Right. Well. This one is shorter than the others... -glares at the 3,000 words-
I tried, I really did...I don't know really.

I know that this is sort of a pointless chapter, but I promise that it's a necissary connection to the next chapter.
PROMISE...PINKY SWEAR.

As per usual, I own nothing. No Death Note, no ecstasy [promise.], and no...other stuff that I may have put in.

WHATEVER. JUST READ IT. P.S. A million hugs and kisses to EVERYONE who reviewed. I mucho love you all!!!!!!! -promises to list you in the next chapter-

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Mello had always been the king of catnaps. He slept on and off at approximately fifteen minute intervals, while on the plane, and then passed out once the black car had come to retrieve L and himself.

He woke when he heard the crunch of gravel under the tires, could slightly feel the car bumping along a driveway. It was late afternoon. He looked out the back window with bleary eyes, which he then rubbed angrily.

He'd spent his childhood in high-tech warehouses and compounds, so a massive Victorian mansion with sprawling lawns, huge windows, and a wrought iron gate was nothing he'd ever even seen before.

"Oh shit."

"Mello-kun. You really must watch the language." L muttered, "The children are incredibly impressionable, and most do not come from a background as colorful as your own."

"Yeah, Yeah." It was an unusual courtesy for him to not tack 'fucker' onto the end of his sentences. He was editing. L should be grateful.

"This is your new home. I have an initial test for you. Look at this." L shoved a piece of wrinkled paper in front of Mello's face, "You have thirty seconds."

"Thirty seconds to what?"

"Just look at it."

"Whatever." Mello committed it to memory, before it was snatched from his grip by the irritating detective, twenty-two seconds later.

It was a map. A map of the orphanage, to be exact. Incredibly detailed, he saw things labeled 'Roger's office' and 'Library' as well as room assignments for unknown children such as 'Linda' and 'Near' at the end of the east wing, there was a label reading: 'Mello's room' and adjoining to that, was a square labeled 'Matt's room.' Every room in the building had an adjoining room to it, maybe the director was trying to cut down on shrinks or something, Mello considered, maybe he thinks that friends'll do the trick.

Who needs a therapist, when your life is ruined, and you've got a child living next door.

Mello didn't want to admit that he'd never had a friend. The term was so strange to him. Since he'd grown up with the mafia, the few occasions that he had contact with kids his age, they'd been afraid of him.

And he was never allowed to shoot them.

Ever.

One of the most important things that Mello noted on the map was a small, practically microscopic square, labeled only with an intricate L.

I'll remember thatlocation, Mello thought to himself.

"Good. Mello-kun should go put his things in his room, and then report to Roger's office."

Leaving a gaping six year old behind him, L slouched off in the direction of the building, bastard needed a back brace.

Hesitantly, Mello stepped out of the truck, feeling slightly grungy in the new leather outfit. He'd gotten it before he left with L, so it wasn't that broken in. At least he'd showered before he left, he hated feeling dirty.

He already missed the mafia. He missed people at his beck and call. He missed his swivel chair, he missed the thrill, and most of all, he missed his gun.

There was something supremely comforting, knowing that you could shoot someone's face in, in a second. That was hard to do without a gun.

He rambled off to put his 'things' in his room. He assumed that by 'things', L had been referring to his only other outfit, and his massive bag of chocolate. It was easier to pack light when your only way to pack heavy meant death.

Mello wasn't a fan of death.

He paused at the doorway to the mansion, unsure of whether or not he should enter.

"Well g'din! I ain't go' all dae!" A Scottish accent piped up behind him, Mello flipped the young Scottish boy off, before deciding that he might as well own the place. He ignored the indignant squeaks coming from behind him, extremely glad that he was wearing tight leather.

Yeah. He knew he looked good….Or at least different. He stood out, even in this apparent orphanage of wackos, he saw kids of every race, gender, hair color, fashion style, everyone was different, and everyone watched him come in.

