Random Mello-centric ficlet I banged out while bored :D
Please enjoy and leave a review, I don't own the series or the characters, etc. :)
There's a kid outside the nightclub. No older than fifteen or sixteen, though nobody cared enough to ask. Pretty enough to pass for a girl until one heard him speak.
He's been there every night for a few months now. Every night in the same black tee shirt, same white sneakers. Same weathered jeans and beaten leather jacket. Beside him always sat an old blue backpack containing everything this child had to his name.
Every night, rain or shine, he stood outside the nightclub, alone, in the middle of Los Angeles. Sharp blue eyes peering beneath a fringe of cornsilk hair, surveying the crowd with a mixture of anger and desperation.
Every night, someone new would approach him. They'd make casual small talk, as if it could put the boy at ease. Every night, some new mark would start flirting with him. Trying to touch him. Asking if he wanted to stay the night with them.
And every night, he'd give them the same words.
"Fifty bucks."
Same words. Same flat tone. Same cold, lifeless eyes not quite meeting the man's in front of him.
"Fifty bucks. One night. No names, no cameras, no bullshit. Deal?"
It wasn't a bad offer at all. Ever since Kira had come to power, it was all too easy for people to get trapped by fake hookers. There were all kinds of stories about men thinking they'd scored a night with a pretty woman, only to be found dead a few days later, after their names and photos had been put online. This kid knew that.
He wasn't a woman, of course. But given the sorry state of the world, he'd found that people tended to be far less picky, so long as they knew they wouldn't be killed.
So it was easy.
Every night, another skeevy hotel. Every night, another man.
It's what I have to do. It's all I can do.
If they didn't take him face-down, these men might have noticed the tears of shame that dampened the pillows. If they paid attention, they might have heard the sobs of disgust disguised as wanton moans. If they didn't roll over to fall asleep immediately after, they might have seen him clutching a rosary to his damp chest, mouthing prayers for forgiveness he had no hope of receiving anymore.
But nobody ever paid attention. They were too eager to shove his face into the grimy mattress, to plunder that young body which already had nothing left to give.
None of these men gave a damn about Mihael Keehl. About Mello.
But that's okay. He isn't looking for their pity. Their money works just as well.
When it's all said and done, he washes the filth away in the motel shower that always reeks of mildew and neglect. Sleeps in the bed soiled with cum and sweat- just for a few hours. Dresses in the same battered clothes, grabs his money off the dusty nightstand, and is back into the streets where he came from. Back to the real reason he came to LA.
All the humiliation, the disgrace and the pain was worth it. Because it was nothing compared to what lay in his future.
He was going to claw his way up to the top. He was going to prove himself L's worthy successor.
Better than Near.
Better than everybody.
No Matter what.