Confession"Miss Crocker, I need to speak to you in private. Please come downstairs," he requests from out of the blueor more accurately, from the laptop by her bed, right in the middle of her reading a volume of manga that Matsuda had loaned to her.
She jolts. "Huh? Ryuzaki, that you?"
"Yes. Please come downstairs." His request sounds more like an order in her ears, that Bossy Beth.
"Aw, dude, can't it wait? I'm getting to the good part!"
"Unfortunately, no. Now please come downstairs."
She has no idea what he wants out of her, this time; he's so unpredictable, she usually never does. But she might as well go along with it. He won't leave her alone unless she does. It's probably something dumb, anyhow. Dumb in an L-ish kind of way.
Taking a deep breath, she prays, Lord, give me strength, as she places her bookmark in the crevice between the whimsical characters and inflated speech bubbles. It's Matsuda's book, after all. She doesn't want to ruin it with any tearing or folding (it's been lo
No SmokingWedy wouldn't have minded "Elin" so much if she didn't constantly egg her about her smoking. It was subtle, at firstwell, as subtle as the kid could besuch as bursting into obnoxious coughing fits whenever she saw Wedy light up, only to be shot down with a curt, "Need a lozenge?"
It is only a matter of time before she finally cuts to the chase: "Smoking's bad for you." Bratty millennial
Wedy takes a long, defiant drag of the cigarette perched between her fingers. "I know. That's why I do it," she replies.
She pinches her nose in the meantime and grimaces. "But it stinks! You're gonna ruin your good looks"
(Here she was, thinking that Aiber was the master of flattery.)
"not to mention your chances of seeing fifty. I did research on this once; do you wanna hear the numbers? They're not good."
"Hm. Die young and leave a beautiful corpse, they say. Keep your statistics, thanks."
"Your corpse isn't gonna look 'beautiful' if you keep smoking," she snaps.
Closure-42 Sentences: L x Erin1. Comfort: In the darkest times, every comforting gesture counts, no matter how awkward its execution: whether it's the offering of tissues, falling asleep during a thunderstorm, offering your hat to wear out in the rain, or even the occasional noogie.
2. Kiss: Kissing is, to him, a sign of acceptance, no matter what flaws the kissed may have; Misa was the first in his living memory to kiss him, but Erin was the first that he'd, following Misa's example, had kissed himself, and wished afterwards that if it weren't for her tears, that there could've been just one more before she'd left for good.
3. Pain: Breaking one's hand against a stupid bathroom mirrorand the seven years of bad luck that followcouldn't compare to the hurt that comes from the loss of friends, through betrayal or death or in this case, a little of both.
4. Rain: He was hoping (in vain, he supposes) that she wouldn't find him out in the rain, because inevitably, she'd demand to know what was going on:
IndependenceAbout thirty-four days into Light's confinementthirty-seven into Misa'she asks Matsuda upon his return with her from the To-Oh campus why they are almost two hours late.
Assuming that they've done nothing wrong, she replies with a satisfied grin, "Wow, you were keeping track? Relax, Ryuzaki, we were just out fooling with fireworks." Matsuda tugs on his shirt collar, his grin more sheepish.
He resists the reflex to glance back at either of them. After all, he can't afford to take his off of Light or Misa for even a second. If he recalled correctly, fireworks were dangerous. "Mr. Matsuda, why would you allow Miss Crocker to play with fireworks? Either of you could've been seriously injured."
"What are you, our mother? I wasn't by myself. Matsui was with me, the whole time. He could give you a complete play-by-play, if you wanted."
Neither of them is terribly good at lying. "W-well, Ryuzaki, since it's July fourth and everything, and Elin said that July fourth is Independence
MoronHe fails to see what he did wrong. He was only following protocol: every item entering headquarters must be checked. She is aware of the routine, isn't she? At the period of time she's spent here, he would expect her to be.
She's never been comfortable with men handling her…personal items. After all, they call it "feminine hygiene" for a reason. Throughout the course of their whole outing, she'd insisted on handling and purchasing them herself, even going so far as to find an open register with a female clerk when the time had come to check out. Why, she had even tried to leave headquarters on her own; the only reason she had relented to letting Matsuda drive was because Misa would be going with them. Besides, it's not as if she'd had a choice: she cannot leave the facility without a member of the task force accompanying her.
Upon returning with Matsuda and Misa, she is dangerously close to losing it when he steps up to examine the contents in her bag (just when she'd thought she was h
"Be careful what you do,
'Cause God is watching your every move.
"Hold my hand in the dark street,
For if you do, I know that I'll be safe.
"Even if I'm far away and alone,
I can be sure that you'll find me there.
"This, I know.
"You draw me close for a while, so quiet,
You tell me everything.
"If I forget what you say, then you'll come to me,
"And tell me again.
"Yes, you'd tell me once again "
The sound of clapping breaks Misa out of her trance. She blinks and looks up from her hair-brushing to find Elin propped up against the doorway, a marveling grin woven into her lips and eyes shining with fascination. "Say, that's a pretty nice tune, Misa," she says, her cheeks suddenly flushing out like they always do when she wishes she'd said something more intelligent. "What's that called? The song, I mean?"
Misa smiles back at her American friend. "Aw, thank you! Hmm it's called Misa's Song. Misa made it up."
"Really? O-oh "
"What's wrong, Elin?"
Elin peers down at t
ShowerPerhaps it's because she's been under surveillance for so long that she has learned to ignore the cameras, or at least tolerate them. Or perhaps her attention span is simply that spotty, and she forgets them. Common sense is not one of her strong points.
Whatever her thoughts are on the constant surveillance, they don't seem to keep Erin Blogger--no, Elin Crocker--from taking a shower every morning: not a mere hair-rinsing under the faucet like she used to, but a full-body shower. And it seems to have done even less to keep her from singing in it.
She sings the same Gospel rock song every morning, approximately five minutes in length, including the ridiculous air-guitar solo. That's probably why she sings it: in order to keep track of the time she spends in there in an effort to conserve water, because she's too easily distracted to count the minutes in her head or to look at a clock. And every morning, he gets to listen from the safety of the monitor room. This has been