Long after the children are put to bed, the lights will turn on and the music start on the third story of Wammy House tonight. There will be tasteless banners, congratulatory smiles, perhaps even wine and champagne, though it's certain that the children will manage to steal some. They will all be there, of course: Roger, Wedy, Aiber – who will probably have to change their appearance due to the boisterous FBI agents there to preen and parade – and, of course, L. There will be toasts and cheers, good-natured advice dispensed at leisure, wine-induced stories told late into the night – all wasted, of course, on the guest of honor.

Mello knows all this, has known it all for weeks, and yet, as he leans back against the iron-wrought fence surrounding the orphanage, he scowls. It's a black, moonless, night, and there's no need for taboo where the darkness will wash everything away from expectant eyes. Here, he can disappear, become nothing more than a dark figure silhouetted against the lights below, and it's a wonderfully free feeling.

Taking a bite out of his chocolate bar, Mello shifts the brown parcel underneath his arm to one hand and gives a sigh of relief. Graduation parties were always a tawdry affair at Wammy House, with overlong, garish streamers dangling from balconies, cheap crepe paper draped on every available surface, and despite the harsh, jagged-glass wind and the cold seeping through ragged leather, he can't help congratulating himself, just a little. Ha, Near.I guess finally beat you at something after all.

A sharp snap broke the night as Mello bit off another piece of chocolate. For a moment, he stands there, a lone figure barely visible against the black of the night, watching the lights dancing below him. Involuntarily, the hand around the parcel tightened, just a little, almost as if giving a reassuring squeeze.

It wasn't that Mello disliked parties in general; unlike many of the other children at Wammy House, the idea of socialization and free food had never frightened him terribly. When he'd been younger, the celebrations had always been the highlight of his year. Weeks in advance, he would be tiptoeing upstairs to peek at the preparations, plotting elaborate schemes with Matt to sneak in, and harassing the older (and much more apathetic) kids for information, too deliriously happy to see their derision. Life, and all its possibility, had boiled up to the surface like the bubbles in the contraband champagne he and Matt had stolen, and had bubbled and fizzed in his mouth as he drank it in large, too-fast gulps.

At some point, though, he had grown up, and the bubbles had fizzed out, leaving nothing but an acidic aftertaste behind.

The wind howls, a plaintive wail rippling across the grass, and Mello pauses mid-bite, creamy chocolate halfway between his teeth. Long ago, he had lost his taste for such petty pleasures, and - like a medieval Crusader - had chose instead to concentrate on bigger picture. But it was so tiring fighting all the time…

Well. What could he do then? Surrender, concede defeat?

A harsh, grating laugh forced its way out of Mello's throat, but his eyes were cold as his teeth closed around the chocolate.

Mello didn't believe in defeat.

Leaves capered across the dry, autumn grass, dancing in a disjointed, half-drunken rhythm, and as the wind blew blond strands of hair across his eyes, Mello let that thought fill his mind, melting saccharine sweet on his tongue. But there was only so far you could lie to yourself, and he had reached that limit long ago.

The problem was, Mello believed in facts. And the facts were thus:

Near had beaten him. After tonight, he would be the new L, and all Mello's twelve years of work, of never pouring over books at five in the morning… all his life, he'd been training to be L, and now… it was all futile.

Of course, Mello had plenty of options - any police force in the world would want him; he was a Wammy child, after all. He could work in a high, ranking, mediocre position under high ranking, mediocre men? Millions of people lusted for just that - for most, that would be enough, that would be success.

But not for a Wammy child. At Wammy, you were taught to separate yourself from mediocrity; to not be ordinary, but extraordinary; to crave not success, but victory.

And at Wammy, victory was L.

Well. So. Now what?

Absentmindedly, Mello stuck the chocolate into his mouth - only to find that he was chewing on a corner of aluminum. For a few moments, he stared at the shiny metal before his face slowly assumed a scowl.

Well, damn.

Crumbling the foil into a ball in his hands, Mello tossed the wrapper over the fence, the grass crackling sharply under his feet as he did so, Wammy's anti-littering procedures going to hell as the wad sunk into the grass. For people who were so cutthroat competitive about grades and homework, they were an oddly environmental group. Let's save the trees before stabbing each other in the back.

Well, you had to be like that when you only had one option, one fling, one chance to roll the die and hope that you cast it right. And if you didn't, then you either gave up -

- or you stopped playing.

For years, Mello had refused to entertain such a thought; he had had but one goal, and he had been determined to reach it - he would beat Near, and nothing anybody else had said to him could persuade him otherwise. He'd seen it as just a prettified way of giving in - something that left you with a measure of dignity, yet was still technically a loss. But now the game was over and Near, the dirty cheat, had - by some sleight of hand - won, and well, when Mello thought about - it wasn't defeat, not really, just… choosing a different path, yes, that was it. Being original. Independent.

And so Mello had chosen.

Slowly, Mello unwrapped the object in his hands, and as the paper danced away from him, the faint light from the few stars in the sky cast a silvery, dull pallor on a hard, metal surface, like the shine of the foil of an unopened chocolate bar. Which fit, in an ironic sort of way, Mello thought, as he contemplates the gun in his hands, a hungry, expectant look in his eyes. There is a slight smile on his face, but - like everything else - it is washed away in the inky darkness and the howling wind.

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I'm new here, and this is my first fic; thus, it has not been beta-ed, which explains the general sappy-ness and melodrama. I'd love constructive critism, though.