In L's Shadow Chapter 1: L's shadows, a death note fanfic

AN: Yet another summer break I spent writing a ridiculously long story that probably nobody but me wanted to see exist, haha.

I really wanted to write this story though because I actually like Mello and Near's characters a lot, since I feel like they have great emotional depth - but when I was explaining my view to someone they told me that what I was saying was interesting, but there wasn't really anything to support it in canon because Near and Mello or portrayed really flatly, and I was just like "Really?" and then I looked back at canon with a more objective eye and was like "Oh, you're right... I just added all that stuff in without realizing it, lol."

So I wanted to write something to establish my versions of Mello and Near, and also what their relationship to L/L's relationship to them is, to give me a foundation for any future stories I might choose to write with either of their characters.

And also in case anyone might find my interpretations interesting.

So yeah - I did not write this story to try to say "this is canon" or anything. This is simply my own headcanon.

I really hope someone out there enjoys it, though.

If, at any point while reading this story, you're ever confused/curious about some of the choices I made, there is a separate chapter of author notes at the end of this story. I put them in a separate chapter because they're pretty lengthy, and I didn't want them to interrupt the flow of the story.

The notes are organized by the chapter they pertain to to make it possible to refer to them as you read without getting any spoilers, if you feel so inclined. And they're also organized by subject, if you're only interested in select topics and want to pick and choose what you read.

Or you can read them all after finishing the story. Or not read any of them at all. Your choice.

L's shadows

"L," Watari said one day, after L had just finished solving a particularly grueling case, watching with a ghoulish smile on his face as the criminal was finally apprehended.

"Yes, Watari?" The detective didn't bother to look at him, his morbidly delighted gaze still on the agents wrestling the spree killer into a car, cries of "We've got him, L! We've finally got him!" coming through the speakers.

"Yes, very good," L told them through the voice-scrambler. "Make sure you check his pockets. He might have a lighter on him that he could use to set fire to the vehicle like he set fire to that building the last time we cornered him."

Watari waited patiently for L to finish, and then continued, "L, I think it would be a good idea if we started looking for a successor for you."

That caught L's attention, and the detective whipped his head around to stare at Watari with deep-black eyes, ignoring the cries of, "He did have a lighter!" and "We've confiscated his lighter, L!" coming through the speakers.

Most people, when they were scrutinizing something, narrowed their eyes, but L always opened his eyes even wider. Watari kept his demeanor placid underneath the unrelenting stare. He knew the questions were flashing through L's brain and that he was one-by-one answering each of them with all the information he was culling from Watari's impassive features.

Finally L turned and pressed the switch for the voice-scrambler again. "Yes, good job," he told the agents. "You've done very well. You have everything under control, now, so it's time for me to pull out of this case. I trust that you will handle things from here."

After he flipped the switch again to turn off the microphone, his hand retreated, curling over his knee. He stared straight ahead, and said: "Watari. I am not going to die on one of these cases. There is no need to find a successor."

"L has become a significant and important figure in the world's justice system," Watari said. "You will not live forever, L. It is never too early to start training another L to carry on your role in the event of your death."

L's fingers tightened around his knees. "Watari," he said evenly, "I am not going to kill myself."

"I never thought you would," Watari replied, and L remained still.

"So I'm just another one of your inventions?" L said finally, not looking at him. "Just another machine you created to help the world in a way that you see fit, and that you need to build spare parts for in case I break?"

"You know that's not the case, L," Watari said.

L turned to look at him, eyes wide and black through his hair, stare unblinking. "Don't pretend that you haven't capitalized on my talents, Watari. I'm just another investment for you."

"L," Watari said softly. "You're like a son to me."

"You don't replace sons, Watari," said L. "You replace computers." He bit his thumb, eyes dark and level. "Or dogs."

"L, you're overthinking this," said Watari.

"I'm sorry, " said L, "I thought my penchant for overthinking was what made me a world-renowned detective." He looked away, then, and his dark bangs prevented Watari from reading his face.

"I'm only seventeen, Watari," continued L, his voice quiet and inflectionless. "If you're already ready to start creating a replacement for me, it means either that you don't expect me to last, and you therefore want a replacement just like me for when I break—in which case you'll be settling for an inferior version, and the reputation of L will subsequently diminish, rendering the effort meaningless—or else you believe there to be something wrong with me, and thus want to replace me with a better model as soon as one's available—whether I'm dead or not." L paused, curling up tighter in the large armchair, hands sliding down to close around his ankles. "Personally, I'm not fond of either possibility."

"It's true that nobody could be exactly like you, L," Watari said, "but that wouldn't render a successor meaningless. Your job is valuable to society. A successor wouldn't have to be exactly like you to uphold that role."

L turned his head to look at him, black eyes wide and analyzing. "Why?" he asked. "Why do I need a successor?"

With the utmost patience, Watari explained: "Because the world needs L. There would be nobody else to solve these cases after your death."

"I don't care," said L bluntly. "I'll be dead then, and when I'm dead I won't care."

"L," said Watari, "stop being so childish. You have a responsibility to the world."

"I never asked for it," said L.

"You're a genius, L," said Watari. "Your great intellect makes you responsible for using it to make the world a better place. And your role as L demands it of you."

L looked away again and pulled his legs to his chest. "Fine," he said sullenly. "You can try to create replacements for me, Watari. But I want nothing to do with them."

Mello was there first.

Before Near arrived at Wammy's House, Mello was number one—he was the best. He won every fight, he won every game, he earned the top score on every test, and it was a piece of cake. Wammy's House was an orphanage for geniuses, and yet none of the other children came even close to Mello, and it just reaffirmed what he'd always known: he was special.

He was being raised to be L, just like all the other children, but unlike them he never once had a problem with it. It felt like he'd finally found a role that fit him.

He was better than them all even without trying, but that wasn't enough for him—no, he couldn't just be a little bit better than them, he had to be so far above them that they could never hope to catch up. He had to be so far above the other genius children that the idea of what they'd have to put themselves through to reach his level would make them cry, would make them scream, would make them slit their wrists, would make them kill themselves because they just couldn't stand the pressure.

He wanted to be so far above them that he made them feel just as hopeless as L did. And he'd fight for that position tooth and nail.

Because L, he knew, was the best—the best in the world. And he had no doubt that one day he would beat him, and then he, Mello, would be the best in the world. He would be number one, better than everyone. It was as inevitable as the sun rising.

Until Near showed up and subverted him to second place.

Nate River lived under a cloud of fear and anxiety that never seemed to go away. It was a constant pressure in his chest that it made it hard to breathe, hard to think.

Lights were too bright, too hot, making him feel like an animal in a glass cage at the zoo, put constantly on display, a constant limelight, the feeling of eyes constantly staring at him, constant movement around him making him feel hunted.

Sounds were too loud, slammed doors jarring his bones, sirens and bells and schoolyard shrieks splitting open his skull, the screech of chairs dragging across the floor were like clawing like nails down the back of his neck, the crinkling of plastic and the sounds of people chewing were like like centipedes crawling in his ears.

Sensations too painful, vibrations of footsteps through the floor making his hands shake and his heart pound, too-tight clothes constricting him like a python curled around his body and squeezing, rough fabric scratching painfully and leaving red marks on his skin that burned like acid, the pull of a brush through hair that made his scalp light on fire and his eyes sting.

Smells and tastes too strong, perfumes and flower bouquets making his head pound, the scents of cooking food making him nauseous, scents like play-doh that never left his hands and tastes like eggs that never left his mouth, haunting him and driving him to distraction.

He did everything he could just to reduce all the stimulation to a tolerable level: playing with toys, putting together puzzles, solving Rubik's cubes, clenching his hands in his shirt, playing Cat's Cradle with spare pieces of string, twirling his hair around his finger, repetitive motions—anything, anything at all that gave him something to focus on, something to block out all the sights and sounds and sensations and smells and tastes that were constantly overwhelming him, crashing over him like ocean waves that he couldn't get away from, waves that just kept crashing over him, over and over and over, trying to drag him under, crashing over him until he started to go painfully numb, his mind that was desperately trying to process all of it drawing a painful white blank.

But while focusing intensely on certain movements or concrete tasks may have helped keep the waves of stimulation to a tolerable level, they did nothing to help his interactions with other people, and if anything, made theme worse, though he didn't understand the how or why.

Other people didn't make sense to him.

His teachers would yell at him for not listening to them, when he was focusing intently on playing with the objects on his desk because it was the only way he could actually process what they were saying; they'd yell at him for not respecting authority, when he'd been following all the rules to the letter; they'd lecture him for disrupting class, when the other students were far louder and more disruptive than he was. He didn't understand what they wanted from him.

And his peers were even worse; they seemed to sense that there was something wrong with him, something that made him different, and it made him the target of ridicule. Physically he was kicked, slapped, punched, shoved, tripped, for reasons that he didn't understand—what did they get out of harming him, and why did they hate him so much when he'd never done anything to them?—and verbally he was the recipient of various words and phrases and accusations that made no sense whatsoever (a 'bitch' was a female dog, and he was clearly human, and his mother was human, so how could he be the son of a bitch? It didn't make any sense).

There was no reprieve at home, either. His parents were even more inconsistent than his teachers, and try as he might he always seemed to get everything wrong; he was constantly yelled at, corrected, reprimanded, ignored, brushed off, bombarded with lectures, in patterns he could make no sense of.

They'd tell him to change clothes and put on something else, then they'd get angry when he came out in a different outfit; they'd tell him to clean up the toys he left around the house, yet they didn't clean up the items they left around the house, yet when he didn't clean his up they got angry, but even when he did clean them up they also got angry. They'd ignore him when he asked questions, and then later pester him with questions he didn't know how to answer, and then they'd get angry both when he gave an answer—as his answers were always somehow wrong—as well as when he didn't answer at all.

"Why do you have to be so rude?" his mother told him once in a choked voice before breaking down in tears, and he didn't understand; he hadn't even said anything. Why was she getting so upset? He couldn't have been rude, because he hadn't said anything, since everything he said was wrong and he was trying not to upset her.

Most of the time he didn't say anything. "Talk to me!" they would beg after he got home from school, shaking him by the shoulders, looking intensely into his eyes and saying "Look at me!" when he looked away because he couldn't even process thought when they were staring him in the face, their eyes making him feel panicked and hunted.

"At least change your facial expression!" his parents would cry, "At least show that you feel something!" and he didn't understand, because he did feel things. He felt things constantly. It wasn't his fault if they couldn't see that.

"Talk to me!" they would beg, shaking him by the shoulders, "Tell me what's going on!" and he would remain silent, bruises hidden beneath his cuffed clothes, and he knew he was being bullied, but he didn't have the words to explain what was going on, didn't have the words to explain why everybody seemed to hate him. And he figured his parents wouldn't really care, anyway—they'd probably just tell him it was his fault and he deserved it, because he always did everything wrong.

"Why don't you love me?" his mother had asked him once.

"Why do you hate me?" he'd wanted to ask her. But the words were lost somewhere between his brain and his vocal chords, so instead he'd said nothing.

The world was chaotic, overwhelming, and didn't make sense—and maybe it was because of this that Nate excelled at his studies, grasping onto anything he understood, anything that made sense and that could somehow compensate for all his deficiencies.

Surely, if he was good at least at a few things—at math, at science, things that even if they didn't make sense when the teacher explained them in class he could still figure out later alone in his room—it could somehow make up for the fact that he seemed to fail pretty much everything else. Maybe if he was good enough at something, people might like him.

