Chapter Two: Proxy

A/N: I have no expert knowledge of all the James Bond stuff Matt does in this chapter. A professional would probably tell you it's all BS. But you know… use your imagination and believe that Matt can really do everything I make him do.

I don't own Death Note.

Note #4: newlywed

Kira's a bitch.

He kills criminals like me, most of whom don't want to be killed. Again, no, I do not want to die. I just want to live while being close to death. Smoking, reckless driving, and breaking and entering are all ways I employ to approach death. But Kira is one way that I can't control.

If I die, I want it to be with full knowledge that I let myself die, that I pulled the trigger or stepped in front of the train. I don't want to be some mindless animal waiting for the slaughter. I can't take my own life at this point because that would be bowing to Kira's pressure and letting him control me. Basically, Kira needs to go away so I can live and/or die in peace.

And now it looks like I've got myself a darling little tool to further that purpose. The kid - Mello - the kid's crashing at my apartment indefinitely, working out of my resources to anticipate Kira's bastardly moves and get ahead of him.

My, do we move fast. He's already scavenging through my fridge and declaring it a biohazard zone. Soon it'll feel like we've been married for years. *sarcasm* And no fair, apparently we skipped the honeymoon part? Not to mention the whole, er, first date, getting to know each other thing that normal people do.

No need. All we've got is Kira as our matchmaker, and we're set. Now I need to hide this before he gets suspicious of me writing with actual pen and paper.

Ethiopian, Starfish, One Night Stand

Mello: 3:12 p.m., November 14th, 2009

I ask his name after we finished our negotiations. He just smiles, that impish spark playing about his lips (for the love of God, why am I noticing them?) and says, "Matt."

"…"

"Yep, Matt as in that's what I go by, Matt as in that's what's on my credit card statement, Matt as in that's not what's on my birth certificate, Matt as in what's the matter Mello, you look under the weather?"

If that was a nerdy movie reference, I don't get it. I'm too busy mentally spluttering at how he knows my name.

"Easy does it, Mello, you need to lighten up. Here, this might help."

I catch whatever he's throwing at me reflexively, and for such a dangerous object, he hasn't any qualms about chucking it across the room. Either he knows his way around such objects or he's remarkably naïve about proper handling of lethal weapons. I look down at the gun in my hands and smile. Here is a breath of familiarity.

…and here is my name engraved just under the barrel. Ah, darling, I've missed you.

…and here comes a wave of dizziness, like we're underwater and everything in the room is swimming like a swarm of LED-equipped anemone and octopi. I clutch onto the nearest object that seemed comparatively stable, which happens to be the back of a chair draped with this ugly-ass fur vest that exhales smoke like its owner across the room. Unfortunately, there's nothing I can do to stay on my feet short of faceplanting into the odorous fabric.

"Woah, there, you probably shouldn't be up and about for so long in your condition." A hand grips my elbow, steadying me and dragging me off the chair. "It's only been what, three days? You should be in bed, princess, with a pumpkin carriage and six mice and a white rat for your butler… oh wait, that's Cinderella, isn't it? Is she blond? I think so, but your hair's prettier than hers, so…"

Three days? I've been out for three days? As in, Kira's had three days to snoop about looking for any photo evidence of me?

As in, I have to get to New York and wring Near's neck until he gives me my damn picture. I would start for the airport now, but someone is babbling in my ear and steering me to bed with an iron grip.

"…and you should change your bandages twice a day now that you're conscious enough to keep track of days. I'd give it a week before you can take them off permanently. Heads up: you're going to have some major scarring. You're moving ok, so I think no nerves have been damaged, but it's going to look ugly…"

Goddamn. Goddamn, forget Near. Bed, now, and then airport. The mattress looks really far away from where I'm standing, but I hit it with more grace than I estimated I had, courtesy of Mr. Won't-Shut-Up behind me.

"… I'd kiss you goodnight, you know, just a motherly thing, not an I'm-gay-for-you thing, but it's three in the afternoon."