He supposed that it wouldn't be cordial to tell them all to fuck off, especially if he accompanied it with various hand gestures, and a book detailing his background.

He was tempted, stupid fuckers wouldn't even pretend that they weren't staring, but instead he paused, grabbed a chocolate bar, unwrapped it, took a bite, put on an incredibly satisfied expression, and headed off again. He enjoyed making the gawkers have to wait.

He swaggered down to his room, putting his chocolate on the bed, and tossing the clothes into the top drawer of his bureau.

He was just re-lacing his knee-high boots, when he heard a moan in the other room. Like…a dying moan. He'd heard them before, they weren't pretty, but why was someone dying over there?

He crossed the room, slowly opening the door, childhood memories preparing him for a bloody death scene, instead, very different childhood memories flared to life.

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"Why can't I see Daddy?" A four year old Mihael asked a guard, "Is he sick? I told him he looked sick when he tucked me into bed last night!" He heckled, no one kept Mihael out. It just wasn't done.

So he waited, for several hours, until his father's room emptied out. He then snuck through the air vent, crawling into his father's room.

Upon entering, it sounded as though Father was dying. He was sweating all over, curled on the floor in a ball, terrified; the young boy ran screaming from the room, before he was caught by the right hand.

"Your father's like that right now because he loves you, Mihael." The man told him, "It's because he's going to stop taking that bad stuff he doesn't let you see. Okay?"

His father never touched another drug since that night.

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The memory hurt, his father's death was still blood fresh in his life, an open wound. The pale, incredibly thin boy had managed to make it to the bed, before he lost it, he was shivering in the fetal position, on his quilt, sweat matting his auburn locks to his forehead.

The boy trembled, and moaned again, there was a bucket beside him, Mello could see vomit. He crossed the room, removing the boy's goggles, and vest, and pushing the hair back from his forehead. Only for the sake of his father.

"Momma? Mother?" The boy groaned, Mello's eyes shot open wide, it was a pained plea.

He went to the promising bag in the corner of the boy's---Matt's room and got him a large bottle of water, forcing a little down the younger boy's throat.

Mello couldn't help giggling at the boy's stupidity. "Stupid motherfucker. Brought it on yourself." There was a full length mirror on their adjoining door, and Mello paused to straighten his belt, finish lacing his boots, and fluff out his hair.

Another muffled moan. That would end up getting annoying.

Without a glance towards the door, Mello walked back out to the hallway and shimmied his hips down the hall way. He was one hell of a provocative six year old.

After three turns, a court yard, and a number of curious stares from a range of children, Mello waltzed into Roger's office, and sat, sprawling his small frame across a leather couch that was across from the desk. He was about to start breaking things in order to get L and his crime-fighting posse to hurry up, when three men entered. L with sweets, a tired looking man with coffee, and another man with…more sweets.

"Ah. Mello-kun." L smiled, "Where's Matt-kun? I expected you two to come together."

Mello snorted delicately. "Maybe you should watch him closer. Last I saw him; he was suffering from withdrawals on his bed. Stupid fucker. What did he take? Had to have been pretty damn strong. The kid's throwing up lungs…practically."

He knew they wouldn't tell him.

The man who'd come with extra sweets hurried from the room.

There was an awkward silence.

"Is there a reason why I have to be here? I'm not a puppy. I don't move for whims. I don't even get out of bed for whims. If there's no fucking point, but to introduce me to…him" He pointed towards the coffee man, "Then I might as well go. I'm sure I'll run into him eventually."

The coffee man sighed. "I'm Roger. I'd say I'm glad to see you, but I'm really not. Sorry 'bout your parents, love the wardrobe, take these forms, fill them out later, take this test now, then you can go." Roger muttered, obviously sick of doing the orientation so many times.

Mello was handed a thick packet, and an even thicker pack of forms.

Mello grabbed the expensive looking fountain pen off of Roger's desk, and turned to take the test, enjoying the look of annoyment from the man.