His near-perfect scores in certain subjects seemed to mollify his teachers, somewhat, but with his peers it just seemed to make everything worse—it resulted only in more kicks, punches, bruises, accusations of cheating or showing off or one-upping or being a know-it-all or a teacher's pet, and he didn't understand.

He was punished when he did things poorly, and he was punished when he did things well, and so all he could do was play with his toys and solve his puzzles and wrap his hair around his finger and just try to breathe.

Mihael Keehl didn't remember anything before the orphanages.

He didn't remember his parents, or where he'd lived, or if they'd had pets, or anything at all about where he'd come from. His earliest memory was of stealing a chocolate bar from the kitchen at the first orphanage he'd lived in.

He was passed around between orphanages a few times. A "problem child" and a "brilliant child," they called him, often alternatingly, occasionally within the same sentence.

He'd taught himself how to pick locks, how to pickpocket, how to sneak around without setting off any alarms. And he'd figured out that if he followed certain rules and excelled in his studies, it made it easier to get away with a lot of other things. As long as his grades were the best in orphanage, many of the adults would turn a blind eye to his misbehaviors.

He'd also discovered that some of them had secrets, like smoking cigarettes out back even though they weren't supposed to, and that he could threaten them onto his side with blackmail. It gave him a sense of power and control.

The orphanages were harsh, nearly lawless worlds where the strong climbed to the top and the weak were trampled, unless they caught the eye of an adopting family. But Mihael knew how to turn the lawlessness to his advantage, and he developed a fierce demeanor that kept the adopting families from every considering him. All the children who cried for their lost families had taught him that a family was not something he needed—families were things that made you weak, that made it easy for you to be hurt or walked over.

He didn't remember his parents or anybody ever taking care of him; he'd always been fending for himself against other kids older and bigger than him. Especially since he'd always been on the small side for his age, and it made it worse that he was often mistaken for a girl.

He'd realized early on, though, that the key to power was to find out what somebody wanted, acquire it, and then hold it over them. All he had to do was bribe the bullies with something they wanted, and make himself indispensable to them so that they couldn't afford to even try to hurt him; if they wanted candy, or toys, or cheat sheets to tests, they needed to stay on his good side.

It was easy to scare people, too. As long as he never let his confidence waver, it was easy to threaten them; he didn't even need something to back up the threat with, necessarily, as long as his bluffing was good enough. After getting switched out of the first orphanage, though, he'd learned that it wasn't a good idea to threaten the adults—threats only worked against those with less power, or who perceived themselves to have less power.

He'd learned, as well, that it was better to play fair—to state one's terms, have them be fair to both sides (or at least appear to be), and then stick to them—because cheating people made enemies. After getting switched out of the second orphanage, he'd learned that it was better to make allies, and that wronging people made them seek revenge.

People would go to drastic measures to get revenge, he'd learned. He was good at learning from his mistakes.

He couldn't figure out why he was switched out of the third orphanage, though. The adults called him a "brilliant child," without mentioning the "problem child" part, and they told him that he was being sent to another orphanage where his "talents" would be "cultivated" without mentioning the part about "stricter rule enforcement." As far as he could tell, they were switching him out to somewhere called "Wammy's House" because he'd done too well on a test.

It didn't really matter to him, though. He'd be at the bottom of the totem pole at the new orphanage again, but as always he'd just work his way back to the top.

Nate didn't cry when his parents died. Boys weren't supposed to cry—he knew that.

"Why aren't you crying?" his mother's sister wailed, and slapped him across the cheek. "Your mother and father are dead! Don't you feel anything, you worthless child?! The least you can do is cry!"

He didn't understand; boys weren't supposed to cry.

Mihael had spent the entire trip to Wammy's House testing boundaries. Were they taking him because the previous orphanage paid them to, or did they actually want him because of his test scores?

"Mellow out," the man in charge of him—Roger was his name—kept telling him. "Please, mellow out."

Mihael refused. Roger's eyes were shifty, like he was hiding something. And no matter how much he kicked the plane seat in front of him or stomped his feet or talked back to the man, Roger never once threatened to leave him on the streets, which was the usual tactic. It was even odder that when he tried to slip away and Roger grabbed his hand and held onto him, the man actually appealed to his intelligence to convince him to stay put.

Maybe they wanted him for because of his test scores after all? But why? What did they want him for? There was something suspicious going on.

When they finally arrived at the new orphanage, he was told that he needed to pick a fake name because he was going to be trained to be a replacement for the greatest detective in the world and people might try to kill him.

"Huh?!" he said.

He was annoyed at the time, after spending hours in a plane and then a car with the man called Roger—whose real name probably wasn't actually Roger—who had just kept telling him to mellow out. "Call me Mellow, then," he snapped.

Then he paused, and actually thought about it. "But remove the W at the end, 'cause it looks weird."

Nate wasn't surprised when he ended up at an orphanage, rather than with relatives—he knew they all hated him. Everybody hated him.

It didn't surprise him, either, that the old man who took him to the orphanage was pretending to be nice to him. No doubt the man had ulterior motives; he'd learned from experience that whenever anyone was nice to him, and he thought he'd made friends, they quickly turned on him, even nastier than before, and used the trust he'd placed in them to hurt him.

People only acted kind when they had ulterior motives, it seemed, and everybody hated him, and for some reason they all seemed to get enjoyment from hurting him—so he clearly couldn't trust anyone.

So even though the man was being nice to him, he knew the hell would start when he got to the orphanage; it would be just like school, he thought, but 24 hours a day, 7 days a week, 52.1429 weeks a year, and he wouldn't even have a room to himself to hide in. It would be constant environmental stimuli, constant anxiety, constant ridicule, constant bruises, constant hatred.

He stayed silent the entire trip there—through the entire drive and then the airport and the plane ride and the next drive—obsessively twirling his hair around a finger, focusing on that one sensation, just trying to breathe.

And yet, even though he knew he couldn't trust the older man, he clung to the man's hand, sticking as close to him as possible, because facing the orphanage had to be better than being abandoned on the streets—he'd never survive that, he knew. Even clinging to the old man's hand, the world was too much—the constant press of bodies, the crying and screaming of babies, the clacking and scuffing of shoes, the rattling of luggage, the cacophony of voices, the flashing of lights, the stench of car exhaust and cigarettes on the streets along with something unidentifiable and acrid, the stuffiness of the air in the plane, the vibrating of the car, the sunlight in his eyes, the air brushing over his skin.

He didn't sleep during any of it—he couldn't have even if he'd wanted to—and by the time they finally reached the orphanage his body was numb, his brain shutting down from sleep-deprivation and overstimulation, his vision blurry and pixelated, his heart fluttering and his breathing fast and shallow; he simply couldn't take any more, and he was tugged along by the old man, nearly deaf and blind, into the mansion.

He was taken into an office space, and the old man was talking to him, but he had no idea what the man was saying; he couldn't process any of it. He just remained silent, staring blankly, desperately twirling his hair around his fingers.

But the lights in the office were dim and calming, and the man's voice was patient and low, and slowly Nate began to pick out his words and comprehend some kind of meaning.

"Do you know why you're here, Nate?"

His hair was smooth and soft around his finger, tickling slightly. Twirl, twirl. "Because my parents are dead."

"Yes, that's why you're in an orphanage. But Wammy's House is an orphanage for gifted children, and you're here because you have incredible talents, and we want to help you cultivate them."

Twirl, twirl. Why?

"Have you ever heard of L?"

Twirl, twirl. No.

"L is the world's greatest detective, and this orphanage is designed to raise gifted children to become L's successor. However, L has many enemies, so he keeps his name secret to protect himself. Since you and all the other children here are being educated to be his successors, you also all go by aliases. Do you understand?"

Twirl, twirl. Yes. This is your ulterior motive.

"So I need you to pick an alias. It can be anything, but preferably something short. The only real requirement is that it should begin with the same letter as your first name."

Twirl, twirl. Why?

"Nate, I need you to pick an alias. It's the rule here at Wammy's House."

Twirl, twirl. An alias…?

His first name was Nate and his last name was River. The first two letters of Nate were N and A. The last two letters of River were E and R. N, A, E, and R. If he rearranged those letters into a word that made sense—

"Nate?"

Twirl, twirl. If I'm supposed to go by an alias, then stop calling me by my name.

—"Call me Near."

Mello didn't pay much attention to the new kid at first.

Yeah, sure, the boy's hair was so platinum-blond that it was practically white, and his eyes were so dark-gray they were practically black, and he wore pajamas all the time and never played outside with the rest of them, but that didn't make him worth more than a curious second-look followed by an indifferent shrug. There were a lot of weird kids at Wammy's House, but none of them were idiots.

Mello mostly ignored the new kid for a few days; he was quiet, and mostly just sat inside and played with toys or puzzles, when they weren't taking classes.

One day, though, he felt those dark eyes staring at him, and he figured he might as well go introduce himself; best-case scenario the kid would make a good ally, and worst-case scenario he'd at least learn a little more about him—and information was more valuable than money in Wammy's House.

So Mello sauntered over, throwing on a grin. "Hi," he said, offering his hand to the other boy. "I'm Mello."

The boy stayed sitting on the ground, looking at him with those dark eyes, twirling a lock of white hair around his fingers. When he spoke, his voice was soft, and odd in a way that Mello couldn't quite put his finger on. "Short for melodramatic?"

"What?" Mello asked, lowering his hand. Had this kid just spurned him, or—?

"Melo," the boy said evenly, turning back to his puzzle, placing another piece. "Is it short for melodramatic?"

"No, what the hell!" Mello said, anger surging. What kind of person was this kid, to hear 'Mello' and then immediately come to a conclusion as out of left field as that?

"It was just a guess," the boy shrugged, and Mello finally realized what was weird about the boy's voice—it was almost completely lacking in inflection, and he spoke in an odd cadence, as if each word were a separate puzzle piece he was meticulously placing together.

"Well, you guessed wrong," Mello said, crossing his arms. "'Mello' has two L's, not one. But there's no W at the end."

The boy just nodded silently, placing another puzzle piece.

Mello felt his ire rise. "You're supposed to introduce yourself back when somebody introduces themself to you first, you know."

The boy didn't so much pause as freeze. After a moment, he said quietly: "I'm Near."

"Near, huh?" Mello couldn't help but sneer. "And how'd you come up with that?"

Near shrugged, and placed the next puzzle piece. "It was just the first thing that popped into my head." Under his breath, he repeated the word "Popped" to himself a few more times, punctuating each repetition of the word with another placement of a puzzle piece.

Mello decided that Near wasn't ally material, and walked off, calling "Well, it was good to meet you, Near. See you around," over his shoulder; just because Near was weird didn't mean he wanted to make the kid his enemy. If he was ever challenged to a team puzzle-solving competition, he'd want Near on his team, after all—it would be better to maintain relatively cordial relations.

And he maintained that opinion of Near up until Near decided to play King of the Mountain, and took Mello's place at the top.

That was when Mello knew that Near was his self-declared enemy.

It didn't take Near long to come to the conclusion that being orphaned and brought to Wammy's House was probably the best thing that had ever happened to him.

From the outside the orphanage looked like simply like a well-kept and rather homely mansion, and the inner décor reflected the same theme—polished hardwood floors, intricately-patterned mahogany wainscoting, colorful stained-glass windows, old-fashioned brass chandeliers, the kinds of high-ceilinged rooms that looked as if they should be collecting dust and cobwebs—but the facilities were all state of the art.

