THEORY OF EDEN: Chapter 1

Author's note: A Meronia thriller/suspense alternate universe to offer for all of you mystery and Death Note lovers and melloxnear trash out there. I do not own the series and characters, just the plot. (ha ha ) Hope you enjoy!

Warning: Disturbing concepts and suggestions of abuse/rape.

"M-Mello..!"

"Stop!" The pale boy before him lay bruised and corrupted as the complete counterpart of his usual immaculate self, distorting foundations that once supported the reality between the two rivals. Mello shuts his eyes in three counts that turns to the longest five seconds of his existence, thinking the nightmare would disappear once and for all like the illusion it should be. Still, despite his pleads for a divine miracle on the cross that adorned his chest; his prayers for salvation to the entity who's supposed to be in dominant control - these circumstances were hardly anything similar to a dream.

Regardless of the length and volume of his screams, none of them ceased to stop. They pursued a steady pace, laughing their heads off at the bare sight of him, plastering him on the concrete with force that could kill. One of them held Mello on his knees, continuously beating his stomach and spine until he spat blood. They didn't let him look away, rough hands holding his head in place as to witness the crime being done.

"…He's…really pretty." One of them panted, savoring the taste of salty skin; the wetness of the cherry liquid that dripped from their victim's lips and the cries of help he sealed with his mouth. Black hair stuck on the perpetrator's sweaty back, red eyes gleaming with the acrid smell of felony taking place.

"Let go of him, please!" It's a useless cause for him and the boy. Mello could only curse himself for being so weak, because If he weren't so, then he could've pulled the albino away from them minutes ago; and he could've prevented the situation from reaching the worst end. At the very least, he thought he could shove the grinning teen away from him, but he was cemented immobile on the musky ground, the rust of blood and scent of sick fluids suffocating his senses.

His head convulsed with rage and humiliation, his bloodshot eyes beginning to tear apart with the pressure ripping his skull. He kicked the wooden pillar he was chained to, struggled from it as he shrilled obscenities, but they all remained futile.

"Make...it stop." His coarse voice void of will penetrated Mello's being further, impaling him with a weapon sharper than a foot-long knife. He screeched with anger, pushing the man away from him. He yelped and tried to reach out, but he wasn't near enough.

He was stuck a helpless five meters away, and before he could possibly progress, they'd knock him back to where he started.

"Please… " He hoarsely insisted, the onslaught yet to go a full round. He mustered up another cry of desperation and gave up another string of hope, acid welling up to his throat as he vomited the disgust out of his system until it was replaced by another searing burn.

He began to think if there would be an end, but his mind had already wiped its own out, blank and empty, except for the echoes that told him of his worth - of his failure and disappointment. The boy before him, once condemned for his faultless being, rested lifelessly like a broken toy, gray eyes lacking the shine they once carried.

His world dimmed into an abyss of sheer melancholy, the blackness marking his soul of a chaos that will perpetually endure as a permanent reminder. Mello could only wonder how one man could be so noble as to keep his faith, for at this very moment and to whatever left in his life to succeed, he just prayed for the devil to take all the pain away.

.: 14:25 Durham Police Headquarters :.

More often than not, Saturdays are usually the longest.

At six, party crashers and drunk addicts; homicide at eleven, sometimes a random hostage after twelve; and a gunpoint mixture of every crime plausible at one in the afternoon.

Not like such trivial cases concerned the blonde's scope of responsibility, but he usually took note of it, putting a tally bar on each one. The last drop of his Mocha Latte had long passed his lips and the sun peeked in a new scorching level of stress, stations buzzing with the continuous entrance of reports and identification files.

Three bars of chocolate until finally, it was time to move.

He stood, leather grazing his knees on the way to station 3C, greeting a few agents who passed him by. Mello pushed the glass doors open, meeting the gust of cold air as he did. The investigation room was fairly small, surrounded by empty gray walls and metal flourishing, a long table in the middle of it all where stood stacks of folders and papers.

There were wrinkles on the officer's foreheads, bags under bags in the surveillance division's eyes as they monitored footage all the way to Brighton and Winchester. All their gazes shifted from the documents to the disinterest in the detective's features, sighing upon recognition.