The thing was a motherfucking test, if he was any judge. It had questions on everything from disabling bombs, to cooking brownies. Mello answered as best as he could, easily becoming bored. The whole thing took him twenty minutes, he was tired, but it was multiple choice.

He handed it to L when he was done, it was only about seven thirty, and he was already sleepy. He blinked a few times, watching as L flipped quickly through the test.

"Good job, Mello-kun. This is well done." Mello didn't bother reacting to L's praise. It would be incredibly pathetic for the leader of the Russian Mafia, one of the most devious in the world, to be excited by praise from a super detective.

Mello wasn't pathetic.

"Now. We just wanted to ask you a few questions." Roger mentioned, placing his coffee down on a small stack of papers, "Judging by your current…outfit, you obviously like leather. We supply children with clothing, so you need not worry, but we also like to encourage children to be unique. Do you have anything you need, or want, that will help you evolve into someone different than the rest?"

Mello pondered, managing to come up with only a few things. "I already have a cell phone, paid for by my…family, but I'd like a computer too." He began, "As well as chocolate." He couldn't think of anything else for a moment, until, "Can I have a gun?"

Seeing the disapproving looks coming from both men, he reasoned, "I mean, I can dismantle it, and I'm not asking for bullets, but I feel safer with a gun. Like…a blanket or a teddy bear" He explained, feeling like an idiot.

"Ah. I see. If we tinker with the mechanics of it, we will give you a gun as well." Roger muttered, adding, under his breath, "As long as you don't bludgeon people with it."

Mello beamed.

"Please get the forms to me by tomorrow evening." Roger continued.

"Tomorrow night?" Mello yelped, glancing at the massive stack of paper, "Fuck, this sucks."

"Language."

"…Yeah. Whatever." Motherfucker.

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By the time Mello found his room again, he was dead tired. He'd called Conrad once he'd left Roger's office. The man had been busy rounding up the hiding men. The conversation had been short, but the man had been shocked by Mello's description of Matt.

"Finally!" He said, "A kid who can match you, as far as non-child-like behavior goes!"

Conrad had laughed, and told him how much everyone missed him, but those missing him didn't count, they had each other. Mello had no one. When he said as such to Conrad, he was met with sad apologies.

He didn't want to hear them.

He'd missed dinner. Fuck.

At least he had chocolate. He found himself in his room in a flash, ignoring the few kids who stopped to gawk at the new kid.

There was a note on his pillow, and low moaning from the other room.

Mello,

I am Mr. Wammy. I regret not being able to properly meet you, but welcome to my home. Your roommate, Matt, is very sick .Some people would most likely disapprove of my telling you, but I feel that you have the right to know, especially since you seem so well informed already. He took quite a few pills before I found them on him, and is currently suffering through withdrawal symptoms. I request that you try to keep him comfortable, and provide him with company. I know that you must be tired, but try to walk a mile in his shoes tonight; he is in a lot of pain.

-Q. Wammy

"Fuuuuck." Mello groaned, padding across the floor, and silently slipping into the adjoining room.

If the boy had been bad earlier, he was much worse now. Thankfully, he'd stopped throwing up. He was curled up on the bed, in almost the exact same way he had before, still sweating, still gripping his stomach. He seemed to be overheating, but have Goosebumps, Mello tried to play a game.

A game called 'name that drug.'

He looked at the symptoms: over heating, dilated pupils, Goosebumps, stomach pain…yep, aversion to light too, haha, and his head hurt.

He assumed ecstasy, because it was easy to get, and the boy was burning up, but that was almost impossible to find that clean, most tablets contained another drug as well, like a filler. He tried to guess what it was.

He immediately nixed LSD, ecstasy could often be slightly hallucinogenic, but if the boy had taken a lot lased with acid, his body would probably still be seeing leprechauns and unicorns. He considered dope, cocaine, because of the shivering and the pupils, but that didn't cause Goosebumps. Heroin, then. Had to be. The stupid kid had been taking ecstasy laced with Heroin.