Computer labs full of high-powered computers, a large and contemporary gym, an extensive library filled with rows upon rows of bookshelves on almost every subject imaginable, and a dining hall with food that didn't taste terrible. Near even got his own room—which was large enough to hold a massive selection of toys and puzzles—where he could retreat to be alone when the other students became too much.

But even the other students were easier to deal with than any of his peers from before—they didn't push him, or punch him, or kick him, or slap him, or trip him, or even seem to direct very much verbal anger at him, either. Mostly they avoided him, or engaged in odd behavior that he eventually understood was supposed to get some kind of rise out of him, some kind of desired response, but since he never understood what they wanted from him so he simply didn't react, or else replied with "No, thank you," which his mother had told him repeatedly was what you were supposed to say to an offer you didn't want to take.

There were a few occasions, though, where the other students almost seemed to accept him; like when he earned almost-perfect scores on tests they said "Wow," and "Good job." And he thought that maybe this was it: something he was good enough at that people would actually like him.

And at first excelling at the studies there was just that—something he could do right to make up for all the wrong he committed; he hadn't really been interested in the subjects. The classes at Wammy's House were all taught by distinguished masters of everything from firearms and self-defense—horrible, horrible things that were too loud and too overwhelming and which he refused to participate in—to criminology and forensic science.

But what had eventually piqued his interest were the case studies—the past cases of the legendary supersleuth, L. The library had an entire shelf full of binders with all the information concerning each case, providing all the information, detailing all the steps L had taken to solve the case, in chronological order.

When Near wasn't in class or playing with toys, he could be found sitting on the floor of the library, pouring over L's cases, reading them from front to back cover and trying to memorize them, treating them as puzzles and trying to solve them before the conclusions of the cases were presented.

They were puzzles, which could be reasoned through logically, and which had clear right and wrong answers, and helped make the world a safer and more orderly place, something that both made sense and had meaning—

And Near had never enjoyed anything so much in his entire life.

Mello hated Near more than he'd ever hated anybody in his entire life.

It used to be Mello that the other kids crowded around after test results were handed back, admiring his score. It used to be Mello who was chosen as having the best strategy and the most accurate conclusion during practice cases. It used to be Mello that that the other students would defer to for opinions and advice. It used to be to Mello that Roger would express his approval of.

But then that strange, pale boy had shown up, and everything had changed.

The other kids crowded around Near after tests, saying things like "Wow, Near, you beat Mello!" It was Near who was lauded for having the best solutions to practice cases, while Mello's strategies were criticized as being "too reckless" or "too outlandish." The other students started going to Near for opinions and advice, and Near was the one that Roger smiled at.

And no matter what Mello did, he couldn't earn his place back.

He burnt the midnight oil to study, pushing himself harder than ever before, absorbing information till he felt like his eyes would bleed. He solved more practice cases than any two of the other students put together.

But still he pulled up short.

No matter how much studying he did, Near always scored several points ahead of him. No matter how many cases he solved, it never made any difference, and Near—Near, the fucking bastard—made it a point to point out his mistakes in front of everybody.

Near would tell everybody what he'd done wrong, and what he should have done better—would contradict him at every turn—doing his very best to drag Mello's name through the dirt.

And then, after one-upping him during a test, Near even had the impudence to come over and ask mockingly, "Are you okay?"

Because no, Near wasn't satisfied just with being better than Mello—he had rub Mello's nose in how much better he was, and he had to make sure everybody else knew it, too.

Near always either mocked Mello, completely ignored him, or looked at him like he was mud on the bottom of his shoe, and the only time he smiled was when he'd beaten Mello—and it wasn't so much a smile as a supercilious, conceited, delighted, sadistic smirk.

Near must have been a sociopath or something, because he had no interest in anybody or anything aside from making Mello suffer, and he completely lacked scruples, emotional attachment, and any kind of human emotion at all.

To Near, cases were nothing but puzzles, and he solved them in the most unfeeling way possible; all Near cared about was proving, beyond any reasonable doubt, that he was correct—that he was more intelligent and more accurate than Mello—and he would use whatever methods necessary in order to get that proof, even if it meant the cases would take longer and more innocents and agents would die.

Near didn't seem to understand that speed in solving a case was just as important as accuracy, and that sometimes that could only be achieved by throwing a wrench into the works and forcing the criminal to make an unplanned move that would be easily bungled and result in a quicker capture that would subsequently save lives.

But to Near, people were nothing but objects to be toyed with, used, and then disposed of—just like his Lego blocks, his dice, his cards, his matches, his darts, his robots—and he would watch them all die while sitting there calmly and twirling his fucking hair around his fingers like he hadn't a care in the world. All that mattered to him was proving that he was right.

Near was a fucking sociopath, and he had the gall to criticize Mello for being "reckless" and "too emotional."

"Too emotional?!" Mello would yell. "Too emotional?! This coming from the person who doesn't feel anything!"

And Near just sat there, blatantly ignoring him, twirling his hair like he couldn't even be bothered.

Near didn't understand why Mello seemed to hate him so much.

Admittedly, everyone he'd ever met seemed to hate him, due to some fundamental difference between themselves and him that he seemed unable to breach. But Mello's hatred seemed different, somehow (some difference aside from the fact that Mello never physically hurt him, as none of the other kids at Wammy's House physically hurt him, either).

But more than the general hatred of the other students, it seemed that Mello perceived some kind of personal offense, as if Near had done something to him—but Near had never done anything to him.

He genuinely liked Mello.

The blond boy who always wore all black had come over to introduce himself when most of the other students had simply ignored him, and once had even complimented him once his skill at solving puzzles.

Near had thought they might have been friends.

Friends, he thought, were supposed to help each other, so when he saw that Mello made a mistake he would point it out. Near hated being wrong, so he appreciated it when people pointed out his mistakes so that he could fix them and then be right, because he liked being right; it made him feel happy to be right, to have done something correctly. And so he thought that Mellow would appreciate knowing that he'd made a mistake so that he could fix it, too, so that then he could be right.

Mello usually got upset, after that, but Near figured it was just the sting of realizing he'd been wrong, and once the sting went away he'd be grateful, and then he'd be happy.

When he saw later that Mello was still upset, he tried asking "Are you okay?" because that was what you were supposed to say to people when they were upset, in order to show that you cared about them.

Or at least, that was what he'd thought you were supposed to say. But Mello just got more upset, so Near figured that maybe he'd learned that rule wrong. But nobody was telling him exactly what he'd gotten wrong, and what the correct thing to do in that situation was, so he retreated; obviously, they didn't care enough about him to help him when he made mistakes.

He kept trying to help Mello, though. He thought maybe if he continued helping Mello, it would show that he cared, and they could be friends. Mello especially had a habit of letting his emotions skew his reasoning, which often led him to think something was true even when the evidence pointed to it being untrue, or vice versa, or else Mello made reckless decisions on insufficient data that could cause unrepairable damage if they went badly, and then Mello would lose. Near liked Mello; he didn't want him to lose. But Mello seemed to confuse speed with accuracy, as well as confusing being the first with being the winner, when the two were entirely different. Near thought that Mello would appreciate an explanation of the distinction, and tried to explain to the best of his abilities.

But either he wasn't very good at explaining and so Mello didn't understand, or else he was fine at explaining but Mello simply didn't want his help, but he couldn't tell which. Mello never said "I don't understand," or, "I don't need your help." He only ever got upset more upset. And yet, no matter how upset he got, he never actually said what was upsetting him, so Near didn't know to fix it.

When Near tried to point out how Mello was letting his emotions cloud his judgment, Mello tended to respond with something along the lines of: "Too emotional?! This coming from the person who doesn't feel anything!"

It was an accusation that Near had heard all too often, and it hurt, causing him to retreat into himself and become unresponsive. He did feel things; he felt things intensely.

The anger and the pain and the frustration at his own ineptitude overwhelmed him, and he had to focus on a puzzle or toy—or, if there were no puzzles or toys conveniently nearby, twirling his hair around his fingers—some small, repetitive action just to calm himself and suppress the emotions enough that actual concrete thought was possible. Otherwise he'd be completely swept away in a blind and uncontrollable panic that he wasn't sure he'd be able to return from.

Rational thought and strong emotion could not coincide.

And yet, somehow Mello was able to form long, complicated sentences, and able to speak them quickly, even while he was furious, while Near couldn't even think of a single word in response.

Mello would keep yelling at him, though. But despite all his talking, Mello wasn't really saying anything; his words were meaningless. He was simply making baseless accusations, rather than saying what was actually wrong, and so Near was left clueless and feeling completely helpless, and later he would pour himself into cases because they were the only things in his world that made logical sense, and solving them was the only thing that gave Near some semblance of control and a feeling something akin to happiness.

In his entire life, Mello had never wanted to hit anyone as much as he wanted to hit Near—and he'd never expended so much effort forcing himself to hold back.

He couldn't let himself hit Near; their fight wasn't one that could be won with fists. They were fighting an intellectual battle—a battle of wits and intelligence, a battle to see who would become the next L.

But no matter how hard Mello fought—no matter how hard he studied, no matter how much he practiced—Near remained Number One, while Mello remained nothing but an inferior runner-up.

See, Mello? Near's smirk seemed to say, merciless beneath his dark, dead eyes. You're not worthy of being L's successor.

In his entire life, Near had never wanted anything as much as he wanted to be L.

Everybody hated and disparaged Near. Everybody loved and respected L. Ergo: Near was bad; L was good. Ergo: everything Near did was bad; everything L did was good. Ergo: If Near did things like L, the things he did would be good. Ergo: if he did things that were good, people would love and respect him. Ergo: he should do things the same way as L.

Think, he would tell himself, twirling his hair around his fingers, focusing his attention on the tickle of the soft strands as he tried to keep his breathing steady. Think of what L would do in this situation.

He could never figure out what was the right thing to do; no matter what he did, he was always wrong: ergo, there was something wrong with him.

But if he could just be just like L, he figured all his problems would be fixed.

Everything in Wammy's House was about L.

Stories about L's achievements took the status of legends. The world's greatest and most confounding mysteries, impossible murders, the most tangled or seemingly nonexistent threads of evidence, the most seemingly supernatural cases—and he solved them all using logical reasoning, acute deductions and inspired inductions, with an unwavering determination and resilience.

They studied his cases in class, they read his cases for fun, they told the stories of his cases at night when they were supposed to be falling asleep.

It was L this, L that—L, L, L.

L was their idol, and they respected and adored him.

They may not have known what L looked like, but they knew exactly who L was:

L was the only force of good in an evil and unfair world that had taken their families from them, that had left them alone, that had victimized them and the people around them (a world in which crimes were committed that haunted their nightmares and made them vomit till their stomachs were empty and then keep dry-heaving).

L was their idol—their definition of success, their avatar of intelligence, their seraph of justice—and more than anything in the world they wanted to be worthy of him.

The Los Angeles BB Murder Case was what finally forced L to stop ignoring the fact that Wammy's House existed.

When he finally researched the orphanage, though, he could only stare at the information in horror.

"You've turned me into an impossible prototype," he breathed. He turned to look at Watari, his black eyes wide-open and sleepless. "They're killing themselves because of me, Watari. This is brainwashing. You're committing child abuse and involuntary manslaughter."