"Go 'way," I mumble into the pillow. Sleeping on my right side feels completely unnatural, but I stick it out.

Near, bed, kiss, Matt. I haven't got any room in my heart just now. Just sleep…

XXX

It's dark outside when I wake, and for a moment I'm afraid I've slept away several days again. But the small red numbers in the corner of the alarm clock announce it is still the 14th of November, 2009, 9:23 p.m.

I stretch generously, and it's a wonder what six hours of dreamless sleep can do for a person. They can even make me temporarily forget what I need to do right now.

"Change your bandages? Take a hot bath? Sleep some more?"

…I must have said that last bit out loud. That, or Matt can read minds. I wouldn't be surprised; all that junk occupying every available space of his room must do something.

"You should follow your own advice," I say to the figure silhouetted in the doorway. "Even from here I can smell what you had for dinner."

"Really?"

"Really. Give me a moment to sniff it out-"

"Ethiopian takeout," he interrupts, tapping his foot idly. "What else can you smell? Mind telling me the exact longitudinal and latitudinal coordinates of the restaurant, or where the ingredients came from, or the last time the delivery boy took a shower?"

A viper of sarcasm and a hypocrite about cleanliness to boot; should be a great housemate. "Point taken," I concede. "But I need to catch a plane, so I'll have to temporarily discard your advice, besides the first one, which is even a compromise." I swing my legs over the side of the bed and get up, intending to rip the bandages on my face off like so much silly putty, only to find out the hard way that they stick more like starfish.

Which, in case you aren't familiar with marine biology, basically never let go once they sucker onto something.

Matt watches me struggle for a bit and decides to rub it in some more. "Assuming you survive seeing what's under the bandages, what are you going to do without a fake ID when you get to the airport?"

1. I'm assuming you can whip one up for me; am I asking too much?

2. More importantly, what do you mean 'What's under the bandages'?

I tear into the wraps more vigorously; he finally steps away from the door and reaches out a hand to help. "Relax, Mello, it's not like you're leprous or oozing purple slime underneath. You just kind of look… kind of burned up."

I don't bother to acknowledge the inadequacy of his description. Finally, the last of the gauze comes off. There's a mirror above the head of the bed (why there? Is it for indulging your narcissistic side while fornicating?), and I face myself.

"Huh," I say lightly. "Interesting."

Would it be poetic for me to say my face looks like a battlefield, or more accurately, an atomic bomb detonation site?

Ugly. There's no other word for it. Ugly with a capital U for YOU, just in case I can't recognize who the face in the mirror belongs to.

He can't know what I'm feeling; this face shows nothing, not the choked sob threatening to slip from my throat, not the wrinkling of my nose that means I'm going to cry, because I'm not, because this left eye probably can't, not anymore, can barely blink, with my skin feeling this raw and sandpapered.

But I suppose everything and nothing gives it away, because he lets go of my arm and leaves my clenched fist dangling at my side, steps back, lets me have a moment (why do I have to be so weak), and clears his throat softly.

"So… where were you planning on going, and what were you going to do there?"

The mockery has left his voice, I note. Is he sorry for me? Who would be, least of all myself?

"New York," I say to his feet; that's right about where my heart is at the moment. "To visit an… acquaintance."

"Uh-huh," he says, maybe half-believing me. "Are we talking acquaintance as in drug lord, or mercenary, or one night stand? Or, dare I believe you can actually form real friendships?"

"…childhood friend," I grit out with some difficulty, because the burns restrict my jaw movement, not because my voice is cracking or anything like that.

"So you haven't been a loveless child all your life. Good to know."

I shudder at his word choice.

"That's not your business-"

"I beg to differ. Whatever is so urgent that you need to go galloping across the country before you can even stand must involve Kira, and as such involves me."

Nosy bastard. "If I tell you, will you give me the necessary for me to go?"

"Nope. I'll just go in your place."