He remembered the day that his father had made him look up symptoms of any drug he could think of, before forcing him to swear to never touch them.

He placed his hand on the boy's chest; the heartbeat was a quick flutter. The boy cringed at the cold touch, opening his bleary eyes, and looking around, writhing on the bed, and breathing harshly.

"Momma?" He asked, "Momma, is that you? Tell—tell the pain to go a—away. M-make i-i-it stop."

"I'm not your mother." Mello whispered, smoothing the boy's forehead, this pathetic kid, he looked to be younger than Mello, and thin. He was pitifully frail. Mello felt…protective…?

He'd never once wanted to, let alone been able to, protect anyone. He felt disgusted.

It was because of his father, he told himself, he couldn't help his father, so he wanted to help Matt.

He crossed the room, sitting in a cushioned chair; it would be a long night. He tried to tell himself that he'd watched people suffer before, but here, he found no possible enjoyment in it.

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Mello sat with the red-head all the next day, promising himself that the boy would remember nothing. Normally, it shouldn't have taken this long, for the drug to leave his system, but once the drug was gone, Matt slept. For an entire day.

The next morning, Matt woke. Joy. The boy became depressed, moaning about the loss of his only haven.

Get over it, bitch.

Moaning.

Shut-the-fuck-up.

Moaning.

Mello's tired mind couldn't handle it.

"Shut-the-fuck-up!" He yelled at the boy, who was a pathetic heap in the corner of the bed.

Matt looked up. Finally. His eyes were red, his face was blotchy, and he appeared crazed.

"Who is it?" He asked, "Where are my goggles? The orange. I can't see."

Oh. So That's why he was wearing goggles. Mello stood, crossed the room, and grabbed the goggles, flinging them at the boy.

The red hair was greasy, as was the boy beneath it; a dirty ball of child, who was currently slipping on goggles, Mello wrinkled his nose. He'd left the chair for two things only since he sat down: To tell the kid across the hall to bring him food, forcibly, and to shower. Mello was an anti-germ zone.

"Who the fuck are you?" The boy croaked.

"That's nice. Maybe you should try being a little more polite."

"Why should I?"

"I don't know. Maybe because your head hurts, and my finger is currently on a light switch." Mello remarked smugly, "And if I flick it, your world, or at least your head, will explode in pain from light exposure."

"Oh."

"Yes."

"Can I go to sleep?"

"If you stop moaning."

"Then you'll tell me who you are?"

"Maybe."

"Good enough for me." The boy leaned back, and passed out. Hopefully indefinitely.

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Mello walked to the door, grinning as he saw the boy from across the hall run by. Mello grabbed him from the back of his carefully pressed sweater. What a prick.

"WHA--GHLHRRPPPHHHGGGGG—"That was the boy. Not Mello. Just to be clear.

"Food and a bowl of broth. A bottle of water and a chocolate bar, if you're smart, you'll make that two chocolate bars and surprise me, fucker." Mello whispered in his ear, before flinging the poor boy down the hall with a resounding, "Go!"

No doubt the boy would be telling his friends about Mello in a matter of moments.

He wasn't nice.

He wasn't fun.

He was not one to cross.

…Sadly, it meant that the chances of ever having 'friends' here, were quickly slimming.

He tried to tell himself that he didn't care.

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So there's a chapter. Sorry. I tried to edit Mello's language a little, because I don't want to have to raise the rating, but it may, POSSIBLY, become M in later chapters. xD

THAT should be interesting to write.
Uhm...anyways...

This chapter is mainly here to show that Mello isn't a robot. HE HAS FEELINGS TOO, even if he won't admit it.

Sorry if it sucks. =/

PLEASE, PLEASE, PLEASE, PLEASE, REVIEW. If my writing sucks or whatever, I want to KNOW. Thanks a ton!