"L," said Watari gently, "weren't you the one who told me that the ends justified the means?"

L clenched his hands around his ankles so they'd stop shaking.

Mello was kneeling on the bathroom floor with a blade pressed against the skin of his wrist when he finally understood why A had killed himself.

Mello's eyes were wide and he was breathing hard, the blade trembling in his hand. He remembered thinking that A had been weak and B had been a coward; he'd been so sure, at the time, that he was going to succeed L as the best, that in his mind they had been nothing but pathetic, overdramatic fools.

But now it had been over two years since Near had showed up, and in that entire time Mello hadn't once—not even once—beaten him at a test of intelligence. No matter what he did, he was always second—always. He was never good enough. Not ever.

The role of L, which had seemed to so close, was now somewhere beyond his reach.

(His dreams were haunted by Near's pale figure walking ahead of him in a dark tunnel, and he'd reach out grab the collar of his shirt, struggling through the thick darkness to catch up with him and then pass him—because he knew, he knew that L would be there, waiting at the end of the tunnel—but his grasp would fall short, and struggle as he might Near's shining figure got farther and farther away, until finally Mello was alone in total blackness with the sensation of falling, faster and faster with the wind rushing past him, waking up only just before he knew he'd hit the ground.)

Nothing he did made any difference. Nothing, nothing, nothing, nothing—he could do nothing, he had nothing—while Near had everything. Practically all Near did was play with his stupid fucking toys, and yet somehow he was better than Mello—he was better than Mello without even trying, that damn smirk on his face saying that solving cases, to him, was as easy as breathing, while Mello was—

Mello was fighting his hardest, but he could barely keep his head above the water.

And it hurt. It hurt more painfully than anything he'd ever felt, anything he'd ever imagined; a pain that begged him to drag the blade over his skin just to replace the sensation with something else—to find some kind of relief through the sting of his wrists and the red drip of blood—and he had a feeling that if he climbed up to the roof of Wammy's House and looked down to the courtyard below, the view would be eerily enticing; a bright and heavenly expanse of silver in the moonlight. (Was that what A had seen? Was that what he had jumped towards? Or had he simply been trying to get away from the darkness closing in around him?)

The blade trembled above Mello's skin; if he let it slip, he knew he wouldn't be the only student there with scars on his wrists. And that, more than anything, was what made him finally drop the knife, curling his fingers in his hair as he stared down at the pale-turquoise tiles of the bathroom floor, his chest heaving, a disgustingly bitter taste in his mouth. He wouldn't lower himself to the level of the rest of them.

He just wanted the pain to stop—but drawing the knife over his skin would be as good as admitting defeat, and he couldn't admit defeat. Not yet. Not ever. He was going to be Number One—just as long as he kept fighting, he told himself, it would be as inevitable as the sun rising.

But something—he needed something—something to dull the weight that was crushing his chest and fogging his mind.

When he surreptitiously returned the knife to the kitchen, he found an unwrapped chocolate bar on the counter. He wasn't sure quite what possessed him to grab it—to rip open the wrapper and then take a vicious bite—but he needed something.

(And chocolate, it turned out, made life a little sweeter and more bearable.)

It took Near a while to even begin to understand the concepts of jealousy and envy. And even then, it was only due to Roger's explanations.

Near, trying to be helpful, had pointed out a mistake that Mello had made, figuring Mello would want to fix it—and Mello had leapt to his feet, fists clenched, and yelled, "Goddamn you, Near! Thinking you're better than everybody! Get off your high-horse already!" and stormed out of the room, pulling out a chocolate bar and biting off a hunk of it as he went, leaving Near horribly confused and desperately twisting his hair around his fingers.

Twirl, twirl. I think I'm better than everybody? Twirl. Mello, you couldn't be more wrong…

"He's jealous of you, Near," said Roger gently. "And envious."

Twirl, twirl. I don't understand. Twirl. "Please define those terms."

"He's jealous of you because he used to be ranked Number One at Wammy's House, but that title now belongs to you."

Twirl. That doesn't make any sense.Twirl. I never asked for that title. Twirl. How is that my fault?

"And he's envious of you because he believes you have skills that he lacks."

Twirl, twirl. I've been trying to tell him that he lets his emotions get in the way. Twirl. If he just followed my advice, he wouldn't make so many mistakes. Twirl, twirl. How is that my fault?

"He thinks that you're better than him, Near, and that hurts him, because he wants to be the best."

Twirl, twirl. Mello thinks I'm better than him…? Twirl, twirl. That doesn't make any sense.

Why did placement matter so much to Mello? It was true that Mello was technically second according to official records, but it wasn't by much. And Mello was much more well-liked than he was. Near was hated, but people liked Mello. And Mello always seemed to know what to do and what to say in situations involving other people.

So why would Mello envy him? Aside from classwork and practice cases, everything Near did was wrong. But aside from the few occasional mistakes Mello made in classwork and practice cases, everything he did was right. By Near's calculations, Mello was succeeding at about 87% of his life, while Near himself was only succeeding at about 35% of his life. Which made his 65% life failure rate much larger than Mello's 13% life failure rate, which meant that Mello was doing significantly better than he was.

So why would Mello resent him? Besides, he was actually trying to help Mello decrease his mistakes, while Mello was doing absolutely nothing to help Near decrease his.

Roger was staring at him, and it was making him uncomfortable. Was he supposed to answer?

But… Twirl, twirl. "I don't understand."

Roger let out a long, audible breath; the sound was loud and resembled the sighs Near had come to associate with a disappointed lecture, and he twirled his hair faster, trying to will his heart-rate back down.

Twirl, twirl, twirl, twirl. What have I done wrong now?

"Who would you say is the best, Near?"

Twirl, twirl. "L."

"Mello thinks so too. And who do you think will become L's successor?"

Twirl, twirl. "I don't know." How would I know that?

"L will choose. So what kind of person do you think L will choose?"

Twirl, twirl. "I don't know." How would I know that?

"Do you want to be the next L, Near?"

Twirl, twirl. "Yes."

"Well, Mello wants to be the next L, too. But only one person can be L's successor."

Twirl, twirl. "Why?" Is that a rule?

Roger sighed again.

Twirl, twirl, twirl, twirl.

"What I'm trying to say, Near, is that Mello is afraid that L will choose you. That makes him angry, because he wants to be chosen."

Twirl, twirl. "I see." But how is that my fault? Twirl. "I don't get it."

"His anger towards you is misplaced, Near. He's not really angry at you; he's angry at himself."

Twirl, twirl. Mello always lets his emotions get in the way. "I see." Twirl. "We both want to be L, and therefore we're competing, which necessitates antagonistic relations."

"That's how Mello sees it, yes."

Twirl, twirl. "I see."

L noticed that Watari had a habit of springing unpleasant things—which usually involved the matter of his successor—on him as soon as he'd finished a case.

Which was admittedly tactful, on Watari's part; during a case L was far too preoccupied and tenacious, and between cases he was far too depressed and listless. But right after the high of successfully closing a challenging case?

Yes, that was the ideal time to inconvenience him with the matter of the children being raised (brainwashed) to be his successor(s), and L resented Watari for it.

"L," Watari said, as soon as L had made certain the criminal was properly apprehended and turned off the mic, and the tone of Watari's voice combined with the timing of the utterance made L tense.

"Yes, Watari?" he said warily. It's going to be about choosing a successor again.

"I think you should talk with the children at Wammy's House," Watari said. "It would give them a chance to meet their idol, and give you a chance to observe them and decide if there is a child present who could take over for you."

I knew it, L thought, his hands clenching over his knees.

"It would be voice-only over the computer," Watari continued. "It would be no different from your meetings with the Interpol representatives."

Except that they're children, thought L. Children that you've indoctrinated into worshiping me like I'm some kind of God of Justice.

And I'm still only 24. Why should I have to pick a successor right now? "I'm not going to die anytime soon, Watari."

"I never suggested you would," Watari said. "I merely think a meeting at this time would benefit them as well as yourself."

That was vaguely worded.

L looked down, biting his thumb. "Fine," he mumbled; he could put up more resistance, but they both knew he was going to have to relent to Watari's request to evaluate his potential successors eventually, so he figured he might as well get it over with.

And the least I can do is tell them the truth.

Matt (once known as Mail Jeevas, but that was a stupid name, and he liked Matt better) had never wanted to be L.

L was awesome, sure; Matt admired L as much as the next Wammy's House orphan. But he'd never had any interest in solving criminal cases.

He didn't particularly care about all the crime in the world—his parents had been two of the millions of people who died in car crashes each year; they hadn't been killed in any crime, so he had no personal investment in justice.

And as far as puzzles and challenges went, real life crimes weren't even that great. They were messy and depressing and you needed to work with other people. Video games were way better—they were actually designed as challenges, and they were clean, and you could do them alone, and best of all: unlike in real life, you could actually come back to life after you died, and try again.

So Matt had never really understood what everyone's obsession with being L was.

He was perfectly happy to hear stories about L's cases, but his thoughts while listening to them were more along the lines of That would make a great video game. Why hasn't anybody made that into a video game yet? Or a dismissive Nope, that case wouldn't make a very good game. Boooooring!

When he tried to tell the other kids that he didn't want to be L, though, they never believed him. Which was kind of strange, given that he didn't study at all, because he was literally playing video games every spare moment, and sometimes even snuck a Game Boy into class (because damn, criminal justice was boring as hell).

"But you're in third place!" the other kids would remind him. "You're right after Mello!"

Which was true, but he wasn't trying to be in third place. That was really all Mello's fault: Mello had Matt help him study, since he wanted to beat Near so badly, and Matt just kind of accidentally memorized some of the information while he was grilling Mello on it. Totally not his fault he was in third place.

It weighed on him, though—the orphanage-wide obsession with being L. L was all they were being raised to be, so it never really occurred to him that he could be anything else; he was just going to become a failed L. Really, it was obvious that either Mello or Near was going to become L, so Matt didn't get why the other kids even still tried. And he didn't understand what Mello and Near's problems were—seriously, those two were crazy. The lengths that they pushed themselves to made Matt's head hurt just to watch.

At least Mello was still reasonably human about the whole thing, though. Mello was easily Matt's best friend in the entire orphanage, even despite his obsession with being the best; Mello was just a cool guy. And he was probably the only one who understood that Matt really actually didn't want to be L. Which Matt was pretty sure was why Mello actually hung out with him so much—because Matt didn't want to be L, Mello didn't see him as a threat, so he was safe to study with and confide in.

Also, Matt was easy to bribe. Seriously, he hated criminal justice, but if Mello was promising him cigarettes (which they weren't supposed to have) or new video games that had recently been released (which Roger didn't always buy for Matt right away), then hell yeah Matt would help Mello study criminal justice. (How Mello managed to actually procure the cigarettes and video games, though, Matt had no idea—Mello kept it a well-guarded secret).

Near, though… Matt didn't know what was up with Near. He was really quiet, and basically only talked when directly questioned, or when pointing out someone's—usually Mello's—errors. He was almost robotic in his mannerisms, logic capacity, and information-retention, and yet he was ridiculously childish at the same time, always playing with toys of some sort. And not even electronic toys, either—boring things like building blocks and dominoes.

Matt didn't hate the kid, but he was a little unnerving. And Mello was Matt's friend, and Mello really hated Near, so if Matt tried to talk to Near too much then Mello would probably make his life difficult by breaking his favorite video games or something; Mello could be intense like that. And Matt really just didn't want to get mixed up in whatever was going on between them—seriously, their L obsession and competition to be the best was ridiculous.