"…what?"

XXX

Three days later, he's on a plane to New York, and I'm hopelessly back in bed with a thermos of hot chocolate, an ice pack against my cheek, and a spun-glass promise ringing in my ears: "I'll be back before you know it."

Tomorrow, Tomorrow

Matt: 3:35 p.m., November 17th, 2009

Mello's got immense trust issues; I could have flown to I don't know, Namibia and back in the time it took to convince him to let me go. To New York, not Namibia.

Or… his concerns could be perfectly rational, from a normal person's point of view, which I happen to lack. I suppose most people wouldn't send someone they just met as a proxy to a long time rival to recover sensitive information. Not in these troubled times, no.

I glance around the terminal we've arrived at in LGA, direct my steps to casually slide out of the security cameras' view, and wonder if I should take the shuttle, a taxi, or someone else's car to get downtown. A taxi would be more anonymous than the bus with other passengers, but I hate close quarters and strangers. Sigh… shuttle it is then. Hotel Mulberry sounds decently low-key, and upon iPhone research, I find it to be far away enough from Mello's contact to avoid immediate suspicion should shit go public. I look out the window as the shuttle starts to move and think about how I got here.

XXX

"I will not let you go," Mello hissed.

"That makes two of us," I said. "So how are you going to stop me?"

"Easy, by not telling you where you're supposed to go. You can wander around the city until you get your throat slit for all I care."

He wasn't a trusting one, no sir. The Mafia will do that to a person. I, on the other hand, experienced no such betrayals in my childhood, except that skanky librarian, I guess. You could say I can't afford to trust so freely, but I think my life would just get shorter from stress if I suspected everything that moves, like Mello does.

"Nice try, but I'm a few steps ahead of you. I'll have you know that I know that you're meeting Near to retrieve a photograph of yourself."

I watched as his fortress crumbled under the onslaught of panic.

"If you want to know, check the hidden compartment in your gun."

He wisely didn't bother, as I held a copy of the compartment's contents before his eyes. A sheet of A4 folded in thirty-seconds, on which was scribbled the following sentence:

My face is too close up in that picture I gave to my friend; it's ugly. I'll get it back from him if I have to put out his eye to do it.

He paled and said, "Touché."

XXX

I get off at Mulberry and wince at the décor: lots of chairs, tables, dressers in somber shades of mahogany, impossibly intricate carvings on doorframes that did absolutely nothing, the like. Still, I can appreciate a furniture-intensive room over a modernly stocked one with nothing to hide bodies or barricade doors should the need arise. You never know what situations you might run into.

Ahem, I'm back. That was the paranoid Mello side of me speaking just then. See? He's already growing on me. He's so paranoid that even after I decoded his cryptic message and proved he had nothing left to hide, he still tried to keep information from me.

XXX

"I heard about Near through the underground grapevine. He's not exactly national headlines, keeps down low because America's going to succumb to Kira any day now. I only got news of him through a particularly convoluted branch."

No response.

"Oh come on, you don't have to tell me how you know him or why he has your picture. Just tell me how to get to his 'eye.' It's probably a girl, right? Weakest link in the chain. I might be able to look her up…

"Look, Mello, it could be weeks before you look human enough to go out, during which time I've got to fabricate documents and a history for you. My understanding is that your name's been leaked to Kira?"

At last, something, if not coherent. "I… yes… how?"

"You sleeptalk."

XXX

Fortunately, the heavy paneling on these walls looks like it'll muffle any somnoratory tendencies I may have developed. I don't need to reveal anything life-threatening or ego-shattering to my neighbors. I can't say Mello blabbed anything I could blackmail him with, but there was a lot of classified info.

Three names turned up the most: Near, Halle, and Kira. Given the lack of breathy moans or impassioned cries during his sleep, I doubt any of these were involved in particularly pleasant dreams of that nature. Kira was Kira, Near was Near, so was Halle the eye he needed to put out?

