I do not own DeathNote or any of its characters. I consider this rated M (for some offensive language, violence, and mild sexual situations). The setting is modern day London, and Mello and Near are both 15. This takes place shortly before Mello leaves Whammy's House in the series.

Playing Hookey

Chapter 1: Cemeteries of London

The cemetery was beautiful in the early morning light.

There had been a light sprinkling of rain that morning, the opaque drops of which clung to the petals of roses, roses which curved and framed and covered various pieces of statuary within the graveyard. A bust of a Victorian lady looked like she was inhaling one of the flower's fresh dewy scents, the bud was in such close proximity to her weathered stone face. Grey...grey stones scattered everywhere. So many of them littered about in their various, but not unexpected, forms: aging Celtic crosses and angels and Grecian urns and...cats. So much grey and so little else, all of it framed by funeral wreathes of dead grass. A line of human-sized crosses stood like a battalion of ancient soldiers in a long row, a continuous line of muddy grey, interrupted only by the random chaotic bursts of red and pink and mauve flowers. Cemetery roses. A color that was like life itself in the midst of all that death.

And nearby, a boy in black roamed restlessly.

Past statues of weeping angels, the boy stalked, a dissatisfied expression on his face. A face as fierce and beautiful as the angels themselves: a gothic vision with shining blond hair, colored like sunshine, and long, green cat-like eyes lined in charcoal black. His black leather clothing glinted on him like the coat of a wet seal: as sleek and shining as the droplets which sparkled like bits of glass on the flower petals. He was a wrought iron rose, a hardcore angel. His name was Mello, and he was currently playing hookey from the Whammy House kids' field trip to the London Zoo.

The city of London was a boisterous, crowded place, but here in the cemetery silence and solitude calmed and soothed the day. It was one of the reasons Mello liked to come here. Never mind its morbid beauty-all the pretty statues and roses and verdant overgrown loveliness. The cemetery was an oasis, a place of respite. It was a place for him to be away from the other kids. He and Matt were very fond of sneaking off to be in the cemetery. Matt, so he could smoke, away from Roger's disapproving eyes, and Mello, so he could simply be himself. Rebellious and volatile in all his tight, leather clad, eye-lined glory, the outfit was just one more thing (like Matt's smoking) that would earn him the scathing, unspoken disapproval of Roger's ever watchful, paternal gaze. En route to the zoo, Mello had kept most of his clothes hidden under a black vinyl rain slicker. Now, the coat lay draped and forgotten over the outstretched hand of a stone angel. A mournful, makeshift coat rack.

Mello roamed alone over the graves of Victorian poets and writers. He slipped behind a wall of foliage, treading areas away from the well-worn paths. He was upset with Matt, and wanted to be away from him. In Mello's mind, Matt had not paid him nearly enough attention upon their arrival here. Instead, the other boy had propped himself against a headstone and pulled out his I-phone, all to start playing some annoying little game or other on its busy, bleeping screen. Mello had hoped they could make out. They had done so the last time they had been here, and Mello had found the circumstances and location exhilarating, exciting even. But no. Not today. Matt couldn't be bothered to look up from the (apparently more enticing) square, glowing screen. And Mello had become annoyed. And had promptly stalked off.

Mello stopped before an intrudingly modern-looking headstone with a picture of a footballer in uniform glazed over the top of it in an aesthetically unappealing, shiny mica-like finish. God, how atrocious, thought Mello. Then he moved on to another headstone, one almost as tall as he was, with the words D-E-A-D carved out in its weirdly slanted side. That was all the stone said. Funny, thought Mello, Somebody here at least has a sense of humor. Mello lingered before the "D-E-A-D" tombstone, enjoying its aesthetics and morbid sensibilities. He reached up a gloved hand and fingered the cross on the handmade wire-and-bead rosary that he always wore. That's the kind of tombstone I want, he thought, simple and to the point. Mello turned his head, his elongated cat's eyes scanning the nearby cemetery wall. He'd come to the end. Well, he thought, I guess I should be heading back.

Mello glanced down at his watch. It was almost eleven. If he and Matt left now, then they would probably get back right around lunchtime, hopefully before anyone had had the chance to notice that they were gone. Mello started back in the direction where he had last left Matt. Past lonely crosses, ugly footballers, elaborate urns, and angst-ridden angels. He found his angel coat rack and snagged his slicker from her cracked, worn hand, pulling the shiny material around his lithe, black-clad frame. He ran one gloved hand through his now messy hair: after the morning rain, the humidity and moisture had had its way with his usually straight locks, causing his bangs to curve and spike in all different directions. His coal-rimmed eyes scanned the area, on the lookout for Matt.

Mello's heavy boots crunched over dead foilage as he made his way back. Again, the continuous line of man-sized crosses: he was getting close. Usually, Mello would be able to find the other teenager simply by following the bleeps and bloops of whatever game that Matt happened to be playing. That, and the heady sent of cigarettes, the smoke curling, white as a specter floating up to heaven-he could follow it like a banner waving in the air. But Mello neither heard nor saw anything. He detoured off the marked path, heading toward a large, concealing cluster of snail covered headstones that he remembered Matt being propped against when they had first arrived. Mello looked down on the ground and stopped. There amongst the dead leaves and dry grass was a half-smoked cigarette, its lit end still glowing faint with bits of orange ash. Mello picked it up-yes, Matt's brand-then dropped it again.

Matt, where are you?

Now Mello was really starting to get annoyed. The teenager was notorious for his volatile temper, and he could feel it starting to rise like a fetid corpse from a bottomless bog. Fuck you, Matt. First off, the other teenager had completely ignored him, and now it seemed he had wandered off altogether. That prick better not have gone back without me. Mello narrowed his eyes-a twitchy cat on the prowl-as he wove his way into nests of mossy tombstones. Goddam you, Matt, why are you like this? Why do you always have to-

-and then Mello froze.

Mello felt his breath catch in his throat as he stared at it: the writing on the tombstone. Red writing. Was it blood? It certainly looked like it was. And there, on top, positioned like the requisite cherry on a particularly morbid dessert was-

A severed hand.

Mello's own hand immediately reached for his rosary, clutching it as if for protection, for a safety net. He knew the glove on that hand. He knew it! He has last seen it wrapped around a phone, tapping away, as he had turned and stalked off into the cemetery. Oh, god Matt!

Mello felt himself start to tremble violently, with fear and so much more, as he stared down at the evil red writing on the tombstone:

Hey, Whammy's House's no. 2! Wanna play a game? The game is you find Matt before sun down or he loses more than just a hand!

And then, in smaller print underneath:

P.S. Just don't invite any grown-ups to play, OK?

Mello, without conscious thought, started backing away from the vicious, taunting graffitti-backed up and then promptly tripped over a low-lying headstone, falling flat on his back into the still-damp grass. He turned his head and found himself eye-to-eye with a large brown mollusk, its antennae extended out toward his face like groping hands. Mello then scrambled to his feet, his eyes wild, darting, animal-like within their coal-black rings. Oh, god! What was he supposed to do? What was he going to do? Oh, god, Oh, god! What if he never saw Matt again? Whatifwhatifwhatifwhatifwhatifwhatifwhatif . . .

And then Mello turned and fled the cemetery. . .

End Chapter 1.