"Hit and run," One of them started, "Intersection between Watling road and Cockton Hill. A 7.6rem bullet flew straight into the cranium of Sir William Moore. He was seated at the front seat of his black Porsche." Private Rester affirms quickly. He massages his forehead, contemplating just how much times he had encountered something of the same nature. On a daily basis, he said to himself.

"He wasn't the one driving?" The younger of the two inquires, folding his arms. The cop nods, almost certain the blonde could solve the case using the smallest confirmation from him. Mello digs into his pockets until he felt the hard, rectangular interior, smirking once he did.

"Assuming there was a driver," He peeled the foil skin, eyeing the treat hungrily. He bit a chunk off before speaking, "Where was he?" Rester begins to read the written report again, all of them following suit.

A younger male answered back, "The driver testified that he pulled over after Moore asked him to go to the nearest shop to buy a cake for his wife's birthday. He came back to find his employer dead."

The chocoholic narrowed his blue eyes. Gevanni insisted on keeping a silent communication with Mello, slowly following his line of logic. "It's an alibi." The Japanese officer exclaimed, folding his hands. The redhead facing the monitors turned and reached for a piece of paper, scribbling something on it.

"Was he under a detector when he claimed as such?" Rester shakes his head.

"Then, do you have any other solid evidence to prove that he didn't know of the assassination?" A male of Mello's age approaches him, handing him the piece of paper. Mello scans it contents: information on both Williams and the driver, George Atkins, along with their web of suspicious connections.

"No." Sergeant Ross straightens his tie, moving up as to face Mello. "Moore did not only have deep links with Mafia, he was also a double-agent working for the British police."

"Point is," Mello continues, "The Mafiya discovered this and decided to get rid of him." He waves the thin material to his face, cerulean eyes already certain.

Ross flicks his tongue across his dry lips, intently reading the young detective, "We figured as much."

"Furthermore," Mello continues, "George had only been employed for two weeks. Coincidence at its finest degree." This dawns realization upon the investigators, "George is the key to execute such a carefully constructed murder." Rester adds.

"The driver not being present within the time of murder is a perfect defense – an alibi that would surely fool most of the police." Gevanni states next, darting to Mello's way.

Rester exchanges glances with Ross, gesturing him to settle down; the other two officers scurrying their way out of the investigation room while desperately pushing phone buttons and filing exclusive reports to the neighboring station. Mello insinuates preparation for the interrogation room while Gevanni mutters another "Case closed."

The Sergeant taps Mello's shoulder, whispering to his ear, "What are you going to do if the Mafia gets mixed up in this mess?" Mello grunts, finishing the rest of the forgotten Hershey bar. "The farthest they can go against me is within their imagination." Ross nods, not surprised with the revelation.

"This is why I don't like Russians." He announces. Mello was set to move unto another case, checking the time as he left the room. He groans – five minutes.

A man tails him, dashing out a stick of expensive cigarette. Mello turns to meet his personal informant, stopping him on his track, "I'd like you to keep close supervision in that interrogation room, Matt." The smoker narrows his eyes, blowing off rings of smoke. A pair of goggles sat protectively on his nose, a fashion statement he previously reasoned to 'lessen' the contact of radiation on his pupils.

"You still don't trust your comrades?" The older detective chuckles at the correct accusation.

"I would do it myself if I could." Mello grabs his keys and walks out to leave until Matt steps to block his way. He raises a gloved hand holding a cellular phone, one that Mello recognized as the untraceable device they only used to communicate with special ops.

"Looks like you gotta forget about that appointment of yours, though." This confuses Mello, but he obliges and drops his coat. He has an imaginary law in his head, - rendering services on who called first without advance reservations. He'd hate to break that rule, but then again he's only going to do it once. Besides, he was a sucker for thrill.

He takes the phone and places it on his ear, waiting for the other line to speak. Though, he didn't expect it to be him out of all possible clients.

"It's me, M." Mello's lips turn into a tight-lipped frown, brows joining at the top of his nose bridge. Matt reciprocates the action oppositely, though, rather grinning mockingly at his friend.

"L?"

"You don't sound pleased. Having a bad day, perhaps?"

"I was doing good until I decided to pick up the phone. Why are you using this line?" Mello sits on his desk, lifting his leg up to the edge. As expected, Matt brings out his game console as to satisfy the lack of movement, hands trained to keep typing all day.