And the whole L thing was taken so seriously by everyone, too. And they hadn't even met the guy.

So when they finally did get to meet him—well, not really meet him so much as speak with him, since he was talking through a laptop and all they saw was the letter L he always used—Matt couldn't help but ask him a ridiculous question.

Because really, why not? They had L—the L—stuck there answering all their questions, so as long as they were monopolizing the time of the World's Greatest Detective, Matt might as well ask him something ridiculous.

"What's your favorite video game?" Matt had asked, grinning.

The answer, predictably, had been, "I don't play video games," but Matt was pleased nonetheless. Because he'd asked something pointless and L had still answered him.

Having L answer all their questions was kind of fun, but it wasn't until the end of the question-and-answer session that L said anything of significance.

But what he said then changed Matt's world.

"Figuring out difficult cases is my hobby… The same way you all like to solve mysteries and riddles, or clear video games more quickly… for me, too, it's simply prolonging something I enjoy doing."

He learned later that the speech had crushed many of the other kids' hopes, but since he didn't actually care about justice like they'd thought he did, but L's words had set Matt free.

Matt hadn't planned on solving criminal cases, anyway, but he'd been made to feel like a disappointment about it; L's speech, though, had justified him and eased the burden of expectations.

L was just doing something that he liked doing, after all. He didn't have any higher calling. So Matt, too, was just going to live his life doing things that he liked doing.

He didn't have to be L, or be the best, or anything like that; just being Matt was enough.

(And he was sure that's what L would think, too.)

The Wammy's House children don't disappoint L—in fact, they perfectly met his expectations.

His expectations had been extremely low.

There were sixteen of them in total, and they crowded so closely around the computer that it made him feel uncomfortable; he would have backed up away from the screen, if it weren't for the fact that he needed to speak into the microphone, the fact that he'd have had to move the armchair, and the fact that he had to choose one of the children to get Watari to stop nagging him about it.

So he remained perched on the chair with their eager faces crowding the screen, clenching his hands over his knees and feeling grateful that the voice-scrambler removed any irritation that might have colored his voice.

Most of the questions they asked him were hopelessly inane:

"What was your favorite case to work on?" (Answer: "Whatever case I'm working on at the time is my favorite. If I held onto favorites it would only encumber future cases.")

"Do you ever feel scared?" (Answer: "It is not whether or not one feels fear that matters, but whether or not one is able to think clearly even in trying circumstances.")

"What's the most important quality for a detective to have? (Answer: "The ability to keep your food down.")

And even: "What's your favorite video game?" (Answer: "I don't play video games.")

Finally, though, one of them asked the question he was waiting for (or at least, close enough to it): "Where did you get your sense of justice?"

Answer: "It's not a sense of justice. Figuring out difficult cases is my hobby. If you measured good and evil deeds by current laws, I would be responsible for many crimes."

I am not a saint.

Their faces crumpled in distress and confusion, but he continued, because this was something that he needed them to understand: "The same way you all like to solve mysteries and riddles, or clear video games more quickly… for me, too, it's simply prolonging something I enjoy doing."

I am not some righteous god.

A few of the faces brightened in understanding, but he continued on mercilessly: "That's why I only take on cases that pique my interest. It's not justice at all. And if it means being able to clear a case, I don't play fair; I'm a dishonest, cheating human being who hates losing."

Did you ever consider that possibility?

There were trembling lips, widened and watery eyes, dropped jaws.

Ignoramuses.

Watari brought the question-and-answer session to a close after that.

Finally, L thought, and stabbed morosely at piece of cake with a fork. I hate this.

"Did you identify anyone to be your successor?" Watari asked him later.

L stuffed a bite of cake in his mouth. "One of the two in the back. Either the one learning against the wall eating a chocolate bar, or the one crouched on the floor working on a Rubik's Cube." They were the only two children who hadn't asked any questions; they'd simply watched him, nasty glints in their eyes, like they blamed him for something and were analyzing him for weaknesses. Rather than looking surprised or pained at his ending speech, they'd looked interested and delighted. "They'd both do fine." He stuffed another large bite of cake in his mouth.

"Do you want to see their data?" Watari asked.

"No," L mumbled through his mouthful of cake. "I don't need to." He swallowed, then stuffed another bite between his lips before adding resolutely through the mouthful of dessert: "My successor should be one of them."

It doesn't really matter, after all; when someone else takes over as L, I'll be dead. He took another bite of cake. But whoever becomes my successor should at least share my lack of virtue.

"Very well," said Watari. "I'll ask you to evaluate them again when they're older."

"That's fine." L stabbed the cake with his fork. If you're going to replace me anyway, why not just go ahead and replace me with two people? It would be more revenue for you.

But you wouldn't do that, would you? Because while you're busy trying to replace me, you haven't even considered your own replacement. As far as you're concerned, there's only one Watari; therefore, in your mind, there can only be one L, since you can only be Watari for one person.

You're an idiot about certain things, Watari. Those children don't look like they'd need you; they're not me. They can find their own way.

The vicious stabbing of L's fork had reduced the piece of cake to a large pile of frosting-infused crumbs. He put down the fork; he'd need a spoon in order to finish the cake, now.

"Watari," L intoned. "I've picked out successors for you. Now would you please find me an interesting case to work on?"

It was clear to Mello that the only reason L had 'met' with them at all was in order to observe them.

L was the one gleaning information from them, not the other way around.

And it was clear to him that the only reason L would be doing so would be to observe them so he could choose a successor; he'd probably already looked at their data, so it was probably narrowed down to either him or Near.

Both had them had passed L's test, though—neither of them had said anything. They'd only observed him, gleaning as much information as they could from L, just as he was doing to them—no doubt that was the reaction L had been looking for.

But if Near and he had both passed the test, and L had looked at their data, then he'd probably choose Near.

Mello clenched his fists. No, I have a chance! If L looked at the data, he probably figured out that Near is a sociopath—and Near also has no skills with guns or martial arts—so maybe…

It had only been a day since the 'meeting,' but L had probably already made his decision.

Storming through the mansion, Mello found Near sitting on the floor of the common room with one of his puzzles.

"Near!" Mello barked, grabbing the younger boy's wrist and dragging him to his feet an down the hall to Roger's office. "We're getting the answer today, once and for all—which one of us is better!"

Near let himself be dragged along, remaining silent.

Outside Roger's door, Mello paused for a moment to look at the other boy. Near didn't look at back at him, keeping his gaze down. All he did was twirl that stupid lock of hair around his fingers,

Mello scoffed, then turned and barged into Roger's office, letting go of Near's wrist like the boy's skin had burned him.

"Roger!" he demanded. "Which one of us did L choose?"

Roger looked up from his computer, his expression placid. "Mello," he greeted. "Near. I see you figured it out."

"Of course we did!" Mello said impatiently. "So which one of us is it?!"

Roger folded his hands in front of him. "L chose both of you."

"What?!" Mello exclaimed, horrified. "But only one of us can be L! Didn't he look at our data?! He should have been able to make a decision!"

"L did not look at any of your data," said Roger, and Mello took a step back, stunned. "Nor did he look at anyone else's, for that matter. He merely observed you all."

Mello's heart was beating wildly, his eyes wide in shock. "Then…?"

"He said that either you or Near would succeed him," Roger said calmly. "He said he'd make the final decision sometime in the future after another evaluation, when you're older."

Mello slowly turned to look over at Near, but Near still standing there expressionlessly and twirling a lock of platinum hair around his fingers, looking down at the floor—because apparently Mello was still so far inferior to him that he wasn't even worth acknowledging.

Mello's fists clenched and he grit his teeth.

This isn't over, Near! I'm still going to win this!

Near figured that L's only reason for meeting with them had been to observe them.

Why else would he have taken time off working on a case to answer their pointless and irrelevant questions, if not to analyze his potential successors? There was simply no other logical reason for him to have done so. He had not provided them with any real information. And he'd never interacted with them before, or showed that he had any interest in them, so it made no sense for him to start now unless he was thinking of picking his successor.

And why else would he have answered so bluntly, if not to see how they'd react? He'd been testing them to determine their feelings and how much they'd figured out on their own. His answers had been either glib or pointed, the kinds of statements meant to evoke emotional reactions rather than inspire reflective thought. L probably had access to all their data, so he hadn't been there to test their intelligence—he'd been testing their characters, since that was best done through direct observation.

Which meant that L was probably planning to choose a successor soon.

Near figured that Mello was the only other student who had figured it out, given that he hadn't asked any questions, either. Just like Near, he'd simply been observing L.

Near thus wasn't surprised when Mello came up to him the next day and grabbed him harshly by the wrist, yanking him forcefully to his feet and then dragging him to Roger's office. Knowing Mello, Near had been expecting something of the kind, and had purposefully been working on a puzzle in one of the common areas—despite the room being too bright and the other kids being too loud—so that Mello wouldn't have to cause a ruckus trying to find him or try to break down his door in order to drag him out of his room.

Outside the door to Roger's office Mello paused, and Near could feel the other boy's gaze on him, but he couldn't bring himself to meet those intense blue eyes. He couldn't hold anyone's gaze for very long before he started to panic and had to look away—he couldn't think, otherwise—but with Mello it was even worse; there was so much hatred there.

He didn't look, but he heard Mello give a scoff, heard the door being thrown open, felt the pain in his shoulder as Mello yanked him into into the room, felt the burn of his wrist as Mello shoved him away, the carpet coming unexpectedly beneath his feet and making him stumble slightly.

"Roger!" he heard Mello demand. "Which one of us did L choose?"

Near didn't look at Roger's face, but the man's voice was calm. "Mello. Near. I see you figured it out."

Mello's voice was too loud, and bounced slightly off the walls, causing a slight echo. "Of course we did! So which one of us is it?!"

"L chose both of you.," came Roger's calm voice.

"What?!" Mello exclaimed, too loudly, and Near flinched, desperately curling his hair around his finger and trying to breathe through the throb of pain in his skull as Mello continued at high-volume: "But only one of us can be L! Didn't he look at our data?! He should have been able to make a decision!"

Near again wondered why they couldn't both be L, why the rule was that there could only be one and what the logic of that was—but the thought was chased from his head before he'd even had a chance to try to translate the vague sensation of discomfort into words.

"L did not look at any of your data." Roger's voice remained calm and at a comfortable decibel level. "Nor did he look at anyone else's, for that matter. He merely observed you all."

"Then…?" Mello's voice faltered.

The rug, Near noticed, was a solid, subdued maroon color, the edges rimmed with a simple wheat design on the outside and a line of rectangles just within it, both designs made of a slightly lighter and darker maroon than the rest of the rug. Near traced the patterns with his eyes.

Roger was stating evenly: "He said that either you or Near would succeed him. He said he'd make the final decision sometime in the future after another evaluation, when you're older."

Near was trying to process what that meant, but it was difficult when he could feel the heat of Mello's eyes on him, and his attention was diverted to trying to keep his breathing steady and focusing on the tickling sensation of his hair twirling around his fingers.

It was only later, only in his room in the dark, that Near realized that, Yes, he wanted to be L—but he didn't want Mello to not be L.

He wanted to be L, but he'd never wanted to have to compete with Mello—he'd never wanted to be the receiver of Mello's hatred or the cause of Mello's pain.

