Matt sat down and stared at the wall for a moment.<em>Think, Tatami.</em>He wasn't in Black Tokyo.  The people outside wouldn't be frozen in place over there, they'd simply be absent.  The clocks and electronics were also a clue.  He closed the blinds and ate banana slices while he paced the room.  Someone had done this.  The obvious reason seemed to be so that they could take him out without any witnesses or uproar.  He'd simply be dead the next morning.  If it was targeted at him.  He looked at his door, then went ahead and put the bar in place.<em>That was foolish.</em>Anyone who could do something like this, neither they nor their agents would be stopped by an apartment door.<br/><br/>He needed to get moving, and he needed allies.  Who could have shifted him outside of time, between the ticks of the clock?  Would there be others?  It could be a side effect of the little jaunt they'd taken today.  Masato and Hikari.  They could be in danger.  Would be in danger.  There was nothing for it but to try and contact them, then move.  And swiftly.<br/><br/>Even with his mind racing, he'd still spent too much time in contemplation.  He grabbed his whiteboard and the markers, went into the tiny little bathroom he had.  There was a mirror, it was enough.  He regarded his own reflection for a moment.  Black hair, expressionless eyes behind his glasses.  He'd so rarely actually looked at himself, let alone wondered how others must see him.<em>What had Masato seen in him that had made him trust him enough to walk the path between worlds?  What had Hikari seen?  Just a sidekick to the larger, stronger boy who'd come to save her?  Irrelevant.  It shouldn't matter what people think of me.  Why should I care?  These are the scattered thoughts of desperation.  You have to be tougher than that, Matt.  Fear is the mind-killer, after all.</em><br/><br/>He quickly started a rough sketch of Masato, on the mirror.  It wasn't half-bad, really.  He could have joined the art-club, convinced some girls he was "sensitive."  Well, maybe not even art girls were that gullible.  The low gutteral chanting that was rapidly becoming second-nature to him reverberated strangely in the small, tiled room.  Candlelight reflected back and forth between the mirror in front of him and the mirror on the door behind him.  The background seemed to shift underneath the glare of the candles, the rough dry-erase sketch of Masato's face twisting and distorting, merging and subsuming his own genuine reflection until he seemed to be looking more into a window than a mirror...