"I'm in England, actually. I arrived just a few hours ago."

"Why?"

"Should I have a reason for coming home?" He replies, tone neutral and cold. He hasn't changed, Mello thought - he could imagine the older detective's signature appearance, on his chair, toes bare and outstretched, forking a piece of strawberry shortcake.

"How are you?"

"Let's keep this conversation professional." Mello scowls, glaring at the floor.

"Fine, let's skip the greetings." L clears his throat, "There's a case I'd like you to work on instead."

'A case?' Mello suddenly ponders, alert. L had never abandoned a case, especially since the genius solves it faster than the physical process of bringing it into another's authorization. He was childish that way, selfish in a sense. As result, this pulled away Mello from comfort and disgruntled his esteem.

"Are your skills rusting, old man?" Matt gapes at the retort.

"I am in fact not that old. I just thought that you would hate me more if I didn't bring this case to your attention."

"Well, don't waste my time."

"I know you want to forget what happened ten years ago, Mello." The leather-clad male freezes, all side thoughts blurring out from his brain. Matt notices the sudden absence of reaction and pauses his game for a moment, concern lacing prominently.

"What do you mean?" He hesitated, his adrenaline accelerating at the notion behind the statement.

"You were so young - fifteen. No one could handle such an extreme level of trauma, but you did." L gravelly explains, causing Mello to panic, but at the least obvious manner. His eyes widened by a fraction after hearing what's mentioned, throwing a worried glance at his friend.

"...get to the point." He stutters with great uncertainty.

"This involves elements that could be connected to Near's death."

For the past four years of profession, Mello had never felt so utterly petrified; so horribly tense at such mere epiphany, fearing the ill memories that poured fuel in his fire, pushing him further to the cliff. Furthermore, he never thought that it's going to be said from the lips of a man who was present, who could've done something ten years ago, - and yet chose not to.

"It's not my intention to bring back your painful past, however…" Mello doesn't reply. His palm grips the gadget, knuckles turning white as his stance hardened similar to a stone wall built to prevent collapse. Dark thoughts assaulted his mind repeatedly, recalling the events that caused his eventual destruction.

"You cannot run away from it. Only a sore loser would stoop so low." A winner thrives to solve the puzzle. He continues. He had heard the same words before when he ran away from the orphanage, carrying but a single bag consisting mostly of chocolates. He remembered it vividly like a film that played: the rain; the mud; the sorrow. The day after the funeral, where he felt cold and indifferent for the first time in his life.

It was the occurrence that changed him, what pushed him to be in this position - hunting suspects and solving crimes, attempting to lift even just a single rock of guilt from his chest.

L stops, almost having second thoughts of bestowing such a heavy endeavor to his apprentice; the apprentice he wasn't able to salvage, "This might give you answers."

"What's happening, Mels?" The computer expert hunches on the floor, trying to get his partner to look at him. 'Can you even hear me?'

"You must find BB and apprehend him for his crimes." His predecessor declares.

Mello lets go of his last grip of sanity, "Don't do this to me." He growls, pitch low and threatening. The fire laying low implodes into the worst temper yet, catching the hacker off-guard.

"Mello –"

"I can't do this!" He bursts, promenading the area with apprehension. Intangible, but the pain was there; tearing his heart out in the open to bleed. L never understood Mello's impulsiveness, and neither did Mello comprehend L's figurative objectiveness. One can't only rely on facts alone, not when humans are driven by the aftereffects of madness; of demise and false affections.

Mello, was but the same. If he were served a silver platter of vengeance, he'd gleefully devour it; and he'd undoubtedly allow it to color his system. He'd do such to satisfy his inner thirst, even if it meant blaspheming his righteousness; even if it meant that he'd be in the same shoes as a murderer.

"A is dead." L interjects firmly. "We arrived at a conclusion of foul-play. Nevertheless, we ask for your opinion on the matter - you can't deny the fact that you know them best." Mello forms a fist, his dominance over the situation faltering. Out of everything L had told him, one word overwhelmed him too much. A name he hasn't spoken in almost a decade.

"It was suicide," Voice brittle, Mello struggles to keep his words intact. "That's what happened. There's nothing else to investigate about Near."