But he wanted to be L just as much as Mello did, so he didn't have a choice.

Mello had always admired L and envied him his role as the World's Greatest Detective, but it wasn't until he heard L speak that the detective truly earned his respect.

The voice-scrambler may have made L's tone of voice impossible to distinguish, but it was clear enough from his answers that he didn't think much of the questions he was being asked, or of the children doing the asking; they were obviously missing the point. They didn't understand L at all.

Mello knew better than to ask questions; L would only have made him look like an idiot, the same as he was doing to the other students. L could never, and would never, treat them as equals—it would go against L's creed.

After all, L solved the world's most difficult cases to prove that he was the best.

It amused Mello somewhat that none of the other students seemed to have figured that out. It was clear enough from L's cases—from his strategies and from any meeting transcripts logged by the police forces—that L's only regard for others was making sure they knew he was the best.

Yes, his goal was to solve cases as quickly and accurate as possible with minimal loss of lives in the process (which Near still didn't seem to understand), but that wasn't because of his morals—it was simply to prove that he was the best at doing so (which was the part that Near probably did actually understand, admittedly).

L wasn't the one who had set society's laws or ethics; he was merely the one taking advantage of them, breaking laws where it suited him and then emblazoning himself as the ultimate upholder of others, either blinding everyone to his manipulations or making it so they had no choice but to overlook them if they wanted the results he provided.

If L had actually cared about justice, he would not have been anywhere near as successful as he was—if he'd cared about justice, he wouldn't have been the best.

Mello had figured that out a long time ago, given that he did the exact same thing (though admittedly only at an orphange-level. L, though, manipulated people in that way at a world-wide level—and for that Mello admired him).

It was L's willingness to admit it, though, that made Mello respect him.

"If you measured good and evil deeds by current laws, I would be responsible for many crimes…. It's not justice at all. And if it means being able to clear a case, I don't play fair; I'm a dishonest, cheating human being who hates losing."

The admittance showed that not only was L the most intelligent cheater in the world, but that he was so confident in his abilities that he knew he wouldn't suffer from admitting it, because his strength didn't come from the fact that nobody knew what he was doing—his strength came from the fact that he was so good at solving cases that even when people saw that he was cheating they let him do it anyway.

As long as his result satisfied them—which he made sure they would—it didn't matter what he did to achieve those results, and it didn't matter what people knew that he did, because there was nobody else who could achieve the same results. And L knew that.

So after the question-and-answer session ended, while the other students were stunned, crying, or distressingly begging Wammy to explain (except for Matt, who didn't care about anything and was therefore grinning, and Near, who was a sociopath and therefore had no reaction at all), Mello triumphantly finished his chocolate bar.

L was even better than he'd realized—and he was more determined than ever to take L's place.

Near had always admired L and wanted to be just like him, but after hearing L speak Near grew to like him more and more.

Near had never understood what justice was. The other children threw the term around in phrases like "L is justice!" and "L will bring justice!" but the word appeared to have no real meaning. It was simply a label for some abstract idea with no clear definition, the same as 'fairness,' and yet it appeared to Near that everyone seemed to have some concrete, innate understanding of what justice was, despite the fact that, whenever he asked any of them how they'd define justice, aside from "Justice is L!" they had difficulty answering.

"Justice is people getting what they deserve," they might say, but that was equally abstract—how did they know what anyone deserved? There didn't appear to be any rules that determined it.

Or they might say, "Justice is criminals getting caught," but that was just laws being enacted. In which case, was following laws justice? And if that was the case, how could L be justice, when L didn't always follow the law? L often did things that seemed to fall into what the other kids would categorize as 'cheating,' yet for some reason it was never called 'cheating' when L was the one who was doing it. They were distressingly inconsistent.

They might also say, "Enacting justice is doing what's right," but how did anyone know what was right? And yet, somehow everybody else seemed to understand, innately, that certain things were 'right' and other things were 'wrong,' without ever being taught, while Near seemed to lack any such ability.

The most that Near could figure out was what was 'illogical' and what was 'logical,' but those categories didn't seem to align with categories of 'wrong' and 'right.'

Consequently, Near didn't understand why most of the other children were so upset when L said he didn't solve cases out a sense of justice. How could they be so attached to the concept of 'justice' when they didn't even seem to know what it was?

So when L bluntly said "It's not a sense of justice," Near felt relief—because if L wasn't solving cases out of a sense of justice, then Near didn't need to understand what justice was in order to be like L.

And when L bluntly said "Figuring out difficult cases is my hobby," Near felt like he understood. Because if figuring out difficult cases was L's hobby, that must mean that solving them correctly made him feel happy, which meant that he felt the same way about solving cases as Near did, which meant that Near felt the same way that he did, which meant that Near was similar to L, which meant that Near should be able to become even more like him.

And when L bluntly said "That's why I only take on cases that pique my interest," Near felt that L was exactly the kind of person who wanted to achieve his own goals. L didn't solve cases in order to be liked, or for the benefit of anyone else, or because it was necessarily the right thing to do; he did it for himself—it just so happened to also fall into the 'right' category.

What Near wanted more than anything was to have some semblance of control over his life—some kind of understanding and competency, so he wouldn't have to be constantly overwhelmed and struggling to figure out what were the right and wrong things to do. He wanted to be free of the constant fear, the constant anxiety, the constant doubt.

And L, he felt, was somebody who was free of those things.

So if Near became L, then he could finally be free of those things, too.

L was huddled in an armchair with his legs pulled to his chest, a blanket draped over him, hanging over his face so that only his chin and a few locks of too-long black hair were visible.

There was the soft vibration of footsteps, a quiet swishing of clothes, and then a clink of china and silverware on glass.

"L," Watari spoke gently. "I've brought you coffee and cheesecake."

"I'm not interested," L mumbled, pale hands clenching around the blanket and pulling it tighter around him.

Watari exhaled softly. "L. You need to eat something."

L curled up further, folding in on himself so that even his chin and hair were hidden beneath the blanket, his appearance nothing but a misshapen lump of light-blue fleece. "It's been almost six months since I worked on a case, Watari," came his muffled, despondent voice from somewhere within the amorphous mass of fabric. "I'm not hungry."

Watari's voice was light and gentle. "You should go outside, L. It would do you good to get some sunlight and fresh air."

"I don't feel like it," the lump of fleece replied, disconsolate. "I want to work on a case." The light-blue mass shifted slightly. "I think my brain is rotting."

Watari exhaled audibly. "L. I've brought you cases, but you didn't like any of them."

"They weren't interesting," the lump mumbled.

"Maybe it's time to lower your standards, L?" Watari suggested. "If you're this depressed, they might be better than nothing."

"No," mumbled the lump. "They'd just depress me more."

Watari sighed. "Are you sure you don't want to go outside, L?"

"I don't like it outside," mumbled the lump. "Find me a case."

Watari exhaled loudly. "There aren't any. Unless you've suddenly become a cardiologist and are interested in looking into why criminals keep dying of heart attacks."

The lump of blue fleece shifted, the folds raising slightly to reveal a sharp chin and a few locks of black hair. "What?"

"In the past few days, hundreds of criminals around the world have died of heart attacks," Watari said. "But that's a medical issue, not a criminal a case. There's no way that anyone could kill people with heart attacks, especially not without direct contact, and especially not all over the world at the same times."

The lump unfolded, swaths of blue fleece shifting and cascading away to reveal a messy head of wild black hair and and a pale face with two wide black eyes, bright and alert despite the mauve smudges beneath them.

"Watari," L said, "get me all the information you can concerning these heart attacks."

Near made it a point to follow each of L's cases as well as he could.

After L completed the cases, all the information he'd gathered would be consolidated into a binder which would then appear in the Wammy's House library, but Near also liked to follow the cases as they were happening. There was no way for him to get all the information that L had, of course, so he knew there was no way he'd be able to solve the cases, but that wasn't really what mattered—he could pour over all the information once L had closed the case.

What was important about observing L's current cases, for him, was seeing L's interaction with the world outside of the case—how he used the media, how he negotiated with various countries' governments, what he did and didn't let people know, and how those people responded to him.

Analyzing large amounts of data and coming to logical conclusions was Near's strength—it was the human aspect he still had difficulty with. If he wanted to be L, he needed to know not just how to solve cases like L, but how to interact with the entire world as L—and for that he needed to observe L in action as those outside of Wammy's House without any insider information saw him, because that was something that wasn't included in the case binders.

So when L started investigating the Kira case in Japan, Near started learning Japanese so that he could better follow the case.

The only reason Mello paid so much attention to L's current cases was because Near did.

It's not like there was any real reason to, after all—L didn't let important information leak. He always kept the goings-on of his cases under wraps until they were completed, and at that point all the information would be made available to them at Wammy's House. And there wasn't any reason to keep tabs on how L was doing on his current cases since it was a given that L would solve them.

But Mello couldn't stand the idea of Near knowing more about L than he did. He wasn't going to let Near beat him—not at anything, and especially not when it came to L.

So when Near started learning Japanese and rubbing his knowledge in Mello's face ("Did you know that L has figured out that Kira is in the Kanto region of Japan, Mello? He's also proved that Kira can't kill him. What do you conclude from that, Mello? You should watch the broadcast; it's very informative."), Mello started learning Japanese and paying attention to news from Japan as well, and rubbing it back in Near's face ("It seems that Kira needs a name and a face to kill; what do you think, Near?").

Damnit, he wasn't going to let Near be better than him. There was no way.

He had an advantage over Near, though, since he had Matt to help him—Near, on the other hand, had nobody.

While Near could practice reading Japanese with books and understanding Japanese with audio, there was nobody at Wammy's House whom he could practice speaking Japanese with. This was a problem; he wanted to become fluent.

L, Near knew, was fluent in many languages.

Fortunately, though, it wasn't hard to get Mello to start learning Japanese—all he had to do was make sure he studied Japanese where Mello would see, and then flaunt the information he picked up from Japanese news broadcasts that Mello could have no way of knowing; Mello's obsession with being Number One meant that there was no way he would let Near be the only one to learn Japanese.

Which meant that Near got two people to practice speaking Japanese with—since not only would Mello learn the language, but he'd drag Matt into it, too, and make the older boy help him. And even if Matt wasn't particularly interested in L's cases and tended not to take things seriously, he did have a good memory, and the fact that learning Japanese would open up more video game choices to him might help keep him interested, as well.

But it was really Mello that Near wanted to learn Japanese with. And he knew that Mello's obsession with being the best meant that not only would Mello learn the language if he saw Near learning it, but that he would also push himself to become better at Japanese than Near, which would subsequently push Near to become even better at Japanese, as well. And Mello's desire to flaunt his superiority in Near's face meant that he would definitely speak to Near in Japanese no matter how angry at him he got.

So maybe there was something beneficial to them competing for the place of L after all.

(Or at the very least, Near could use it to his advantage.)

It was all Mello could do just to keep up with Near, and more than ever before his arms were constantly covered by long sleeves and the floor of his room was constantly littered in chocolate wrappers.

It wasn't that he'd started cutting himself, but rather that he felt the urge to do so with such great frequency that he'd started keeping his arms covered so he wouldn't be tempted; the layer of black fabric he'd have to roll up in order to press the knife to his skin was enough to make him pause and think twice, and he'd reach for a chocolate bar instead.

