Headphones clamp his ears, and fill his head with the lisping whisper of interstellar hydrogen, broadcasting itself at a neat 1420 MHz. Bedroom is the wrong word for a place like this, despite the sorts of furnishings one might expect. There is a bed, a dresser, a bookshelf and two nightstands cramped with magazines, graphic novels. An alarm clock
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