XXX

A sharp inhalation, a weary exhalation of breath, he slumped back onto the bed. "Fine," he said, resignation in his entire posture. "Fine, for being such a smartass, I'll tell you as much as you need to know, nothing more."

I cheered inside.

"But… it'll take a while."

I spent the rest of the night and next morning listening to fantastic tales of death gods, death notes, death threats, and suicidal escape routes.

Holy hell, I remember thinking. I'd give anything to be him. Death follows him like a bee to flowers.

I would have childishly peeked over my shoulder to make sure that a swarm of bees wasn't buzzing at the door, but my mind was occupied with wondering why I'd chosen such a virile simile. Huh. Well, he was attractive, even all bandaged up like this. Even without the sexy death aura he exuded at the site of the explosion.

XXX

Tomorrow.

Tomorrow, I'll meet Halle Lidner.

Tomorrow, I'll meet Near.

Tomorrow, I'll meet Mello.

XXX

"I'm leaving tomorrow," I said shortly.

He looked up from his coffee, in which he'd been trying to read the future, or at least the name of his soul mate.

"'Kay."

"Ell-em-en-oh-pee," I sang, screwing up my eyes in blind passion. "Kyu-arr-ess-tee-yu-vee-dubya-ecks-wai-and-zee."

I opened my eyes for a reaction, not that I expected any from Mr. Lady-Gaga-Poker-Face. To my surprise, he looked thoughtful rather than brooding.

"Everything changes," he said. "Pluto isn't a planet anymore, polar bears are losing their habitat, Michael Jackson's dead, the gay marriage law is constantly flip-flopping, and I am looking to be out of the race to catch Kira. But… the alphabet has not changed."

"Of course it hasn't. If they added new letters, the alphabet soup company would have to rewrite its recipe."

He rolled his eyes and said, "Figures you would have a wisecrack comeback to a serious statement."

But as I turned into my room to make last minute preparations, I could've sworn he cracked a grin.

What did I put in his coffee that morning?

Action Sequence

Matt: 6:19 p.m., November 18th, 2009

Bagging Lidner has disappointed me, I have to admit. I expected better of an ex-CIA, but she doesn't even check her shoes for booby traps in the morning. As she walked home yesterday, I made sure the floor just inside the door of the lobby was smeared with… shall we say, the contents of an upset stomach after too much alcohol. I did not produce them myself, and I don't feel like remembering the exact distasteful method of procuring them. Anyways, good timing, janitor hadn't been by yet, and distribution of substances was such that she couldn't avoid stepping in the muck.

Of course, secret agent ladies are always spotlessly dressed; you have to be in order to seduce - ah, get intelligence on your target. Lidner had plenty of back-ups in the event that her newest pair of suede got ruined, courtesy of yours truly. I know because I broke into her apartment earlier and made a few alterations.

Today, I'm playing a clumsy pizza boy waiting in the lobby because supposedly Lidner ordered a veggie with a thin crust and extra olives. She's not home, so I'm waiting for her because I don't want the pizza to be stolen. At least, that's my cover story. I can't share how I got my hands on a thin veggie plus olives because Domino's will be after my soul, and even though I could buy them out ten times over, I feel like staying under the radar.

Here she comes. Lovely lady, just one gun, inside her coat, I can tell by her posture and how her right arm is pressed slightly closer to her side under the pretext of holding her briefcase close… so she's left-handed. But I won't take any risks. Here comes my debut.

"Excuse me, ma'am," I call as she's halfway to the elevator. I break into a brisk stride towards her, squeaking across the over-shiny floor. "I believe you ordered this pizza."

She pauses, confusion evident, and I take the chance to trip over a nonexistent twig and let the box go flying.

Rule #1 that they should teach all CIA cadets: never catch something unless you're certain the contents won't hurt you.

Lidner could have had it worse, though. As it is, she drops her briefcase, catches the box by the sides, and unwittingly impales her hands on a dozen spiked needles embedded in the cardboard.