The chocolate didn't make the pain of failure go away (he hated himself, he hated himself so much—) but it was sweet enough to smother the acrid taste of fear that permeated his mouth (he was never going to be good enough—), and the snap the chocolate made when he bit pieces from it satisfied his urge to break something. It made him feel vicious and dangerous—gave him a sense of power that partially overrode the feelings of helplessness (when no matter what he did he couldn't catch up—).

Japanese pronunciations weren't hard, but the grammar was weird, and there were so many kanji to memorize, and so many of them sounded the same but had completely different meanings, and how did Near memorize everything so quickly?

And then there was the Kira case, and Near's constant questions and tests ("Did you notice that Kira's victims have changed slightly? What do you make of that, Mello?"), the constant gibes and criticisms ("There's no need to get so emotional about it, Mello").

And through it all Near was just as emotionless and unperturbed as ever—him with his blank face, his detached voice, the way he was always twirling his hair like the entire world bored him, the way he almost never gave Mello so much as a glance, and the rare times he did it was to look at him disparagingly and then brush him aside again, going back to playing with his toys like he was a fucking toddler.

It made Mello furious. But he couldn't walk away—he couldn't let Near win. He was going to be Number One. He was going to subvert Near to second place and then rub his failure in his face, just as Near had done to him. He was going to be come L.

(I'm going to be Number One, he told himself, over and over again, chocolate snapping between his- teeth. I'm going to be Number One.)

(Because maybe, if he said it enough times, it would finally—)

It was all Near could do not to succumb to the anxiety, and more than ever before he was fiddling with whatever he had at hand, and avoiding mirrors and the awful person he saw there.

Every time he saw his reflection, it only reminded him of how inherently bad he was, and he'd quickly look away (he never saw his reflection long enough to notice if his hair was sticking up all over the place, or if his shirt was buttoned wrong). There was something wrong with him—he didn't understand people, he couldn't make friends, everybody hated him—and he didn't know how to fix it.

He was trying, though. He was really trying. And learning Japanese gave him an excuse to talk with Mello—if he wanted to be able to speak Japanese, he had to practice, which meant that he couldn't back out of the conversations. But then there was the problem of: What to talk about? What did friends talk about? What would Mello find interesting? The only thing they had in common was L.

So Near talked about the Kira Case, and L, and tried to engage Mello in conversation about it ("Did you notice that Kira's victims have changed slightly? What do you make of that, Mello?") He thought the case was interesting, and he figured that Mello would find it interesting, too, and he was honestly curious what Mello thought about it.

And Mello would answer, and even ask him questions back and keep the conversation going, but he was always angry, and Near didn't understand. What had he done? Why was Mello so angry? ("There's no need to get so emotional about it, Mello…").

He knew that Mello resented him for scoring better on tests, but he was trying to—he wanted—it was supposed to be—he was trying—

It was just conversation, and he knew that Mello admired L as much as he did, and as far as he could tell it was the only thing they really had in common, a shared interest they could discuss—he was trying. It was supposed to be what was termed an 'olive branch,' a demonstration that he wanted to end hostility. Why wasn't it working?

It was difficult to keep conversing with Mello when, aside from improving their Japanese, it didn't seem to be achieving the desired results, and it was so clear that he was still doing everything wrong.

But he pushed forwards anyway, focusing part of his attention on solving jigsaw puzzles, building towers of blocks, lines of dominoes—actions to focus him and keep the emotions at bay so he could think—and every time Mello destroyed what he'd put together he'd silently started fixing it because he didn't know what else to do and Mello was glaring at him with his intense blue eyes and Near felt exposed and vulnerable and in pain and panicked and he needed to be able to think—

It was like there was a deep chasm between himself and Mello, between himself and the rest of the world, and he didn't know how to breach it.

And even though his utter failure to do so hurt, he kept trying.

(Because maybe, if he just tried hard enough, he would finally—)

Matt had no idea what the fuck was going on with Mello and Near.

L was trying to catch a crazy mass murderer in Japan, so Near started learning Japanese, and since Near was learning Japanese Mello started learning Japanese, which meant that he had Matt help him—which Matt was fine with, because Mello kept good to his bribes, and Japanese wasn't a bad language for a gamer to know—but seriously, couldn't those two ever just chill and give it a rest? They were driving all of Wammy's House crazy.

Like, they would literally only talk in Japanese—they refused to speak in English, which meant that Matt ended up having to be their translator, and he couldn't even have fun with it since they'd know if he translated wrong. (Well, Near probably wouldn't really care, actually—but Mello would definitely exact revenge.)

And not only that, but whenever they were in a room with a TV they had to have it tuned into the Japanese news to get the lay-down on Kira, and wouldn't let anyone watch anything else, and they were constantly, constantly arguing about the Kira case.

It was kind of odd, honestly—Matt didn't think he'd ever heard Near talk so much. Usually it was Mello that instigated all their competitions and arguments, but now it seemed that Near was going well out of his way to rile Mello up.

Maybe they were even more desperate, now, since L had apparently chosen both of them? According to Mello, Roger said that L said that he'd make the final choice about his successor when they were older, so perhaps this was the final leg of their rivalry—the final boss battle.

Or, wait—was the final bass bottle beating L? How did that work? When L chose his successor, when would the successor take over? It wouldn't be till after L died, right? How old was L, anyway?

Matt didn't really know why, but he'd always thought of L as being kinda young—he'd sounded kinda young, when he talked to them, with all his flippant answers—but then again, he was choosing a successor, and he also said he didn't play video games. So maybe he was actually an old fogey who thought he was going to die soon?

Because it was either that or he was going to have to challenge his successor to a battle of wits to see who had the right to hold the title—which seemed kinda weird. But it would also be weird if he were young and choosing a successor, because by the time he died Mello or Near might be kinda old by that point too, right?

Jeez, the entire situation was weird as hell. And Mello and Near seemed to be paying absolutely no attention to the ridiculousness of it all; they're were too caught up in the game.

Everybody at Wammy's House was too caught up in the game, though, and frankly Matt was sick and tired of it.

He was almost fifteen, though—almost old enough to leave the orphanage—so he only had to deal with it for a little longer before he could go find his own way in life. Maybe he'd design video games, or something. Or maybe he'd become a racecar driver—racing was so much fun in games, so he'd always wanted to try it in real life.

In any case, though, once he left Mello would be forced to start speaking English again, and then maybe Near would, too.

Or maybe L would solve the Kira case before then—it was L, after all. And as annoying as everyone's obsession with the guy was, Matt would still be among the first to declare that L was the best.

So yeah, actually—as supernatural as the Kira case was, L would still probably solve it before Mello and Near got over their shit.

There were several times during the Kira case when L thought that he might possibly die.

It had run through his mind, at those times, that if he died on the case, it would be left to his successors—those two boys, aged 13 and 14. With how indoctrinated they were to hero-worship him, they'd definitely try to avenge his death.

It made L feel sick just to think about.

Those children could never win against Kira—not against Light Yagami. (Because even with the all the evidence that seemed to make it clear that Light couldn't possibly be Kira, Light had to be Kira—he had to be. Nobody else would have been capable of it. But Light, with his brilliance that made even L pause, Light could have—)

L had spent six months on the case, had suspected that Light was Kira for the better part of that time, and yet he still hadn't been able to pin any evidence on him.

If even L was having so much difficulty, how could Watari possibly think that those kids could succeed him? If he died, that would mean that Light had beaten him, after all—and if he'd lost, then what chance did those children have?

Kira—Light Yagami—was really something else.

Mello and Near were awake at 1 AM in the morning so they could watch the 9 AM news in Japan.

In Japanese, Mello asked challengingly: "What kind of person do you conclude that Kira is, Near?"

Near fiddled with a Rubik's Cube, twisting it in quick, precise movements. "I think Kira is someone who wants to prove he's the best," he answered, also in Japanese.

Mello bristled. "Yeah, well, I think Kira is a sociopath who doesn't care at all about people's lives."

The Rubik's Cube clicked and clacked in Near's hands. "Then why would he be killing only criminals?"

Mello sneered. "He doesn't just kill criminals—he also killed those police officers and FBI agents."

"Only because they got in his way." The solved Rubik's Cube was placed on the ground, and Near's fingers busied themselves instead with his pale hair. "That's why, in order to accomplish his goal, he has to kill L, too."

Mello's blue eyes narrowed. "He won't kill L," he stated firmly. "L will definitely defeat him."

Near stopped twirling his hair. "Yes," he said, lowering his hand and glancing out of the corner of his eyes at the Japanese broadcast, which was discussing the communication between the Second Kira and the 'real' Kira (which, both he and Mello had concluded, was probably a fake Kira that L had created to trick the Second Kira, since the real Kira would have said that the Second Kira could go ahead and kill L). "L is the best."

There were several times during the Kira case when L thought that he might possibly die.

But when his death finally came—when he saw that Watari had deleted the data and he knew Watari was dead, when he felt his heart seize in his chest—he wasn't prepared for it.

Even if Light had a scrap of Death Note on him—or even if he planned on killing the entire Task Force using the Death Note they'd gotten from Higuchi—he'd need L's real name for that, and there was no way that Light could have discovered what it was.

Maybe Misa could have, since she was the Second Kira and all she needed was to have seen his face, but given that Misa—it had to be Misa—had started killing criminals again, and he wasn't dead yet, it didn't seem she was capable of doing so. Maybe she'd lost the power—he didn't know. That Shinigami Rem wouldn't tell him.

It had occurred to him, of course, that Rem's actions were part of Light's plan, but he didn't see why a Shinigami would follow Light's orders.

And he hadn't—there'd simply been no way he could have known that Rem would kill Watari and him. How could he have guessed that? Whatever reason would a Shinigami have had to write their names? There was no way he could have foreseen such a thing.

Though that didn't make it hurt any less—in the brief moment after he'd realized what had happened and before he'd died—in that brief moment he was able to feel the pain, staring up into Light's triumphant face.

Light Yagami… I knew it… I wasn't wrong… but… I…

(He'd wanted to prove it.)

There may have been several times during the Kira case when L had thought about his successors, and what would become of them if he died, but the day of his death was not one of them.

The Japanese media was abuzz with talk of Kira, but there had been no new information about the current state of the Kira Case for months.

"Ever since the incident with the Second Kira and that stupid Japanese TV station, L's been operating in complete secrecy," Mello observed (still in Japanese). He bit off a hunk of chocolate, eying the Japanese news anchors talking on the television screen.

"Yes, that's clear," Near agreed (also still in Japanese), carefully placing another domino on his ever-growing tower. "The only news that could possibly have been related to the Kira Case was when a section of the freeway was closed off and someone in a red Porsche was apprehended, and the news claimed the man was merely a wanted member of a dangerous drug cartel."

He carefully placed another domino, lining it up on its thin edge. "But the measures taken in the instance were suspiciously severe. Would they really call in helicopters for a mere member of a drug cartel?"

"No," Mello said, chocolate snapping between his teeth. "It had to have been Kira. There's no other explanation."

Near balanced another domino on the top of his tower. "If it were Kira, L would have solved the case." He removed his hand, careful not to the tower over. "Given that we've received no news of him closing the case, it can't have been Kira. And I don't think the original Kira, who managed to kill twelve FBI agents investigating in secret, would have gotten himself apprehended in such a manner."

Mello licked the chocolate bar. "Maybe it was the Second Kira—seems like something that idiot would have done."

Near placed another domino on its side, and the tower swayed slightly. "Maybe."