"Do you truly believe that? I am aware of your suspicions, M, so it is either you take this opportunity, or the justice you've always painstakingly looked for will not be served."

Mello spares a quick glance at the anxious redhead, wanting ask him then and there on what to do. He couldn't do this by himself, not when it's about him. "L..."

"Mello, this is neither for me, nor you." The veteran detective argues, trying to make his way through Mello's subconsciousness. Unfortunately, emotions still controlled the blonde, rationality barely keeping a stable foothold.

"This is for Near," L whispers, "Isn't that the reason why you've come this far?" The fiery genius keeps his silence, the years of loathing himself and his incompetence taking an unexpected route, replaced by a profound sense of judgement. What if, by any cruel chance, it is what is meant to be done? What if his assumptions had always been right?

"I know you are afraid, but not because for the wrong reasons. You don't want to remember." The other line interrupts.

"But you are stronger now," The truth triggers Mello, clearing his mind from his fears and the like, replaced by a single, strident voice, telling him only of one thing to do.

To fight; to be strong - stronger than what he needs to be, to face what he thought had ended years ago, when he decided to no longer submit the wants of the heart. Even if it meant that he would suffer like he did for craving something quite special; quite minty to his taste, like numb fingers that brought life to his lips and made him feel life was good, even once - even if it were just a simple delusion.

Mello swallows, coming to a resolution. "...I'll be there in ten minutes." He discloses. One could wonder just what a faithful is expected to do. Is it to keep praying? Pray to be rescued and remain still on their feet?

"For Nate." Mello hangs up.

For Mello, it's no time to ride some high horse, persecuting the unjust and the inevitable addiction that is murder. Mello couldn't be more certain, but he felt the touch of stink beneath all the dirt, pulling him to do otherwise.

Matt stood there, completely clueless and dismissed. The blonde ended the call, mentally drained and way past his call time. Without a spare of wit from the redhead, Mello dragged him away and to the parking lot; in return he could only conclude of one thing.

Saturday nights could mean serial killings or a piece of lemon pie and he would miss both, - or so he thought.

Gevanni, who was merely passing by, overhears the conversation between the two detectives. He gulps at the idea of eavesdropping, especially when it came to Mello, who was temperamental; and happens to be second of the greatest detectives in the whole world, which generally puts him in no position to investigate the blonde. Though, he did - he intruded the basic directory the Headquarters contained, only being able to gather a minuscule amount of the detective's data. What he did know, is of the River Suicide Case, dating back to 2005. In the same instant he discovered of such, he researched and collected old reports of the death of a boy named Near.

'July 16th, 2005. Twelve thirty-three a.m, a young boy of the alias Near, also once referred to as Nate River, disappeared in Winchester England, by the sea behind Wammy's House.' The article included of witnesses, and he glimpsed at a short column about the genius L, who closed the case, even though no body was found. He didn't see any clue of the blonde being present or correlated with the case, but from what he heard - Mello was more than involved with it.

As he jaunted back to elevator, he feels a vibration on his chest and platinum eyes fall on the caller ID, suddenly perplexed by the difference in postal code. He picks up the phone hunched and low, mouth gradually dropping with the words spoken.

"How in the world did that happen?" He lifts to bite a finger, eyes blinking rapidly with all the subsequent explanations said. He curses, realizing what's bound to happen.

The officer glides to grab his license, concentrated on the new case at hand and certain of its intricacy. He saves L.A. federal prison under his emergency contact list, dials his boss and he's all set for a new mission, forgetting the pressing matters about Mello.

'Prisoner 18936, Beyond Birthday -current whereabouts unknown; New Location: Winchester, England.'

Author's Note: I'm real nervous about this one, but I've already outlined the whole story until the very end. I just intend to add more details and make it more realistic, which, I know will not always be accurate. However, I do wish you all enjoyed and do look forward to this story. Will be posting every week ( or less, since I'm pretty motivated the write this until the very end ) and I hope you all have a great day!

P.S. I'm sorry, I know what you're thinking. Pretty aware of what I did. Will I name this MERONIA THOUGH IF I INTENDED THEM NOT TO END UP? LOL IM MERONIA TRASH I AINT THAT KIND OF FANFICTION WRITER I AINT THAT STRAIGHT OUT REALISTIC AND OBJECTIVE BYE.

~nevecalleana