This is really all too easy. Already, she'll be having trouble moving her fingers, and she knows it. It's time for me to exit stage left, climb the fire escape to her window, and prepare for my next moment in the spotlight.

I told you, she doesn't check her shoes for booby traps. Not that I do, for that matter; it's not like I'm judging her. I'm just triumphing in my complete control of the situation and the simultaneous exhilarating feeling that everything's going to go to shit if I've missed something. Maybe she changed her shoes without my noticing, maybe she's somehow immune to the poison, maybe she can burn things with her eyes like Itachi in Naruto (that guy is SO HOT). Any of those maybes can be the first step toward my death.

I lick my lips in anticipation.

Not two minutes later, she's fumbling at the door with numb fingers and finally throws it open.

"Hi," I say.

She doesn't say a word or step forward thanks to the magnetized surface of her soles sticking to the field under her doormat. Think, woman. All you have to do is take off the stilettos.

"Who are you?" she asks. Her briefcase dangles precariously from one wrist, her hands too stiff to grasp the handle.

"The name's Matt. A friend of Mello." At a blank look from her, I clarify, "You know, blonde, chocolate, gun? Near's rival? Leather fetish? Diva personality? Ring a bell?"

"I know," she mutters angrily. "But how do I know you're with him? This isn't exactly his style, sticking me with needles and then gluing me to the floor."

"My apologies, Halle Lidner," I say without contrition. "Why don't you ask Near what he thinks?"

She gapes at me, still struggling against the magnetic force.

"My bug sensors are red-lighting you, but they weren't yesterday. Coinkidink, Near must have sent it home with you today."

I guess she hasn't been this outmatched in a while, which leaves me with a sorry view of the competence of modern criminals. "Let's take a walk down to Near's place, shall we? I'll have to turn the magnets off, and then I'd like to borrow your gun. Just for safekeeping, you know? It would be so crude to actually point it at you."

And that's how I ended up walking into the SPK headquarters holding a hypodermic needle against Halle Lidner's neck, concealed in my glove. I could see what she meant by Mello's style, but guns are too definitive. One slip of my finger and my target's dead, which means there's no possibility of her killing me. Needles are so much more subtle. Who was it in Naruto that had, like, a million poisoned senbon? Oh right, Akasuna no Sasori. He. Is. Glorious. He takes after me, of course.

XXX

"Hey."

My nonchalant greeting falls rather flat thanks to the guns currently pointed at my nose. *sigh* Chivalric twerps; this is the twenty-first century. Women, at least this woman, should be able to defend themselves.

Big Guy's pushing his gun out at me as far as it goes, stance spread on two taut legs. He looks like he's been through a hundred firefights, and it occurs to me that maybe he has. Littler Guy is less professional; I think his arm's actually shaking. I notice with an internal pout that they're all taller than me by at least three inches, more like six inches in Big Guy's case. Except for Littlest Guy. There, there's no question.

"Please lower your… weapons," the blob of bleach inside the railroad tracks intones, and I'm slightly gratified to hear the verbal blip inspired by the fact that I'm not holding a gun.

The guys hesitate, and he repeats, "Lower your weapons. We have no reason to shoot Mello's friend; pointing a gun at him is no less rude than if it were Mello himself."

I can see that they don't agree with his idea of gun-related courtesy, as pertains to both Mello and me, but he's got them well-trained. The guns go down, but the tension stays up.

He finally looks up. "Matt, I believe it was."

"Near. Cut the formalities, I'm here on a retrieval mission. Where's the picture?" If he's really a genius, he'll catch up. Or, he'll be there before me.

Seems like it's the latter as he magicks a photo out from somewhere and flicks it at me like a frisbee. I catch it by a grand margin; I haven't had a smoke today, so I'm kind of jittery. I try to compensate for that moment of gracelessness (in front of three secret agents whose whole being speaks of fluid efficiency, for shame) by examining the picture exaggeratedly, upside down, behind my head, in the reflection of my goggles, and all the while marveling at how he's changed.