He reached for another domino, only to find that there were none left.

There was a loud clatter as Mello kicked the tower over, the dominoes spilling across the hardwood floor, and Near froze.

"Ha ha!" Mello bit off another hunk of chocolate, his eyes glinting. "L is definitely going to catch the original Kira soon."

Near's pale fingers found one of the dominoes and placed it on its side. "Maybe."

When Roger took Mello by the wrist and told him to come to his office, Mello thought that the manager was going to lecture him about not hurting the other kids again.

He was already preparing another argument for why it had been their own faults and he'd merely been exacting justice ("justice" was a really good word to use to get away with stuff, he'd learned from L), when Roger invited Near, as well, and Mello knew that Roger wasn't going to lecture him about that.

If it was both Near and him, Roger had to have something to tell them about L—L had probably chosen which of them was going to me his successor.

Mello's heart was pounding as they entered the room, Near making himself comfortable on the floor with his puzzle while Roger sat down in his chair and placed his elbows on the desk, hands clasped in front of him. He remained silent for several moments, looking down at his desk, like he was about to tell them bad news.

Was Roger not looking at them because he knew that one of them would disappointed by the news? But which one of them…?

"What is it, Roger?!" he demanded. He could barely hear anything over the pounding of his heartbeat. Just tell us which one of us it is already! It has to be—

"L is dead," Roger said.

Mello's heart stopped. There was static in his ears.

"Dead?!" He'd stepped forward and slapped his hands on the desk before he even realized he was doing it. "Why?!"

Roger kept his hands folded and his gaze down. He didn't answer.

Mello leaned forward over the desk, his heart pounding wildly. "Did Kira kill him?! Is that it?!"

Roger didn't look up. "Most likely."

Mello lunged forward and grabbed the old man by his shirt, pulling him away from the back of his chair and staring into the man's widened eyes. "He said he would get Kira executed, and was killed! Is that what you're saying?!"

Roger's eyes were filled with distress. "Mello…"

Mello stared at him, mind racing.

Just then there was a clatter, and Mello let go of Roger's shirt, turning to look at Near in surprise.

Near was crouched there the base of his puzzle held over his head, having just dumped the pieces on the floor. His gaze was down, but he was just as expressionless as ever.

He placed the board back on the ground and began putting the puzzle back together piece by piece, as precisely and methodically as his words: "If you can't beat the game… if you can't solve the puzzle… you're nothing but a loser."

He continued putting together the puzzle, and Mello could only stare at him in disbelief and horror. How could he be so calm?! L was dead! Was that sociopath really so incapable of emotion—so incapable of caring about people's lives—that he didn't even feel anything when the one dead was L?!

Mello whirled around and slammed his fist on the desk, staring Roger intently in the eyes. "Me or Near?" he demanded. His heart was throbbing painfully in his chest. "So which one of us did L…?" his voice faltered, because deep down he knew, he knew it wasn't going to be him—

"Neither one of you yet," Roger said, holding his gaze, before he looked down again. "He can't choose, if he's dead."

Mello stared at him. Neither one of us… he didn't choose either of us… he didn't… then who…

Roger looked up at them again. "Mello, Near," he said, "how about the both of you work together?"

Mello's breath seized. What?!

"Sure," came Near's voice emotionlessly from behind him. "Sounds good."

Mello stared at Near out of the corner of his eyes, his teeth gritted and his fists clenched. Work together with Near?! He—!

"That's impossible, Roger," he stated evenly, looking the old man in the eye. "You know that Near and I don't get along. We've always competed against each other." His clenched fists trembled. "Always…" His eyes were stinging.

I'm always Number Two… No matter how hard I try…

Roger looked down in disappointment, saying nothing. Behind Mello, Near was silently working on his puzzle, like he couldn't care less about any of it—not about L's death, not about the issue of who would succeed him, not about—not about anything. How could Near be so indifferent?!

When Roger had asked him and Near to his office, Mello had thought for sure that L had chosen, and he'd feared—he'd feared that it would be Near.

No—he'd still been hoping, of course, hoping desperately that it would be him.

But despite that hope he'd known it was going to be Near, had been resigned to the fact. Because of course it would be Near—Near was Number One. Mello was only Number Two. L was—had been—the best detective in the world; he wouldn't have chosen Number Two to succeed him. Mello had never had a chance.

A heavy weight of calm settled over him, like stirred-up silt finally losing momentum and filtering to the bottom of a body of still water, covering everything that had been sunk there.

And Mello understood, in that moment, why B had left.

"It's fine, Roger," he said, feeling calmer than he'd felt in ages. "Near should succeed L. Unlike me, Near will solve this unemotionally, like a puzzle."

The old man was staring at him in surprise.

Mello knew what he needed to do. "I'm leaving this institution." He turned, walking towards the door.

"Mello!" Roger cried behind him.

"I'm almost fifteen, anyway," Mello said. He passed Near, who was staring down at his completed puzzle, and opened the door, stepping out of the room. He glanced back over his shoulder. "I'll live my life my own way," he said.

Then he slammed the door and left.

Near had won that round. But Near had won the battle, not the war—Mello would win in the end.

The game so far had been rigged in Near's favor, but now Mello was going to create his own rules.

Just like L.

When Roger brought him and Mello to his office, Near had an indistinct sense of foreboding.

Maybe it was the tone of voice in which Roger said "Mello. And Near. Come to my room." It was a tone that Near hadn't heard before, and it set him on edge, making him tense up and raising the hairs on the back of his neck.

"Yes," he answered, and piled the puzzles pieces onto the board, carrying it with him, because he didn't know if he'd be able to listen to that tone of voice without something to keep the anxiety from overwhelming him.

When they reached his office and Roger had shut the door, Near immediately knelt down on the floor, dumping the completely white puzzle pieces and beginning to place them within the frame, starting at the bottom right corner so that the last part of the puzzle to be completed would be the upper left corner where the Cloister Black 'L' was.

There was the vibrations of Roger's footsteps and the scrape of chair-legs against the floor, the squeaking of a leather cushion compressing under a weight, and then it was quiet; Roger said nothing.

Near scanned the shapes and pattern of the puzzle pieces, picking them up one by one and clacking them into place—he couldn't shake the sense of wrongness. It permeated the room like humidity.

"What is it, Roger?" Mello demanded. He was braver than Near was; if the news was something Roger was reluctant to say, it was something Near was reluctant to hear…

"L is dead."

Near felt the floor drop out from under him.

"Dead?!" Mello demanded. "Why?!" He was faster at grasping the situation than Near was; Near was still reeling.

He forced himself to place another puzzle piece—forced the jammed cogs of his mind back into motion. So L was killed by Kira, then…

"Did Kira kill him?" Mello demanded, apparently having come to the same conclusion at the same time. "Is that it?"

Roger's voice was low. "Most likely."

Near placed another puzzle piece, and another; he was almost to the black L design. Most likely? So all he knows is that L died, but he doesn't know how—which means that nobody told him. It wasn't made public, or else we would have heard about already. Was it a failsafe, then? An automatic transmission set to send after a certain amount of time had passed? There's been no sign of movement on the Kira Case for months—has L been dead that long?

"He said he would get Kira executed, and was killed! Is that what you're saying?!" Mello was demanding. His raised voice hurt Near's ears.

"Mello…" Roger said, and Near placed the last piece of the puzzle, the completed white background with the Cloister Black L in the corner burning itself into his retina.

L is dead. Kira killed him. L lost. Near could barely breathe. He needed—but the puzzle was completed—he needed—

He raised the board, tilting it so that all the puzzle pieces clattered over the floor in front of him.

Out of the corner of his eye he saw Mello turn to look at him, face awash with emotion, and Near couldn't look at him—he couldn't—he was still trying to process—

Near placed the board back on the ground, Mello's eyes still burning into his skin, the emotions radiating off the other boy in waves.

How did Mello do it? How did he take such earth-shattering information—L is dead, L lost—and know how to react to it? How to feel about it? How did he process it all so fast? Near didn't even know how to—

He began to place the pieces back together starting from the upper right corner, trying to force himself to think, to make sense of it all, because L was supposed to be the best. But at the same time: "If you can't beat the game… if you can't solve the puzzle… you're nothing but a loser."

That was the rule; he knew that. And he knew that Mello knew it, too.

So how did—if L was the best, then how had he lost? If he'd lost, that meant that he couldn't have been the best—so technically that made Kira the best, since he'd won, right? That was the rule: the winner is the best. L was the best because he'd always won. But now he'd lost to Kira. Yet Kira couldn't possibly be the best, because Kira was evil. But if Kira wasn't the best, then how had L lost? How—

There was a bang as Mello slammed his fist on the desk. "Me or Near?" he demanded of Roger. He was faster than Near was; Near hadn't even thought that far yet. "So which one of us did L…?"

Clack. Near placed another puzzle piece. Clack.

Mello may have had a tendency to let his emotions get in the way of his logical reasoning, but he understood people, and he always knew what to do—what to say—what to feel; he wasn't an awful person the way Near was.

Clack.

"Neither one of you yet," said Roger finally. "He can't choose, if he's dead."

Near heard Mello inhale sharply and take a step back.

Clack. Clack. It was all Near could do just to breathe. He barely managed to note that all three of them were speaking Japanese.

Clack. So Roger had known Japanese the entire time.

"Mello, Near, how about the both of you work together?" Roger suggested.

Clack. I've been saying that for years, but you always ignored me. Clack. "Sure. Sounds good." We can make up for each other's weaknesses…

The late-afternoon sunlight streamed in through the window, gray-toned by the overcast sky, making the puzzle Near was solving glow an almost blinding white against the subdued maroon rug.

Clack. Clack.

"That's impossible, Roger," said Mello, his voice firm. "You know that Near and I don't get along. We've always competed against each other." His voice cracked slightly. "Always…"

Clack. That was you, Mello. Clack. That wasn't me.

There was a gust of wind outside; it brushed against the window, rustled through dry leaves, whined like something dying and then faded away.

Clack. Clack.

"It's fine, Roger," Mello said finally, and his voice was steady again. "Near should succeed L. Unlike me, Near will solve this unemotionally, like a puzzle."

Clack. The last piece of the puzzle slid into place, completing the L. What are you thinking, Mello? You don't give up this easily…

"I'm leaving this institution," Mello declared.

"Mello!" Roger said.

Mello turned, walking past where Near was sitting; a dark-clad figure crossing through his peripheral.

"I'm almost fifteen, anyway," Mello said. The door creaked as he opened it. "I'll live my life my own way."

Your own way?

The door creaked as Mello closed it, and there was a click as the latch sprung into place.

Near remained perfectly still, left leg bent up against his chest, left hand resting over his knee, bangs shielding his eyes from the sunlight, listening.

But Mello's bare feet were silent in the hall, so even though Near knew he was leaving, he couldn't hear him go.

Working with me would be that bad, ka? The sunlight reflected brightly off the completed puzzle, hurting his eyes. I see.

"Near," Roger said.

Near didn't answer. It was all he could do just to breathe.

"Are you okay with this?"

Near reached up with his right hand, beginning to curl a lock of hair around his fingers. "Yes."

When he closed his eyes, the puzzle was burned into his vision—an expanse of deep black with a Cloister Black L in the upper left corner glowing a bright, brilliant white.

TBC.

AN: If you have any questions, please first refer to the author notes (Chapter 6) to see if your confusion/concern/matter of curiosity is addressed there.