Blood is something that can be washed off. People can go home and rid themselves of whatever grit and grime they had accumulated during the day. Blood is mostly water. Nothing soap wouldn't take care of.

The first shot had struck the heel of his right hand, tearing off a good three inches of skin along with it. He'd reared up from the shock and in the process had left a line of perfectly spaced droplets across his face. That night Matsuda had gotten home around 4 am. He didn't change out of his dirty suit, but he did wash his face. His eyelids had almost crusted shut with salt.

Beep. Beep. Beepbeepbeepbeep. Rise and shine, Touta Matsuda, you killer you! Welcome to another day little Light Yagami will never see!

Matsuda makes his way over the piles of clothes and coffee cups littered across his rugs. You really should pick some of this up so you can vacuum, he thinks. The bits falling out of the takeout boxes have assumed the consistency of plastic. There are a lot of things he ought to do right now. He ought to start making eye contact with the rest of the team. He ought to start running again and stop eating shit. Get up. Shave and cut his hair. Quit slumping. If he can't be okay he should at least look it.

Matsuda arrives at work only a little early like always, so he can get the coffee machine running, bring up the database and arrive back for his sludgy mug of liquid vice. Breakfast of champions. Mogi's bumbling around with the toaster, the only other person here this early. Matsuda knows greetings aren't his nature, but he still can't help feeling ignored. Matsuda isn't sure how Mogi has handled any of this. The impression he gets is that Mogi is the sort of person who can put unpleasantries out of his mind with ease. His broad face has gotten more lined though, and early grey is showing up around his temples, but Matsuda can't tell if they are the fault of time or stress.

"Top of the morning, huh?" Mogi turns around, plate in one hand, margarine in the other. Grunt. But it's an affirmative-sounding grunt. Fix Your Life With Half-Hearted Displays of Friendliness. You're an inspirational story of a man, Matsuda! Look at how much five little words can do for your self-esteem level! The coffee is making sandpaper out of his tongue. He hears the metal detector chime as Aizawa's shoes squeak over the linoleum. He's looking tired too. Everyone is. It's been a long two years. Matsuda does not want to talk to him right now, because he knows what he's going to be thinking. For a while Matsuda was starting to believe in Kira, and while he knows he regrets it and has since straightened his values out, the fact that he once were pro-Kira makes him just the slightest bit dangerous to have around. He is toeing the line just by staying with the police force, and Matsuda doesn't want to say the wrong thing and be dismissed. That is all it would take now.

Knowing Aizawa will ask him to, Matsuda logs on to the police network. The wave of Kira copycat crimes has been rising, and Matsuda can't help but feel helpless facing it. After all, he spent six years underestimating the capabilities of sociopathic teenagers, and while it's highly unlikely any of them will be quite as serious about becoming Gods of the New World Order as Light was, any Kira activity at all, period, is a cause for concern. Kids have simplistic moral compasses and like to play with fire.

Ide and Yamamoto come in wordlessly. Yamamoto goes straight for the fridge but Ide doesn't bother. For a second Yamamoto looks like he's going to say something to Matsuda, but then keeps going. Matsuda doesn't blame him. He likes Yamamoto but he is far too similar to who he was eight years ago, the naïve but well-meaning kid with the unruly hair and suits just a little too big; who got to where he was by doing absolutely nothing original and being at the right place at the right time. Matsuda sighs and pours out the rest of his coffee into the sink, and goes off to save the world again.