It's like someone put that soft, glowing face into a shredder, glued the jagged pieces back together with all the round edges sheared off, and stuck the result in the freezer for a decade. This is Mello before the world hit him and he hit back.

Some things are still the same, though - that perfect fragility, the bones like eggshells that make you wonder how he doesn't just collapse under the weight of the air. That black-white divide between the neckline and his skin, a contrast like the heaviness of his soul now and the light heart he once carried. And… oh god, I need to stop rhapsodizing. I'm not a fucking poet-philosopher, for heaven's…

I flip the picture over; it says 'Dear Mello' on the back. I don't bother to parse the possible ironies, revelations, lies, and general nonsense that it could mean, though I do feel a faint twinge of annoyance that I'm sure has nothing to do with jealousy.

"So…" I drone, bending the picture between my fingers, "you haven't gone down to Kinko's and made a dozen 2 by 4's to put in your wallet? Maybe pass them around for your lackeys to look at when they're bored?"

Because they're obviously too old to still have their own prom photos?

'Lil white shifts a bit and pokes at an errant boxcar. Mello did warn me about the toys, something about taking visual spatial learning to extremes, but I'm reading it more as Freudian regression tactics. I think we'll need to have a little talk later *cough psychoanalysis cough*

"I have made no copies," he states.

"Great." I stick it in my vest pocket next to Halle's gun and yawn.

Digging for Answers

Matt: 6:44 p.m., November 18th, 2009

"By the way, there's something I want to discuss with you," I say, looking up at the ceiling. "Mello had a lot to say about you."

The kid faces a dartboard hung on an easel some four yards away. His back is to me.

"A lot," he echoes.

"A lot… of stuff only an insider would know." Just the barest hint of a threat there. Easy does it. "But of course, you trust your men completely. They deserve to know everything, right?"

I see the indecision flaring in the way he rolls a dart restlessly between his fingers. He can't have missed my gradually less subtle threats and the slight against Halle's trustworthiness.

"For example, Mello told me that you…"

*cue collective dramatic intake of breath and hold*

"…like your cereal dry."

All: …

"And you've been dousing him in milk, haven't you, Halle? Woman, do try to restrain your motherly instinct; you're far too young for that."

Predictably, she's fuming; the muscle man looks ready to defend her honor and shoot me. The pretty boy seems to be catching on, though, if his narrowed eyes and lax grip on his gun are anything to go by.

Near, of course, saw through me as soon as I started talking. Mello did tell me about Near's breakfast preferences, if only to explain to me why he was drowning his Cheerios the morning I left. But he could have told me so much more, which is what Near fears.

Haha that rhymes.

"Rester, Lidner, Gevanni, will you please leave us alone until further notice? And turn off all audio feeds to this room."

And… he takes the bait. His goons don't look so happy, but they file out without protest. Near still sits and twirls his dart. I stay where I am. A guy like him appreciates his space. I mean, there's a friggin' railroad track circling him. His playpen isn't to keep him in, but to keep others out.

We're not just talking physical space. The emotional barrier between him and his closest associates is the width of a thousand heartstrings.

What a grand metaphor. It sounds like some Chinese proverb, Confucius and Lao Tzu and all.

Honestly, though. He's not emotionally retarded. He reads people better than most; it's in his line of work. He caught Gevanni's look and knew it was time to dismiss them. He's not autistic; he can tell emotions and nonverbal and killing intent. But when it comes to empathy, there's a complete disconnect. He stamps on Halle's bruised ego, ignores Gevanni's doubts, and denies Rester the need for reassurance from his commander. For all his tiny socked feet, he's got quite a kick. I'll be on the receiving end any moment now; I might as well strike first.

"Of course, their not being here doesn't make much of a difference," I say lightly. "Mr. Rester was memorizing my speech patterns the moment I opened my mouth. A handy skill, lip reading."

