AN: An intended drabble that folded out to be longer than I meant for. Seems like aiming low on word count makes me more likely to finish a story. I guess I'll see how many of my old fics I can finally get done.
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Kal Snydar isn't entirely sure how he got caught in this trap; he's only recently become aware of it. In fact, it's not until that very moment that he feels the steel teeth snap shut.
"Make the trade with Sidoh," Mello says, his blazing blue eyes eager but his tone as offhand as though he had asked the mafia underling to hand him a drink.
And that's that. Ross backs up the little monster, and Snydar has no choice but to agree. Half of his life, tossed away by this kid like an empty chocolate wrapper—and with it, Snydar's belief that Ross is in charge. It's Mello who pulls the strings, Snydar realizes, and he's sculpted the mafia cell into a tool for his own use:
An army of pawns.
Mello, in his infuriating, mocking way, is sure to make a show of 'gratitude'. As is often the case when he is forced to talk to the kid, Snydar is positive he's being set up as the butt of some private joke.
"Go open your thank-you card," Mello says archly, and those scary eyes glint with amusement. "I picked it out myself." He punctuates with a loud snap of his chocolate.
Snydar is anything but innocent, but something about someone who looks like a kid saying things like that, and with those demonic eyes, makes his bones crawl—even the knowledge of Mello's true name doesn't make him seem more vulnerable or less disturbing.
He tries to look at the bright side as he obeys, not sorry for the excuse to get the hell out of that room and away from the smirking brat, heading for the back room they often use for these sorts of exchanges. It's not a business that lends itself to a long life anyway. He should be concentrating on making the most of what he's got left, and Mello's little gift will be a good way to kick things off—Snydar despises him, but even he admits the kid has taste. And he knows the little brat's name now, he knows the name of Mihael Keehl. There must be some way he can use that to his advantage.
His scrambled plotting slams to a halt as he opens the door onto the dusky, ruddy-lit room. It is not the sultry greeting or the voluptuous figure or the tumble of glossy dark curls of the girl waiting for him, though, that freezes his thoughts—though he'd find those all to his liking, if he paid them attention. Mello does have taste.
It's the red numbers and letters glowing above her deliberately tousled head that catches his eye. Her name is Jennifer. Snydar doesn't understand the numbers, but he understands what they represent. Against his will, his imagination zooms off in several trainwreck directions, wondering how Jennifer is going to die. Any appetite he had shrivels at the morbid images that fill his mind—disease, freak accidents, the ugly deterioration of age. The idea of touching the girl, even looking at her, makes his stomach twist unpleasantly.
Is this what his half-life is going to be? Seeing death in the face of everyone he encounters? Snydar doesn't think any reward can make that a worthwhile deal.
But he's already caught in the trap.