He says nothing but only hunches down a little closer to the floor in a disturbing parody of old age. Since he seems content to let me begin, I dive right in. "What is your relationship with Mello?"

He throws two darts, both hitting the ring just outside the bull's-eye, but on opposite sides of the circle.

Sworn rivals.

"Were you two always like that?"

A dart, deliberately thrown off target, lands in the farthest ring from the center.

No.

"Were you once best friends?"

Hesitation. Then, a dart thrown dead into the center.

Yes.

Another dart, thrown without my prompting, sails over the target and land several meters behind it. I stop short, wondering what could have incited such a display of force. He hit the bull's-eye, and then missed it altogether. He could mean a vigorous 'no,' or…

Above and beyond, surpassing bounds, more than friends.

I don't know what to believe. I can only keep asking.

"What happened?"

Silence and stillness. Seems that's the last of the freebies. I'm going to have to work for my answers now.

I glance at the screens papering the walls. They're all muted. Most of them follow international news stations whose reporters' lips move soundlessly in time to the train still chugging around Near's railroad. One station is on a commercial break. Diamonds hang from every viable surface on a woman's body, including places unseen, no doubt, and gothic, golden letters advise me to 'Make No Mistakes with K's Jewelry!'

It's a bit of a stretch, but my brain does the work.

Make no mistakes… with K's jewelry… jewelry… K… mistakes… no… hm.

I think back to my premonitory recitation of the alphabet to Mello. Jay-kay-ell-em-en-oh-pee.

Ell.

L.

A lonely black letter on a screen. The white and the black. The rivalry, the pure opposition. The familiarity that they must have once had, shattered by that one letter. My brain is screaming that I'm jumping to conclusions, that I'm extrapolating far too much from pure lexicological theory, but hey, is it my fucking fault if the world's greatest detective had an obsession with the letters smack in the middle of the alphabet?

Is it too much to presume? Can I really imagine Mello 1.0, the one in this picture, settling down on the floor with this ancient boy to build block skyscrapers and discuss quantum mechanics over a friendly glass of milk?

It couldn't have been that long ago.

"What else did Mello tell you?" the dead voice breaks my reverie.

He knows for a fact that Mello told me next to nothing, at least… "Nothing that I couldn't have figured out for myself," I say smoothly. "Anyways, Mello believes in equivalent exchange, so he told me to give you some tips on the Kira case."

He pushes a button on a remote, and the dartboard rolls towards him. As he starts plucking off his darts, I press on. "He said that the notebook he had was owned by a god of death, who lost it to another god of death and came down here to get it. And that death god said that there were some fake rules inscribed in the notebook."

Near doesn't bother to honor the favor with a response, so I know he believes me. I pull Halle's gun out of my pocket.

"Mello says he doesn't want to cooperate with you, but I think the more brains in this, the better," I say. "And you're worth a lot of brains. Lidner has my number."

"Do I?"

Oooh, Ice Queen is back; scaaaary. She must've come running the moment they saw me draw her gun. Now there are three pointed at my head; Rester and Gevanni flank her. All I want to do is go home.

"I won't shoot," I reassure them, "my number's inside your gun, Halle. Why don't you see me out? You can have it back."

She purses her lips but steps forward, keeping her borrowed gun raised until she can shoot me point blank. I know better than to throw it this time and hand it over without a fuss. She turns, and I follow her out.

She stops a few feet short of the front entrance. "Tell Mello I said hi."

I pause, too, struck by the unexpectedness of the request.

"And that I prefer your style to his."

That makes me smile. "I will." I walk forward and out the door, expecting a bullet between the shoulder blades, knowing it won't come, and at the same time, not being sure.

But… if she shoots, I'll never be able to tell Mello hi from her.

Just you wait, angel boy. I'm on my way.

A/N: Thanks for reading! If you like this story, please take a look at my profile; I have more! (I'm allowed to pimp myself in my own author's note, right?) Okay. See you later!